The Hostage Bride. Kate Walker

sexy accent heightening on each word. But the sound of his voice no longer made her toes curl, her skin tingle in delight. Instead it was like the lash of a cruel whip, flaying away a protective layer of skin so that she shivered at the feel of even the air against her flesh.

      ‘Don’t be cruel!’ It was a cry of protest.

      ‘Cruel, gatita? Cruel?’ he taunted. ‘I am not being cruel. I am simply ensuring that your day ends as you had hoped it would—with you in the arms of a very rich man indeed, being carried over the threshold of his house…’

      As he spoke, he suited action to the words, mounting the steps to the front door, shouldering it open, carrying her over the threshold into the cool shadows of the hall.

      After the light of the sun, Felicity fond that she was temporarily blinded, unable to see anything clearly. And what made matters worse were the weak tears that filmed her eyes; tears she was determined not to let fall. Rico’s words had stabbed straight to her heart and twisted in it, but the truth was that they had hurt so much because they were so very far from reality.

      She doubted that Edward would ever have thought to follow any of the traditions of a real wedding, at least as far as she was concerned. Once the formal, public ceremony and the lavish reception was over, he would probably have dropped all pretence at being the loving bridegroom, the part he had acted so unexpectedly well over the past month or so. Instead he would have reverted to the role of cold, calculating schemer, the man who had manipulated both her life and that of her father in order to get just what he wanted.

      Right now she didn’t know who was worse—Edward or Rico.

      ‘For such a beautiful bride as you are, it is the least I can do.’

      Once inside, with the door kicked closed behind them, he paused, ebony eyes going towards a room on his left and just once, very briefly, glancing towards the stairs.

      ‘So now that I have carried you over the threshold, mi ángel, what next, I wonder?’

      Rico had bent his arrogant dark head down to murmur in her ear, the warmth of his breath stirring the tendrils of her hair, brushing softly against her cheek.

      ‘If you were truly my bride—mi esposa—I know exactly what I would do…’

      And his body knew it too. He knew he should set her down, put her on her feet and move well away. That was the sane, the only safe approach. But with her in his arms, with the scent of her skin all around him, the last thing on God’s earth he felt like was playing it safe. And he certainly didn’t feel sane. Instead he knew he was totally out of control—completely crazy and dangerously off balance.

      His heart was pounding, his blood flowing hot in his veins. Every sense he possessed clamoured in hunger, insistently demanding appeasement, making him ache with need. And the feel of those soft arms around his neck, the yielding pressure of her feminine body against his chest and the brush of her hair against his neck were almost more than he could bear. He wanted to drop her straight to the floor in order to end the sweet torment and yet at the same time he wanted to hold on to her so as to prolong it for ever.

      ‘But I’m not your bride!’

      Felicity knew she had to break the spell that that low, husky voice had been weaving around her weakened senses. Listening to it had been like sliding slowly but irresistibly into a bath filled with warm, golden honey. She could feel it flowing around her, enfolding her, threatening to close over her head at any moment.

      ‘I’m not your wife and I never will be! I’m just your prisoner, your captive—here under duress because you forced me into this! And whatever fantasies you might be harbouring, you can forget them right now! You lay one finger on me and I’ll—I’ll…’

      ‘You’ll do what, belleza?’ Rico enquired with silky menace when, suddenly realising just how hollow her threat was when he already had more than a hand on her, when she was held securely in his arms, her voice died away rapidly. ‘What was it you promised earlier? That you would kill me?’

      The sound of his laughter was shocking. It was all the more terrifying because there was no trace of any real humour in it, only the sardonic dismissal of her impotently angry words.