Angel by Johanna Lindsey
His eyes came to her, briefly meeting her gaze before dropping to her mouth. “You’ll have to make that a divorce instead.”
“No, you don’t understand. An annulment will be much easier to obtain.”
His gaze locked with hers now. Cassie became slightly breathless with the intensity of his stare.
“Not after tonight it won’t,” he said in his slow, mesmerizing drawl.
“Why?” She barely got the word out.
“Because I’m in the mood to play husband.”
“You’re what?”
He started toward her. She was too stunned to move, so he was there and reaching for her before she had time to even think about running.
“We’re having a wedding night,” he said as he lifted her off her feet.
“Wait—!”
“Not this time, honey. I didn’t ask you to marry me. You would have said no if I had. Yet we’re married, and right now I want you bad enough to take advantage of that.”
Cassie wasn’t given another opportunity to protest, not for a while anyway. Angel no sooner laid her on the bed than his body came down to pin her there, and his kiss captured her full attention, fiercely taking, tenderly giving. Pleasure came swiftly, aided by his weight pressing her in intimate places. She was helpless to resist it or him, and then she didn’t want to.
It was a magical word, “married.” It gave permission to enjoy, taking away the guilt and most of the fear. It also removed inhibitions, so that she could hold him and kiss him back. And when she did, she reveled in the sound of his groan as he understood she wouldn’t be stopping him this time.
He wanted her, for whatever reason, revenge or desire, she didn’t care. Nothing mattered then except the need they shared, and Cassie definitely shared it. Like fire it was, the feeling that grew inside her. It was so consuming she barely noticed when he started undressing her, until his hands were reaching bare flesh, and she couldn’t help noticing that, it was such a sensual shock. But there were more shocks to come, for he was soon touching her everywhere. And then the warmth, skin on skin, and his lips suddenly closing on a turgid nipple to suck it deep into his mouth.
Such incredible heat in contrast to the silky coolness of his hair as it trailed over her skin.
Her back arched off the bed. Her breath was coming in short bursts. She held his head in her hands, his waist between her legs, and the intensity of what she was feeling now made her want to scream. She didn’t, not yet. But something continued to build deep in her loins, something hot and achy and out of control.
Then suddenly he was slipping out of her hold. His hands molded to her breasts as his tongue licked a path straight down her belly to—no, he wouldn’t. Oh, God, he did. The protest came and died on the same breath, because in the next instant there was an explosion of pulsating pleasure that reared her off the bed, leaving her caught in a realm of pure sensation. It was beyond reality, beyond comprehension, and she was helpless to do anything but ride it out to the last blissful pulsebeat.
She was wrapped in his arms by then, his sleek musculature molded to her, his weight a surprising comfort. But a new sensation intruded on her languor, an invasion that had her tensing. Yet fear didn’t have time to take hold. She was warm and wet, and his entry was so smooth, there was only the tiniest bit of pressure to denote the breaking of her maidenhead before he was filling her fully, deeply.
He reared back then, straightening his arms to brace them on either side of her, embedding himself even deeper inside her. But when she opened her eyes, it was to find him staring down at her, just staring, his eyes so dark, so intense.
“You can’t imagine how much I’ve wanted this—wanted you.”
No, she couldn’t. She could still scarcely believe it. And she couldn’t reply. She held her breath, watching him look his fill. He didn’t move, only his eyes, and a tingling returned to her breasts as he stared at them, the fluttering stirred in her belly when he looked there, and where they were joined, the heat came back in a rush.
“Oh, God,” she gasped.
He smiled, and began a slow, sensuous thrusting. He lowered his head to kiss her. Her lips clung to his, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, and tighter still as the tension mounted again. And then the throbbing was back, bursting over her senses, surrounding him, and he plunged deep, grinding into her, enhancing it, his own head thrown back to emit a low, animal sound of pure pleasure.
Chapter 22
Waking up with a man in her bed was a unique experience, one Cassie wouldn’t half mind if the circumstances were other than what they were. As it was, she didn’t know whether to get up or go back to sleep and hope he’d be gone by the time she woke again. Of course, she couldn’t fall back asleep with reality intruding. Reality was such an ugly word this morning. It had been suspended for a while last night, but now it was back with a vengeance.
Married. And not by choice, though if she’d had a choice—no, her own wishes didn’t count. But she’d had a wedding night. And Jenny had certainly called it right, wonderful—actually, that was too mild a word to describe what Angel had given her. But it shouldn’t have happened, not with Angel. And it had happened for the wrong reasons.
It was laughable, really. She’d been so sure he was going to go after the MacKauleys, that he’d want his revenge in blood. But he hadn’t faulted them for something she’d instigated in the first place. No, he’d put the blame smack where it belonged and reserved his revenge just for her. And that was so like him, to be fair in that way. She didn’t know why she hadn’t guessed what he’d do sooner. After all, if he got even for minor things with kissing, it stood to reason that he’d go for the whole works for something as serious as a forced marriage.
She wondered if she was supposed to have enjoyed it so much. Probably not. Or maybe that didn’t matter to him, since the divorce he was forcing on her was the true revenge. Although more and more people were ending marriages these days in that way, it was still a scandalous thing to do, so much so that whatever hopes Cassie had of one day marrying, she might as well bury. No man with decent morals would consider a divorced woman for his wife.
That was a really rotten thing for Angel to have done to her, now that she thought about it. Had she really deserved that just because he’d been a little inconvenienced? She didn’t think so, when an annulment would have served and saved her reputation. He was damn lucky she wasn’t the vindictive sort, or she’d do some getting even of her own and not divorce him at all. It would serve him right to be stuck with her. But she couldn’t do that to him, since none of this was his fault.
He stirred just then, drawing her attention. He was sleeping on his stomach, with his face turned away from her. Only the arm thrown up over the pillow and his bare shoulders were visible, because at some time during the night they’d both gotten under the covers. Yet he was naked beneath them. So was she.
After last night, that thought shouldn’t make her blush, but it did. And her curiosity added even more heat. She hadn’t gotten a good look at his body last night. She couldn’t deny she’d like to. But she wasn’t daring enough to throw back the covers. Besides, she didn’t want to have words with him while they were still in bed. That would put her at a distinct disadvantage, and she had so few advantages— none, actually, that she could think of at the moment. But at least putting on some clothes before she had to face him would make her more comfortable.
With that decided, she carefully sat up, and immediately noticed Marabelle’s tail swishing the floorboards at the end of the bed. It came to her then, a vague memory of the panther scratching at the door in the middle of the night to get in. Cassie must have got up to let her in, then gone right back to sleep. And obviously Angel hadn’t been disturbed by it, or he wouldn’t still be there.
But she had to put Marabelle out before he woke up. His finding her there would almost guarantee his starting the day in a rotten mood. Yet Cassie didn’t move immediately to do so. And suddenly she smiled to herself.
So maybe she could be a little vindictive just this once. After all, Marabelle had more right to be there than Cassie’s soon-to-be-divorced husband did. And why should she worry about his mood anyway? He ought to be worried about hers after what he did to her—making love to her for revenge. She wouldn’t have thought him that cruel, but it just went to show that you couldn’t trust a man who went around killing people for a living.
She wouldn’t remove her pet. She’d like to remove her husband. She settled for getting dressed, and so inched her way out from under the covers and tiptoed to her wardrobe. But by the time she got there, Cassie was cringing. She’d never realized how many loose floorboards she had that creaked, and for God’s sake, why had she never noticed that the hinges on her wardrobe needed oiling? She was making enough noise to wake the dead, and a glance over her shoulder proved that Angel didn’t fall into that category. The first creak on the floor had brought his eyes open, and those eyes were now fixed on her naked backside.
Her modesty scandalized, Cassie managed to gasp, “Close your eyes!”
“Hell, no,” he replied, and he actually grinned. “You’re a damn pretty sight to wake up to, honey. Why don’t you turn around so I can have a better look?”
“Why don’t you go to hell?” she retorted and grabbed the first thing at hand, a voluminous petticoat, and whipped it over her head to wiggle into.
“Aren’t your drawers supposed to go on first?”
That was laughter in his voice, she’d swear it was. “Just shut up, Angel.”
“You are going to pull that down, aren’t you?”
She’d let the petticoat catch on her breasts so her torso was at least covered. “Not on your life.”
She heard him sigh. She gritted her teeth and pulled out a camisole. But after a moment of trying to get it on, she found it wouldn’t fasten over the thick petticoat.
“You’re taking modesty too far, Cassie. Your back is to me. Go ahead and drop it.”
He meant the petticoat, and she was being ridiculous. There was nothing left for him to see. Even her back was covered by her hair. So she yanked the petticoat down, adjusted the lacy camisole over her breasts, and quickly fastened it. But when she reached for a dress, she caught Angel’s reflection in her vanity mirror, which sat at a cross angle from her wardrobe. He wasn’t staring at her, he was staring at the mirror, and if she could see him clearly, he had a good frontal view of her...
She whipped around to face him. “You sneaky son—!”
“What are you getting all fired up for?” he interrupted, sounding absurdly reasonable. “For the time being, I’ve got a right to look.”
“The hell you do. We’re getting divorced, and it can’t be soon enough for me.”
He’d been leaning up on one elbow. With her last statement, he dropped back on the bed to stare up at the ceiling.
Cassie took that as a sign that she’d made her point and he was done provoking her.
She let it go at that and quickly wiggled into a dress, but she was still simmering. Rights! He’d dared to mention rights for the time being, when he knew full well their marriage wasn’t legal—or it wouldn’t have been legal if he’d stayed out of her bed.
It struck her then that he was right. He’d made their marriage legal by bedding her, and it would remain legal until they signed the divorce papers. So—legally—he did have certain rights.
To hell with legal. She hadn’t asked that he complicate matters with his revenge. He’d already overstepped the bounds of decency. So he had no rights as far as she was concerned, and she’d back that up with her gun if necessary.
“Cassie?”
The note of panic in his voice made her turn to him instantly, everything that had just run through her mind as quickly forgotten. And the problem was revealed in the first glance.
Marabelle’s attention had been caught by the movement of the covers above Angel’s toes. She’d come half up on the bed to investigate, and was now rubbing her face against the small tent his crossed feet made out of the covers. Cassie had been awakened in the morning dozens of times in such a way. But those weren’t her feet her pet was drooling over, they were Angel’s. Marabelle hadn’t noticed the difference.
“How did she get in here?”
His voice was whisper-soft, and he wasn’t taking the chance of moving the slightest bit. But Cassie’s concern had left as soon as she saw there was no danger, and that put her back in the mood that wasn’t inclined to take pity on Angel.
“I vaguely recall letting her in in the middle of the night when she scratched at the door,” she answered with blatant nonchalance. “After all, she’s allowed to sleep with me.”
He wasn’t about to touch that remark. “Get her out of here.”
“I don’t think I will. You made me your wife last night instead of your bride. The bride was willing to oblige you. The wife isn’t.”
“Cassie,” he began with clear warning, but ended on a startled note. “She’s biting my feet!”
“No, she isn’t. She’s cleaning her teeth. I told you she likes to do that.”
“So make her stop.”
Cassie sighed at that point and moved to the foot of the bed to run a hand down Marabelle’s back. “Honestly, Angel, you’ve been around her long enough now to know she’s harmless.”
He still wouldn’t take his eyes off the panther—or move. “I don’t know any such thing. A bullet is one thing. I can handle going by a bullet. But the thought of going by being that cat’s dinner...”
“Marabelle doesn’t even like raw meat. She prefers it cooked, but she’s actually more partial to biscuits and flapjacks.”
“Biscuits?” he choked out.
“And flapjacks.”
He gave her the briefest glance that said clearly she was crazy before his eyes were back on the panther. But after another moment of thinking about it—biscuits—he yanked his feet out from under Marabelle’s purring adoration. And when the cat just looked at him without moving, he went one further and leaped out of the bed.
Cassie wasn’t expecting that. Her eyes rounded. Her breath caught. But she didn’t even think about looking away. Lord love him, he had a fine-looking body, all sleek grace and subtle strength—like her panther. She noted old bullet wounds, three, four, but it was all that male skin that fascinated her. Broad shoulders, flat belly, long legs—which he was stuffing into his pants. He was angry. She could see it in every line of his body. And she was the cause.
He confirmed it. “That was a rotten thing to do.”
She knew full well he referred to her lack of help with Marabelle. “Then that makes us two of a kind, doesn’t it?”
“Lady, when I get even, it’s with lasting results.”
She sat down on the bed, looking away from him. Her voice was exceptionally quiet. “I know.”
He was suddenly there in front of her, despite the fact that Marabelle was right next to her. He hadn’t found his shirt yet. His pants weren’t fastened, were barely clinging to his hips. Nothing but skin, only inches from her face—and the crazy urge to lean forward and press her lips to it.
“Last night wasn’t ‘getting even,’ Cassie. It was a temptation too great for me to resist. For your sake, I’m sorry it happened. For mine— I’m damned if I am.”
She hadn’t expected him to attempt an explanation. He could have saved his breath, though, since she didn’t believe a word of it—except that he wasn’t sorry for his sake. Why should he be? It hadn’t cost him anything and certainly wasn’t going to damage his reputation.
She didn’t answer, and wouldn’t look up at him. But she was startled when his hand came toward her cheek. It stopped short of touching her, however, hesitated there, then dropped away. And why did she suddenly feel like crying?
She wouldn’t. She pushed herself off the bed to squeeze past him. “Find your boots and leave,” she told him on her way to her bureau. There she opened a drawer and pulled out his gun. “And you’
He’d caught the gun, but he didn’t move other than that, just stared at her for a long moment. She could almost see it happening, the change in him, the hardness coming to the surface, taking control.
“Yeah, you never know.”
Cassie cringed inwardly. Standing before her was the man who’d arrived three weeks ago, a man of violence, ruthless when necessary, conscienceless—heartless. She’d caused that with her own coldness. But it was just as well. This was the man she was more accustomed to, not the one who was afraid to touch her cheek.
Chapter 23
Angel sat in the parlor with the bottle of tequila Maria had fetched for him, her own private stock. Charles Stuart didn’t drink hard liquor, so there hadn’t been a single bottle of whiskey in the house. And Angel didn’t feel like riding to town to get some. In his present mood, there would definitely be trouble if he did.
He hadn’t seen his wife since he’d left her room—the second time that morning. The first time he’d been angry enough to leave without his boots. He’d even gotten halfway to the stable before he realized he had nothing on his feet. He’d had to go back. He only had the one pair. But he’d waited until he cooled off some before he knocked on her door again.
She’d calmed down some herself by then. At least she’d used a civil tone when neither of them could find his boots right off. “With Marabelle in the room, you might as well look under the bed,” she’d suggested. “That’s where she stashes things she wants to keep.”
“Wants to keep?” The tug-of-war that had come to mind had him frowning. “I’m not going to fight your Marabelle for my boots.”
“You won’t have to. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s not here.”