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Not thatithad to happen. Nothing did. If she chose, she could get into the bed and turn her back to him. If she trusted him with anything, it was that. He wouldn’t force her.
‘No, it’s lovely,’ she refuted. ‘I’m just not very hungry.’
Warm fingers touched her hand.
She didn’t want to look at him but his touch compelled her.
The green eyes that captured hers were stark but steady, his hand warm as he enveloped her clenched fist. ‘Relax, Rose. It’s just me.’
Her short burst of laughter contained no mirth. ‘And that’s exactly why I can’t relax. We’ve never had the kind of relationship where we relax around each other.’
‘Point taken.’ He gazed at her a long moment before raising his wine glass with a wry smile. ‘To being able to relax in each other’s company.’
She didn’t think she was imagining his accent had become more pronounced as the meal had gone on. Usually, it was barely detectable.
The undercurrent was pulling and tugging at them both.
Slipping her hand away from his, she lifted her glass of untouched wine. ‘To getting through the summer without wanting to kill each other.’
His eyes glittered, amusement and something less definable. He took a drink. ‘We have made it this far. I will take that as a win.’
‘Always best to take your victories where you can.’
‘Undoubtedly… Are you going to eat any more?’
She glanced at her mostly full plate and shook her head.
‘Would you like dessert? Coffee?’
Another wordless refusal.
After a beat, he gave a sharp, decisive nod and pushed his chair back. ‘In that case, I shall go up to bed.’
Her stomach crashed to her feet, her heart, which had been incapable of beating a normal rhythm the whole day, flipping over on itself.
On his feet, he extended an open hand to her and, his voice even, said, ‘Are you going to come up too?’
His meaning was clear. The meaning ringing in his eyes was clear.
The thrashing of her heart and the longing in her veins were even clearer.
Rose picked up her glass of wine and drank the contents in two giant swallows. And then she pushed her own chair back.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Diaz’sbedroomwasbreathtaking. As with the rest of the villa, the walls were painted brilliant white, the marble flooring a softer white with subtle blues and terracotta threading in natural random patterns throughout. The main colour came from the dusky blue drapes of the ceiling-high double aspect windows and long velvet sofa and ottoman of the same hue, but it was the enormous bed and its cream and gold-threaded bedspread that was the real focal point, and Rose’s belly quivered just to look at it.
There was something inherently sensual in the simplicity of this breathtaking room, a femininity, too, that she hadn’t expected from a man as soaked in testosterone as Diaz. Nowhere near as feminine as the guest room she’d been using but a dreamy blend of masculine and feminine combining to create a room both sexes could come together and find either pleasure or sanctuary…
Pressing tight to her stomach in a futile effort to contain the butterflies loose in it, she was relieved to escape into the privacy of her own bathroom.
It, too, was divine, a gorgeous feminine blend of traditional Spanish tiling and ultra-modern luxury combining to create a sanctuary as complete as Diaz’s bedroom. She gazed at the sunken bath, unable to nullify the image of sharing it with him, and of them…
Closing her eyes, she inhaled large gulps of air and reached for the hair clip she used when she didn’t want to get her hair wet when showering. It had been placed on the left-hand side of the sink unit with her hairbrush. Taking a closer look around, she saw her toiletries had all been placed in exactly the right positions for their purposes, her shampoo, conditioner and shower gel lined up on the long ledge running alongside the waterfall shower. Everything placed as if they’d always been there. As if they belonged.
Shaking the strange thought off, she stripped her clothes, pinned her hair and stepped under the shower, blocking the memories of the last time she’d showered before bed from surfacing.
But she couldn’t block herself from the painful acceptance of why she was showering now.