Stranger in My Arms(8)

He wanted this small, neat creature with her dainty hands and forlorn mouth. With the cold calculation that had always been integral to him, he decided he would take her, and all that came with her.

Her eyes opened, and she stared at him gravely.

He returned her wondering gaze with an opaque one, letting her see nothing of the man inside, and he curved his mouth in a reassuring smile.

She didn’t seem to notice the smile, however, only stared at him with those unblinking eyes. And then a strange softness entered the pools of translucent green, a curious, pitying tenderness… as if he were a lost soul in need of salvation. She reached up to his neck and touched the edge of a thick scar that disappeared into his hairline. Her fingertips sent fire racing through him. His breathing deepened, and he went very still. How the hell could she look at him this way? To her knowledge, he was either a stranger or a husband she hated.

Bewildered and aroused by the compassion in her face, he fought the insane urge to bury his head against her br**sts. Hastily he dislodged her from his lap and put a few necessary yards of distance between them.

For the first time in his life, he was afraid of his own emotions-he, who had always prided himself on iron self-control.

“Who are you?” she asked softly.

“You know who I am,” he muttered.

She shook her head, clearly dazed, and tore her gaze from his. She made her way to a set of shelves where she kept a few dishes and a small teapot. Taking refuge in a commonplace ritual, she fumbled for a parcel of tea leaves and pulled the little porcelain pot from its place on the shelf. “I-I’ll make some tea,” she said faintly. “We can talk.

Perhaps I can help you.

But her hinds were shaking too badly, and the cups and saucers clattered as she reached for them.

So she had decided he was some poor desperate fool or scavenger who was in need of her aid. A wry smile twisted his mouth, and he came to her, taking her cold hands in his warm ones. Again he experienced the sweet, unexpected shock of touching her.

He was fiercely aware of the delicacy of her bones, the softness of her skin. He wanted to show her his gentleness. Something about her seemed to pull the last bitter dregs of his humanity up to the surface.

She made him want to be the kind of man she needed.

“I’m your husband,” he said. “I’ve come home.”

She looked at him dumbly, her limbs stiff and her knees trembling.

“I’m Hunter.” His voice turned soft. “Don’t be afraid.”

Lara heard her own gasping, incredulous laugh as she stared into his features, a devastating mixture of the familiar and the unknown. He looked too much like Hunter for her to dismiss him summarily, but there was a foreignness about him that she couldn’t accept.

“My husband is dead,” she said tightly.

A small muscle twitched high in his lean cheek.

“I’ll make you believe me.”

He reached for her swiftly, both hands wrapping around the back of her skull, gently gripping as he brought his mouth to hers. Ignoring her cry of alarm, he kissed her as she had never been kissed before.

Her hands came up to his muscle-roped wrists, trying in vain to pry herself free. The sensation of his mouth, incendiary, delicious, stunned her. He used his teeth and lips and tongue, seducing her in a blaze of sensuality. She floundered for purchase until he let go of her head and gathered her against the hard surface of his body. She was held tight and secure in his embrace, thoroughly possessed…

utterly desired. Her nostrils were filled with the scent of him: earth and air and the mild, pleasant bite of sandalwood.

His lips slid downward, finding the sensitive place on the side of her neck. He took a deep, luxurious breath and fanned it over her skin, and pressed his face close until she felt the sweep of his lashes against her cheek. She had never been held like this, touched and tasted as if she were some exotic spice to be savored.

“Oh, please,” she gasped, arching as he touched his tongue to her frantic pulse.

“Say my name,” he whispered.

“Say it.” His hand cupped her breast, long fingers shaping the sensitive mound. Her nipple hardened in the warm cove of his palm, searching for more stimulation. In one violent movement Lara twisted out of his arms, tottering away a few steps to create a necessary space between them.

Clasping a hand over her aching breast, Lara stared at him in astonishment. He was expressionless, but the jagged sound of his breathing revealed that he was struggling for composure just as she was.

“How could you?” she gasped.

“You’re my wife.”

“Hunter never liked to kiss.”

“I’ve changed,” he said flatly.

“You’re not Hunter!” The words were tossed over her shoulder as she fled to the door.

“Lara,” she heard him say, but she ignored him.

“Lara, look at me.”

Something in his voice made her pause. Reluctantly she stopped at the threshold and glanced at him.

He was holding something in his palm.

“What is that?” she asked.

“Come and see.”

Reluctantly she crept forward, transfixed by the object in his hand.

Using his thumb, he pressed the tiny catch on the side, and the flat enameled box snapped open to reveal a miniature portrait of her.

“I’ve stared at this every day for months,” he murmured. “Even when I didn’t remember you in the days right after the shipwreck, I knew that you belonged to me.”