Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [65]
“No, it's not true,” Brenna whimpered. Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought that Donovan would believe she had gone with Chadeaux willingly. She put her hands against his chest protestingly. “You must believe me, Michael,” she said huskily, looking up at him entreatingly. “I didn't go with him of my own accord. He forced me.”
“What truly incredible eyes you have,” Donovan said mockingly, his face hard. “They have the gentleness and innocence of a young doe. You might even have been able to fool me again, if I hadn't seen you on that bed with Chadeaux.” The memory of that scene caused his face to darken with such primitive rage, that Brenna felt the first thrill of real fear course through her. “God! I wish I'd killed him,” he said hoarsely.
“I was fighting him,” Brenna insisted desperately. “We fell…” He cut her off with a kiss that was even more savage than the ones that had gone on before. When he released her, she knew with a feeling of hopelessness that he had gone beyond reasoning.
“Shut up!” Donovan said huskily, his eyes wild. “He was making love to you. Phillips said you got into the car willingly. You even sent Doris Charles away for the afternoon so that you wouldn't have to make any explanations about taking Randy away.”
Brenna closed her eyes. It all fitted together so neatly, she thought wearily, and it formed such a completely erroneous and incriminating picture.
How was she to convince Donovan of the truth, when suddenly she was too tired to think coherently? Her head was aching intolerably, and her knees were shaking and weak with reaction to this final strain on her nerves. She knew she must try to convince Donovan how mistaken he was, but the lassitude that was slowly enveloping her made the effort seem superhuman in scope.
“No more arguments?” Donovan asked grimly. “Good.” He shifted his hold and scooped her up in his arms, and headed for the spiral staircase. As he passed the lightswitch, he hit it, plunging the chalet into darkness that was relieved only by the flickering light from the fire.
As Donovan negotiated the stairs, Brenna tried desperately to muster the energy to protest. This was all wrong, she realized dimly. The gossamer fabric of trust and friendship they had woven so painstakingly was now rent and torn, and Donovan's savage jealousy was threatening to destroy the pitiful remnants that remained. He carried her to the king-sized bed and placed her on the silken counterpane, then he straightened and started to undo the buttons of his white shirt.
He looked down at her, a dark anonymous shadow whose grim, taut features were occasionally illuminated by the upward surge of the flickering firelight. “I thought our first night together should be spent here, under the circumstances,” he said mockingly, as he stripped off the shirt and threw it aside. “I find it most fitting that the consummation of our marriage should be in surroundings that have witnessed a multitude of similar meaningless and shallow interludes.” He was swiftly stripping off the rest of his clothes, the firelight playing across the powerful shoulders and pectoral muscles of his chest.
Vulcan! she thought dimly, from some distant primal memory, as he joined her on the bed. His hands were deft and experienced as he brushed away her protesting hands, and drew the white suntop over her head, loosening the front closing of her bra with cool efficiency.
Knowing that her remonstrances would have no more effect than a flimsy canoe before a tidal wave, she felt she had to try once more. “Please, Michael,” she whispered huskily. “Not like this.”
“Yes, precisely like this,” he said thickly. “If you expected gentleness or courtly passion, forget it. You've forfeited the right to anything but this.” His hands had removed the lilac slacks,