A Price Worth Paying - By Trish Morey Page 0,7
reverberating around the room. He’d known she’d wanted something—land or money—and she had wanted something, but a proposal of marriage had never been on his radar. ‘You’re seriously proposing marriage?’
‘I know.’ His visitor clenched and unclenched her hands by her sides, her eyes frosty and hard with anger, her features set as if she didn’t hold it all together, she would explode. ‘Crazy idea. Forget I said anything. Clearly I was wrong to think you might lift so much as a finger to help my grandfather. Sorry to bother you. I’ll see myself out.’
She wheeled around, her skirt flaring high as she spun to reveal legs more shapely than he would have imagined she possessed before they marched her purposefully towards the door, her words rankling more with each stride. How dare she come out with a crazy proposal like that and then make out that he’d let her down?
He caught up with her as she pulled the door open, slamming it shut the next second with the flat of his hand over her shoulder. ‘I don’t remember you asking me to lift a finger.’ She wasn’t listening. Either that or she simply took no notice. She worked the handle frantically with both hands, her slim body straining as she pulled with all her might, while the door refused to budge so much as an inch with his weight to keep it closed.
‘Let me out!’
He stayed right where he was, with the tiny fury beneath him working away on the door, bracing herself against the wall for leverage. ‘On the other hand, I do recall you asking me to marry you.’
‘It was a mistake,’ she said, frantic and half breathless from her efforts.
‘What, you mean you meant to ask someone else?’
She gave up on the handle, staring at the door as if willing it to disappear with the sheer force of her will. ‘I thought you might help. Turns out I was wrong.’
‘And so now you make out that I’ve somehow let you down? Because I’m honest and laugh when you suggest something as ridiculous as marrying you?’
‘Ridiculous because you’re such a catch, you mean? God, you’re unbelievable! Do you actually believe I want to marry you?’
She gave the door a final kick and spun around and almost immediately wished she hadn’t, suddenly confronted by the naked wall of his chest just inches from her face. Bronzed olive skin roughened with dark hair and two hard nipples jutting out at her. God, why the hell couldn’t the man just put on some clothes? Because this close she could see his chest hair sway in the breeze from her breath. This close she could smell the lemon soap he’d used while bathing; could smell the clean scent of masculine skin.
And she really didn’t need to know that she liked the combination.
‘You tell me,’ he answered roughly. ‘You’re the one doing the asking.’
He had her boxed in on two sides, one arm planted beside her head, the door at her back, with only one avenue of escape left to her. Tempting as it was, she got the distinct impression this man would love it if she tried to flee again. He would no doubt feed off the thrill. So she stayed exactly where she was and forced her eyes higher to meet his.
‘A few months,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t asking for forever. I’m not that much of a masochist.’
Something flickered in his eyes as he leaned dangerously down over her, and she wondered at the logic of throwing insults at the only man who could help her. Though that had been before he’d laughed her proposal down without even bothering to listen to her. Now there was obviously nothing to gain by being polite—and nothing to lose by telling him exactly how little she wanted this for herself. ‘If there was any other way, believe me, I’d grab it with both hands.’
His dark eyes searched hers, his chin set, the tendons on his neck standing out in thick cords. ‘What kind of game are you playing? Why are you really here?’
She might have told him if she thought he might actually listen. ‘Look, there’s no point going on with this. Let me go now and I promise never to darken your door again. Maybe there’s even a slight chance we might forget this unfortunate event ever took place.’
‘Forget a scrawny slip of a girl I’ve never met asking me to marry her? Forget a proposal of marriage that comes dressed in barbs