One Month with the Magnate (6 page)

“Because I have no way to pay for it, okay? I don't have health insurance and I don't have money.”

The rush of color to her cheeks, the way she lowered her eyes, said that admitting it to him mortified her.
He assumed she had money stashed somewhere for emergencies, but maybe that wasn't the case. Was she really that destitute?

“Since it was a work-related accident, I'll pay for it,” he said.

“I'm not asking for a handout.”

“You didn't ask, I offered. You hurt yourself in my home. I consider it my responsibility.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Isabelle—”

“I am not going to the doctor. I just need a first-aid kit.”

“Obstinado,”
he muttered, shaking his head. The woman completely baffled him. Why wouldn't she just accept his help? She'd had no problem sponging off her rich husband for all those years. Emilio would have expected her to jump at his offer. Had she suddenly grown a conscience? A sense of pride?

Well, he wasn't going to sit and argue while she bled all over the place. He finally threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine! But I'm wrapping it for you.”

For a second he thought she might argue about that too, but she seemed to sense that his patience was wearing thin. “Fine,” she replied, then grumbled under her breath, “and you call
me
stubborn.”

I
sabelle followed Emilio through his bedroom to the bathroom and waited while he grabbed the first-aid kit from the cabinet under the sink. He pulled out the necessary supplies, then gestured her over to the sink and turned on the cold water.

“This is probably going to hurt,” he told her, but as he took her hand and placed it under the flow, she didn't even flinch. He gently soaped up the area around the cut with his thumb to clean it, then grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Holding her hand over the sink, he poured it on the wound. As it foamed up, her only reaction was a soft intake of breath, even though he knew it had to sting like hell.

He grabbed a clean towel from the cabinet and gently blotted her hand dry. It was starting to clot, so there was hope that a butterfly would be enough to stop any further bleeding if he wrapped it firmly enough. Although he still
thought stitches were warranted. Without them it could leave a nasty scar.

He sat on the edge of the counter and pulled her closer, so she was standing between his knees. She didn't fight him, but it was obvious, by the tension in her stance as he spread ointment on the cut, that she was uncomfortable being close to him.

“Something wrong?” he asked, glancing up at her. “You seem…tense.”

She avoided his gaze. “I'm fine.”

If she were fine, why the nervous waver in her voice? “Maybe you don't like being so close to me.” He lifted his eyes to hers, running his thumb across her wrist. The slight widening of her eyes, when she was trying hard not to react, made him smile. “Or maybe you do.”

“I definitely don't.”

Her wildly beating heart and the blush of her cheeks said otherwise. There was a physical reaction for him, as well. A pull of desire deep inside of him. Despite everything she had done, she was still a beautiful, desirable woman. And he was a man who hadn't been with a woman in several months. He just hadn't had the time for all the baggage that went along with it.

“Are you almost finished?” Isabelle asked.

“Almost.” Emilio took his time, applying the butterfly then smoothing a second, larger bandage over the top to hold it in place.

“That should do it,” he said, but when she tried to pull her hand free, he held on. “How about a kiss, to make it feel better?”

Her eyes widened slightly and she gave another tug. “That's really not necessary.”

“I think it is.” And perhaps she did, too, because she didn't try to pull away as he lifted her hand to his mouth
and pressed his lips to her palm. He felt her shiver, felt her skin go hot. He kissed her palm again, then the inside of her wrist, breathing warm air against her skin. “You like that.”

“Not at all.”

“Your body says otherwise.”

“Well, obviously it's confused.”

That made him smile. “You still want me. Admit it.”

“You're delusional,” she said, but there was a hitch in her voice, a quiver that belied her arousal. She was hot for him.

This was going to be too easy.

Izzie gently pulled from his grasp. “I have to finish dinner.”

She turned, but before she could walk away he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him. She gasped as her back pressed against his chest, her behind tucked snugly against his groin. When she felt the ridge of his erection, she froze.

He leaned close, whispered in her ear, “What's your hurry, Isabelle?”

All she had to do was tell him to stop and he would have without question, but she didn't. She stood there, unmoving, as if she were unsure of what to do. He knew in that instant she was as good as his. But not until she was begging for it. He wanted total submission. The same unconditional and unwavering devotion he had shown her fifteen years ago.

He nuzzled her neck and her head tipped to the side. He couldn't see her face, but he sensed that her eyes were closed.

“You smell delicious, Isabelle.” He caught her earlobe between his teeth and she sucked in a breath. “Good enough to eat.”

“We can't do this,” she said, her voice uneven, her breathing shallow.

He brushed his lips against her neck. “Are you asking me to stop?”

She didn't answer.

He slid his hands up, over her rib cage, using his thumbs to caress the undersides of her breasts. They were as full and supple as they had been fifteen years ago. He wanted to unbutton her dress and slip his hands inside, touch her bare skin. Taste her.

But all in good time.

“My bed is just a few steps away,” he whispered in her ear, wondering just how far she was willing to let this go. He didn't have to wait long to find out.

“Stop.”

He dropped his hands and she whirled away from him, her eyes wide. “Why did you do that? You don't even like me.”

A grin curled his mouth. “Because you wanted me to.”

“I most certainly did not.”

“We both know that isn't true, Isabelle.” He pushed off the edge of the counter and rose to his feet. He could see that she wanted to run but she stood her ground. “You like it when I touch you. I know what makes you feel good.”

“I'm not stupid. You don't really want me.”

“I would say that all evidence points to the contrary.”

Her gaze darted to his crotch, then quickly away. “I have to go finish dinner.”

“Don't bother. I had a late lunch. Save the sauce for later.”

“Fine.”

“But that doesn't mean you should skip dinner. I want to see another pound on the scale in the morning.” She had only gained two so far this week, though she swore she'd
been eating three meals a day. “And take something for your hand. It's going to hurt like hell.”

“I will,” she said, but his concern clearly confused her.

And it was a sensation she would be experiencing a lot from now on, he thought with a smile.

 

Isabelle headed downstairs on unsteady legs, willing her heart to slow its frantic pace, her hands to stop trembling.

What the
hell
had she been thinking? Why had she let Emilio touch her that way? Why had she let him touch her at all? She had been perfectly capable of bandaging her own finger. She should have insisted he let her do it herself. But she foolishly believed he was doing it because he cared about her, cared that she was hurt.

When would she learn?

He didn't care about her. Not at all. He was just trying to confuse her. This was just some twisted plot for revenge.

And could she blame him? Didn't she deserve anything he could dish out? Put in his position, after the way she'd hurt him, would she have done things any differently?

She'd brought this on herself. That's what her father used to tell her, how he justified his actions. She'd spent years convincing herself that it wasn't her fault, that he was the one with the problem. What if she was wrong? What if she really had deserved it back then, and she was getting exactly what she deserved now? Maybe this was her penance for betraying Emilio.

She heard him come downstairs and braced herself for another confrontation, but he went straight to his office and shut the door.

Limp with relief, she cleaned up the mess from the unfinished meal then fixed herself a sandwich with the leftover roast beef from the night before, but she only managed to choke down a bite or two. She covered what
was left with plastic wrap and put it in the fridge—if there was one thing she had learned lately, it was to not waste food—then locked herself in her room. It was still early, but she was exhausted so she changed into her pajamas and curled up in bed. Her finger had begun to throb, but it didn't come close to the ache in her heart. Maybe coming here had been a mistake. In fifteen years she hadn't figured out how to stop loving Emilio.

Maybe she never would.

 

“How's the finger?” Emilio asked Isabelle the next evening as he ate his spaghetti. He usually sat in the dining room, but tonight he'd insisted on sitting at the kitchen table. If that wasn't awkward enough, he kept
watching
her.

At least he hadn't complained about dinner, despite the fact that the noodles were slightly overdone and the garlic bread was a little singed around the edges. He seemed to recognize that she was trying. Or maybe he thought if he complained she might make good on her threat and smother him in his sleep.

“It's fine,” she said. It still throbbed, but the ibuprofen tablets she'd been gobbling like candy all day had at least taken the sharp edge off the pain.

“We'll need to redress it.”

We?
As if she would let him anywhere near her after last night.

“I'll do it later,” she said.

He got up to carry his plate to the sink, where she just happened to be standing, loading the dishwasher. She couldn't move away without looking like she was running from him, and she didn't want him to know he was making her nervous. He already held most of the cards in this game he'd started. And she had little doubt that it was a game.

The key was not letting him know that he was getting to her, that she even cared what he thought.

He put his plate and fork in the dishwasher. “I should check it for signs of infection.”

He reached for her arm but she moved out of his grasp. “I can do it myself.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, wearing a cocky grin as he turned to wash his hands.

Ugh! The man was insufferable. Yet the desire to lean into him, to wrap her arms around him and breathe in his scent, to lay her cheek against his back and listen to the steady thump of his heart beating, was as strong now as it had been all those years ago. She'd spent more than half her life fantasizing about him, wishing with all her heart that they could be together, and for one perfect year he had been hers.

But she had made her choice, one that up until a few days ago, she'd learned to accept. Now her doubts had begun to resurface and she found herself rehashing the same old
what ifs.
What if she had been stronger? What if she stood up to her father instead of caving to his threats?

What if she'd at least had the courage to tell Emilio goodbye?

She had tried. She went to see him, to tell him that she had decided to marry Lenny. She knew he would never understand why, and probably never forgive her, but she owed him an explanation. Even if she could never tell him the truth.

But the instant she'd seen his face, how happy he was to see her, she'd lost her nerve and, because she couldn't bear to see him hurting, she pretended everything was okay. She hadn't stopped him when he started kissing her, when he took her hand and led her to his room. And because she couldn't bear going the rest of her life never knowing
what it would be like to make love to him, she'd had every intention of giving herself to him that night.

Emilio had been the one to put on the brakes, to say not yet. He had been concerned that she would regret giving in so close to their wedding day. She hadn't had the heart, or the courage, to tell him that day would never come.

Would things have been different if she had at least told him she was leaving? For all she knew, they might have been worse. He might have talked her into telling him the truth, and that would have been a disaster.

She never expected him to forgive her—she hadn't even forgiven herself yet—but she had hoped that he would have moved on by now. It broke her heart to know how deeply she had hurt him. That after all this time he was
still
hurting. If he wasn't why would he be so hell-bent on hurting her back?

Maybe she should give him what he wanted, allow him his vengeance if that was what it would take to reconcile the past. Maybe she owed it to him—and to herself. Maybe then she could stop feeling so guilty.

After last night she could only assume he planned to use sex to get his revenge. If she slept with him, would he feel vindicated? And was she prepared to compromise her principles by having sex with a man who clearly hated her? Or did the fact that she still loved him make it okay?

Before she could consider the consequences of her actions, she stuck her hand out.

“Here,” she said. “Maybe you should check it. Just in case.”

He looked at her hand, then lifted his eyes to her face. There was a hint of amusement in their smoky depths. “I'm sure you can manage on your own.”

Huh?

He dried his hands, then walked out of the kitchen.

She followed him. “What do you want from me, Emilio?”

He stopped just outside his office door and turned to her. “Want?”

He knew exactly what she meant. “I know I hurt you, and I'm
sorry.
Just tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it.”

His stormy gaze leveled on her and suddenly she felt naked. How did he manage to do that with just a look? How did he make her feel so stripped bare?

He took a step toward her and her heart went crazy in her chest. She tried to be brave, to stand her ground, but as he moved closer, she found herself taking one step back, then another, until she hit the wall. Maybe offering herself up as the sacrificial lamb hadn't been such a hot idea, after all. Maybe she should have worked up to this just a little slower instead of jumping right into the deep end of the pool. But it was too late now.

In the past he had always been so sweet and tender, so patient with her. Now he wore a look that said he was about to eat her alive. It both terrified and thrilled her, because despite the years that had passed, deep down she still felt like the same naive, inexperienced girl. Way out of her league, yet eager to learn. And in all these years the gap seemed to widen exponentially.

Emilio braced a hand on one side of her head, leaning in, the faint whisper of his scent filling her senses—familiar, but different somehow. If she were braver she would have touched him. She
wanted
to. Instead she stood frozen, waiting for him to make the first move, wondering how far he would take this, and if she would let him. If she
should.