The emotional risk she faced with him had just intensified and increased, well-nigh beyond bearing. Her heart had swollen and blocked her throat; it was difficult to draw breath.
“You’re not just saying that?”
He was quite capable of it; he’d just proved he saw far more than she’d ever guessed, that he understood her far better than any other ever had. And he was ruthless, relentless in getting what he wanted.
He wanted her.
She had to believe it—there was no longer any option.
He exhaled, looked down, then met her gaze again. She could see his temper, still very real, in the locked lines of his face. Could sense, even more clearly, his desire to seize, to capture, to simply take.
A conqueror looked at her from behind his eyes.
Slowly, he raised a hand, held it out palm up between them. “Take a chance. Try me.”
She looked at his hand, then raised her gaze to his face. “What are you suggesting?”
“Be my lover until you’re sure enough to be my wife. For the few days we’ve left here, at least.”
She breathed in deeply; her wits were whirling—she couldn’t think. Instinct warned her she hadn’t yet heard all—hadn’t heard why he so amazingly thought they would suit—and perhaps never would. There were other ways to deal with that, to learn what he would not say.
But if she wished to . . . she’d have to take a chance.
Take a risk far bigger than any she’d imagined.
She’d thought to approach marriage one step at a time, standing on firm ground all the way. Who knew?—she might, at some point, have reached the stage of contemplating marrying him. If she’d followed her logical, cautious route, she would have known what to do. Felt sure what she wanted.
Instead, he’d leapt ahead to a stage she hadn’t until now envisaged, leaving her no time to catch up. Her mind was still reeling, but he was waiting for an answer—would insist on one—indeed, deserved one; she had to rely on instinct alone in deciding what to do.
Her heart quaked; she stiffened her spine.
Lifting her hand, she placed her fingers in his.
They closed strongly, firmly about hers.
The possessive touch jolted her. She lifted her chin, met his eyes. “This doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to marry you.”
He held her gaze, then shifted his hold, lifted her hand to his lips. “You’re agreeing to give me a chance to persuade you.”
Quelling the shiver the brush of his lips and the intent in his eyes evoked, she inclined her head.
Simon silently let out the breath he’d been holding, felt the vise locked about his lungs ease. Never had he imagined dealing with his intended would mean dealing with Portia; she tied him in knots in ways no other ever had.
But he’d got over the worst of it, eased her past the hurdle of his recent shortcomings and refocused them both on what mattered—what was to come. He wasn’t going to dwell on the fact she’d imagined he w
ould seduce her, then let her go; there was no point arguing about her error.
She glanced at him, then turned to continue along the path. He consented but kept hold of her hand, striding slowly beside her.
Knowing she was thinking, analyzing, dissecting. There was no way he could prevent it.
The air beneath the trees was silent, still. Somewhere in the distance a bird called. The path wound through the trees; they could see the forecourt ahead when she stopped. Turned to him.
“If I don’t agree to marry you, what then?”
Lying would make life so much easier. But this was Portia. He met her gaze. “I’ll speak to Luc.”
She stiffened; her eyes flashed. “If you do, I’ll never marry you.”