Made For Each Other by Parris Afton Bonds Page B

in
Jim’s arms, staring up at him.
    “May I claim a dance with my wife?”
the voice behind them asked dryly.
    Jim released her. “Surely, Senator
Raffer,” he said, flashing a glance at her. But his smile was
affable as he gave her up into Nick’s arms. No smile crossed Nick’s
cool, self-contained expression.
    Already a swift weakness was sweeping
through her at Nick’s touch—the way his arm held her against his
hard length, his hand holding hers in a firm possession. She knew
he had seen Jim kiss her but doubted that he cared since he seemed
to be so involved with Sheila.
    On that she was wrong.
    “And are you enjoying yourself?” Nick
asked.
    She heard the razor edge in his voice
with some surprise and wished she could see his expression, but her
face was firmly anchored against his chest. “Why is everyone all of
a sudden so interested in my well-being?” she demanded
petulantly.
    “Your former dancing partner seems to
be very interested in your well-being. Do you always kiss every man
you dance with?”
    “Do you always rape every woman you
happen to be alone with?” she countered.
    She tilted her head as far back as she
could so she could see his face. The blue eyes glittered like
shards of glass. She almost told him the truth, that the kiss had
meant nothing to her. But anger rose in her at Nick’s double
standard—that he could condemn her yet condone his own
actions.
    A muscle flickered in Nick’s smoothly
shaven jaw. “Not yet, I haven’t . . . but my patience is wearing
thin.”
    “Your patience! My pa—” But the music
ended, and she had to break off so no one would overhear her
furious words.
    “Come on,” Nick said, the pleasant
smile belying the hard eyes, their depths more black now than blue.
The hand that gripped her elbow was anything but loving. “We’re
going home.”
    She was truly frightened. Never had
she seen Nick’s lazy-lidded eyes glint as dangerously as they did
now. His carved lips curled in a feral smile. More than ever Nick
reminded her of the savage mountain lion stalking its prey—herself.
“I don’t want to go home right now.” She tried to pull her arm
away.
    “Ah, but you were the one who told me
last week you didn’t want to attend—the exhausted bride, wasn’t
it?” And he maneuvered her through the press of people, his
imprisoning arm about her waist.
    Unless she wanted to make a scene, she
knew she had no other choice than to leave with Nick. On the way
home she sat on the far side of the car, staring out her window
into the blackness beyond. She could not bring herself to look at
Nick’s granite face but could only hope that he could not hear the
tumultuous pounding of her heart.
    Too quickly the lights of Santa Fe
faded behind, and the emptiness of the desert confronted her. When
Nick turned onto the dusty road leading home, she began to shake.
She knew Nick would give no quarter. No leniency was to be expected
from him. His dealings with the opponents who crossed him in the
senate had demonstrated that very effectively.
    But I’m not an opponent, she cried
silently. I’m his wife!
    With a screech Nick halted the car
before the camouflaged underground house that she had almost begun
to consider home. But before he could come around and open her
door, she opened it herself. She tried to maintain a dignified
composure as she marched to the house, her attitude as cold as the
tiny crystals of snowflakes whirring past. Behind her she heard
Nick’s easy long strides and quickened her own.
    But at the door she was forced to wait
for him to unlock it. When she would have slid past him, he grabbed
her arm. “Not so fast, Mrs. Raffer. We’ve some talking to
do.”
    She yanked her arm away. “I’m tired.
We can talk tomorrow.” She stalked to the bathroom, terrified Nick
would stop her before she covered the long distance to the door. A
covert glance cast over her shoulder assured her he was content to
glower after her.
    She spent as long as