The tip of her index finger trailed down the glass, then drew three times over a horizontal figure eight.
A marriage of convenience…to Armand De Luca… no more struggle…no more treading water.
A razor-sharp pang coiled inside of her. Her hand clenched and dropped.
What on earth was she thinking? She wanted to be in love with the man she married, not indebted. Surely that wasn’t expecting too much, even with all the uncertainty clouding her life. Even given the way Armand made her feel…temporarily rescued.
Her stomach jumped when Armand’s heat-infused palm came to rest on her shoulder, but she dared not face him. The flare of his touch was enough to unhinge her. She wouldn’t risk more confusion by looking into those eyes.
His breath warmed her crown as his voice rumbled at her ear. “Weigh your options carefully. Consider the opportunities you’d give your child, now and in the future.”
A future with opportunities, security, a name that opened doors. And all she had to do was marry a stranger.
She chewed her lip and struggled to form the question that had scratched at her mind since this man, more like a phantom, had swept into her life.
“Don’t get the idea I’m saying yes, because I’m not, but…” Her mouth was cracker-dry. She fought to swallow against the choking beat of her heart vibrating up her throat. “If we were to wed, if we were to become man and wife…”
A hot flush washed through her. She couldn’t say the words.
“Would the marriage include conjugal rights?”
As his question soaked in, cool dots of perspiration broke along her hairline. From the corner of her eye she saw his long blunt fingers splayed over the shoulder of her white cotton shirt, the glint of his dress ring’s ruby catching the last of the day’s old-gold light. Suddenly she couldn’t get enough air. Couldn’t stop the mad thudding in her chest.
Shoulder dipping, she edged away. His hand withdrew. Good. Some space. She couldn’t think straight otherwise.
She filled her lungs with oxygen and courage. Conjugal rights. She cringed. “That’s such an old-fashioned term.”
“Marriage is an old-fashioned and serious institution.” Though he didn’t touch her again, she felt the vacuum of his natural heat to her core, the somber conviction of his words. “Creating, and maintaining, physical bonds are an important part of a relationship.”
“Physical.” A typical male response. “What about emotional bonds?”
“Can you think of a better way to feel close to someone than sexual intimacy? If you agree to marry me, Tamara, you agree to share my bed, and no one else’s.”
“You make it sound like a command.”
But the sparks firing over her skin weren’t entirely from indignation. Part of her shrank from the idea of sleeping with a man she barely knew. Another more secret part wondered at the idea of sampling his kisses, coming to know the rasp of his end-of-day beard as he held her, exploring, coaxing. If it was wrong to think that way, if it was somehow disrespectful to Marc’s memory, God help her, she couldn’t help it. Not with Armand so close, speaking about his bed and marriage and sex.
As if reading her mind, he nudged closer. Her back to him, she felt his hot gaze climb her bare arm, leaving a fog of steam in its wake.
“The idea of consummating our marriage worries you?”
As his deep voice strummed through her blood like a chord of bass music, an image of his mouth claiming hers came to mind, a vision of his strong naked body pinning her own. A drugging heat seeped through her tummy and her eyes drifted closed.
This was too intense. Too soon.
She turned a tight circle to face him—or, rather, the wall of his chest and the subtle tease in his gaze. Steeling herself, she shouldered past him, back toward the table. “You’re dealing with a woman who believes in fairy tales. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. De Luca.”
“Armand, remember?”
A slanted grin enhanced the seductive line of his mouth. Palm pressed against her jumping stomach, she pried her gaze away. They’d talked enough.
She headed for a twelve-foot-high archway that led to a sweeping staircase and, eventually, the privacy of the suite she’d been shown earlier. “I was on the phone when you arrived at my apartment. If I can use the extension in my room, I’d like to call her back.”
“A friend?”
“Melanie Harris. Marc’s friend, too.”
“Does she know about the baby?”
Tamara’s heart contracted and her pace faltered. She’d told no one but Marc. In fact, the only two people in the world who knew were in this room. “No one knows about that night but you,” she said over her shoulder.
“Good.”
She frowned. Maybe she hadn’t heard him right. She stopped and inched around. His eyes looked incredibly dark, as if something lurked beneath. A tremor of unease rippled through her system. “What do you mean, ‘good’?”
Slotting hands in his back jeans pockets, he seemed to choose his words. “The will stipulates a legitimate heir.”
She took a moment to digest his deeper meaning. “You want people to believe this baby is…” She hunted for a clinical phrase. “Biologically yours and mine?”
“The law views any child born after marriage as legitimate… unless paternity is challenged. No one knowing simply makes it more—” he hesitated again “—convenient.”
He spoke as if the issue of paternity held no emotional worth. “You don’t want anyone to know about the true father to make doubly sure the terms of a will are met?”
She could never do that to Marc, and this child certainly deserved to know the name of his father. Tamara only wished she’d been given that courtesy.
Armand’s eyes flashed before his hands withdrew from his pockets and he moved closer. “To the contrary. It’s only respectful to acknowledge your roots, no matter the circumstances. When the child is old enough, everything will be settled and he will know his origins.”
The double knot in her chest released a bit. Breathing again, she nodded and they walked together beneath the arch. For Armand to gain control of his empire, De Luca Senior had stipulated he produce a legitimate heir. The solution seemed obvious.
“Can’t a nephew or niece be a legitimate heir? What about an adopted child?”
“Not under the terms of this will. The clause is specific.” Armand’s concerned gaze skimmed her face. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. You look tired.”
Not tired, she realized anew. Utterly drained. Her legs felt like lead logs. “It would be good to lie down,” she conceded, aware of his hand on the small of her back as he steered her through an adjoining sitting area where a portrait of a stern-looking man presided over a limestone chimneypiece.
“Wrist hurting?”
Hauling her gaze away from the picture’s flint-hard dark eyes, she shucked off a shiver. “It’s fine.”
“I’m not sure I did a good enough job on that bandage. I’ll take you to a doctor tomorrow. And not just for your wrist.”
“The bandage is fine.” He’d taken great care to wind it neither too loose nor too tight. “And if you’re referring to the baby, I’ll see my own doctor.” A general practitioner, not a specialist, whom Tamara felt comfortable