‘Not all along.’
‘Yes! You screwed me to get back at him!’
She walked out, and then she ran.
Back to her room.
The bed was turned down and the light was on and she wondered how it could look just as it had before, now he had told her himself the truth—he had pursued her to get back at Bastiano.
‘Lydia.’ He didn’t knock, he just came in, and he was very calm.
‘No. We’re going to talk about this.’
His head was actually racing—everything looked different now.
‘When did you find out?’
‘Does it even matter?’
Of course it did—and of course he knew when she had found out.
When everything between them had changed.
‘You were right,’ Lydia said, her temper rising. ‘We’ll do this through lawyers.’ She meant it. ‘I’m going to screw you now, Raul. I am going to make your life hell.’
He took her arms and tried to calm her, but she was crying now—seriously crying.
‘You couldn’t make my life hell.’
Lydia took his words as a threat—that he was mightier, richer—but he meant it otherwise.
Hell was not having her in his life.
An angry Lydia he could deal with—was what he had waited for, in fact.
Because her fury was private and deep and finally she shared it.
‘I did,’ Raul agreed. ‘That’s what my life was like until you came along.’
‘You were using me.’
‘At first,’ Raul said, but then reconsidered. ‘Actually, I wanted you on sight. I remember your buttons.’
‘I don’t take that as a compliment.’
‘Take it any way you like. The floor is yours.’
His calm enraged her.
That he could just stand there when she’d exposed what he had done.
‘I should never have told you about the baby.’ She picked up the statue. ‘I should have just sold this and you’d never have known.’
‘I thought you already had sold it.’
And it had hurt him that she had.
Like her blasted mother—taking heirlooms and passing them on to get through another week.
He loved that statue too, and now she was holding it in her hand and about to toss it.
Raul stood there, a little conflicted.
He could stop her, because he knew she’d regret it later.
But she was angry.
Not just at him—that much he knew.
And, hell, she deserved to show it.
She threw it.
Not at him.
She threw it against the wall and heard it shatter and she did the same.
Because she loved it, and she had destroyed the nicest thing she had ever had.
Except for Raul.
Yet she had never really had him at all.
And she wanted him so much.
But he didn’t want her.
So why was he kissing her? Why was he telling her he’d better lock up the china or they were going to have very expensive rows?
Why, when she was crying and kicking and, oh, so angry, did he contain her, yet let her be, and seem to want her at the same time?
They were frantic—tearing buttons and shredding clothes with their lips locked, because Raul wanted to be out of his head too.
Today had been hell.
And all the weeks before that.
He wanted her badly.
Raul kissed her hard, pushed her to the wall, and her bottom was bare in his hands, and her swaying breasts were stilled by his chest.
Lydia climbed him.
Even as Raul was preparing himself she was wrapping around him, and then she was safe in strong arms and being taken away.
It was rough and intense, and her face was hot and wet as he kissed her cheek on his way to finding her mouth.
And there was not a scream left within her as she climaxed—there wasn’t even air in her lungs left to come out. Because he took everything she had and gave her more.
Everything raced to her centre as he thrust in deep and filled her. Her orgasm was so tight as he joined her in a climax that went on as hers faded.
She was calmed and coming down, watching the tension of his features and revelling in the feel of his final rapid thrusts.
And then thought returned, but the hurt did not.
At least not in the way it had been there before.
They were still kissing as he let her down. Standing in a war zone and yet safe and kissing.
And then she peeled back and peeked out and saw the glass on the floor.
‘I broke our statue...’
Because that was what it was.
A diary of them.
And she had destroyed it.
‘Why didn’t you sell it?’
And that meant so much to Raul.
She hadn’t taken a single photo—Lydia, he knew, held on to nothing—yet she had been unable to let this go.