Lord Deverill's Heir, Catherine Coulter [the best motivational books .TXT] 📗

She was very fast. Fear did that. Oh God, the door wouldn’t open. She turned it wildly first one way, then the other, but it wouldn’t move. Damn, what was wrong? The key. He’d locked the door. Her palms were sweaty. She grabbed that key and wrenched at it. She felt him standing behind her, watching her. Suddenly, he grabbed a handful of hair and began to wind it about his hand, pulling slowly, inexorably, until she cried out in pain and stumbled back against his chest. He jerked her about with his other hand to face him.

For a very long time, he simply stared down at her. Then, very quietly, he said, “You will do what I told you to do and you will do it this instant. You really don’t want to know what I will do if you refuse me.” Instinctively she realized that she could not reason with him, that he was beyond reason, he was beyond her and who and what she was to him. She could only try to save herself. She gritted her teeth against the stabbing pain in her scalp and brought her knee up and forward with all her strength. She connected with his hard thigh. He’d been too fast for her.

His eyes were nearly black with fury. He would strike her now. She tensed, awaiting the blow. Instead, he drew a deep breath and jerked at her hair, bringing her face to within inches of his own. He looked down at her, looked directly into her eyes, eyes so much like his, and said quietly, “I presume your esteemed father taught you that trick to bring a man low. It would have been the worse for you had you succeeded, you know. You would have made me very angry then. You would have invited me to wring your treacherous neck.”

“Justin.” She felt numb, her mind empty and blank of other words.

In a swift, violent motion he released her hair, dug his fingers into the ruffled lace about her throat, and ripped downward with a force that doubled her forward. The sharp rending of satin filled the silence of the room, and Arabella looked down stupidly at her gown, torn from her throat to her ankles. Before she could react, he jerked the gown from her shoulders, tearing apart the small buttons from her wrists. She saw the satin-covered buttons bounce and roll about the carpet near the remnants of her nightgown. She felt his eyes sweep over her, staring first at her breasts, then lower, at her belly. She was finally shocked into action at the awareness of her impotence. Without thought, she balled her hand into a fist and with all her might struck at his face.

He blocked her arm before it reached his jaw. He said in a very calm, low voice, “You wish to fight me, do you, madam?” Yesterday, he had spoken to her with barely banked excitement, his voice tender and yet wonderfully demanding. She’d responded fully to him, yesterday. But not now. His voice sounded calm, yes, but dead as well. So dead it made her die inside. He grasped her about the waist and flung her hard over his shoulder.

Arabella pounded at his back, knowing it did little good. He was a man, strong and fit and she had no chance against him. He hurled her away from him, and she fell sprawled on her back on the bed, her breath knocked out of her. Even as she gasped painfully, she thought only to escape him, and clutched at the covers to scramble to the far side of the bed. She cried out as his hand grasped her ankle and gave it a wrench, flipping her again upon her back.

“Damn you, lie still. Yes, that is much better. Now, I think it only fair that I examine my purchase.”

Dear God, he was mad, quite mad. There was no other reason for him to do this. Surely her father would have known if the man he’d chosen for her was perverted, crazed, a man who enjoyed a woman’s pain. No, surely not.

She yelled up at him, “Stop this, Justin. It’s madness, do you hear me?

Why are you doing this? I won’t allow it. Let me go, damn you!” He said nothing, merely stared down at her breasts. She knew he was studying her, and he looked bored, only the rage was still burning deep and constant in his eyes. She was afraid, suddenly, very afraid.

“Damn you, stop it!”

“You have the language of a tavern wench. I should have guessed that it meant something more vile in you that anyone could see. Something vile and deep.”

“Vile? What the devil is vile about me? I know I have a temper. So do you. There is nothing vile about a temper. Are you mad?”

“Shut up,” he roared at her, not even looking at her face.

Appalled, she again tried to jerk away from him, but quickly, he clamped his hands around her ankles.

“Move again and I shall tie you down,” he said in a cold voice that froze her to her soul. “I have paid dearly for my inheritance and that includes having you in my bed, though I doubt there will be much pleasure for me.

There will certainly be none for you.”

She had to try again, she had to. She reached her hand up to touch him, but he slapped it away. “Why are you doing this, Justin? What have I done to you? Why did you call me vile? Why did you call me a slut? Please, tell me what is wrong. Surely you must know that it must be a mistake.” He was looking at her breasts, saying quietly, more to himself than to her, “I knew you would be beautiful. I knew your flesh would be as white as virgin snow. I pictured you so many times lying on your back like this with all that white flesh and your incredible black