Don’t Call Me Sweetheart (16 page)

By the evening of the second day after their return, Whitney
was beginning to bristle under the constant strain of Christian’s domineering
presence. Her normal schedule was completely disrupted by his abrasive
intrusions. If her weekly schedule included taking inventory of supplies, he
had already seen to it. If she tried to go over the menu with Bette, she found
him already discussing the details with the plump little cook.

And that very morning she had planned to discuss her plans
to remodel the entryway with Stuart, only to discover that he had been
instructed that under no circumstances was he to proceed with any structural
changes without first consulting with Christian. She had spent the better part
of an hour trying to calm the poor man down, he was so beside himself trying to
please two owners, rather than one.

With news of an approaching snowstorm and a roster wiped
clean by cancellations, Whitney had suggested that the innkeeper and his wife
might enjoy a few days off, giving her and Christian a chance to iron out some
of their differences and establish a work environment that everyone could live
with. Stuart had agreed and within the hour he and Hannah had left for Seattle,
hurrying to beat the snow.

It was then that Whitney had searched for Christian, intent
on discussing the finer points of sharing their so-called business decisions,
as he had agreed to do but, as had been the case since their return, he was
nowhere to be found when she needed him.

So instead, with her responsibilities to guests eliminated
due to all the cancellations and after sending Bette home too knowing that she
could fend for herself when she got hungry, Whitney had decided that an
afternoon of uninterrupted work on her book was in order. Perhaps by losing
herself in the drama of her characters’ lives, she could forget the nasty
twists and turns her own had taken lately. Seated at the antique desk in her
front room, the laptop resting on the smooth wood, she had managed to do just
that. In fact, she had worked so diligently that she failed to notice the
fading light as predicted thick storm clouds moved over the valley, enveloping
the surrounding mountain peaks in dense gray shadows. By the time she looked up
from her work it was nearing suppertime and a heavy snow had begun to fall. From
her window at the back of the house she could see that a pristine blanket of
white was already covering the meadow.

Standing, she arched her back to stretch the cramped muscles
and walked over to turn on the television. A weather advisory was playing
across the bottom of the screen, warning against all travel as record-breaking
snow was expected overnight and residents in her area could expect roads to
close and remain that way for some time as even more snow was forecast for the
next two days. They were in for a veritable blizzard and Whitney began to
shudder uncontrollably. If he was still in the house she was alone with
Christian. Alone. Possibly for days.

She bit her lip pensively as she turned the television off. Suddenly
she rushed from the room and downstairs, needing to know if Christian was there
or not. She clung to the hope that once he had talked to Stuart, he might have
had an excuse to head for town and was now trapped there. She didn’t mind being
trapped herself, as long as he wasn’t with her. The house was well equipped to
ride out a storm of this magnitude; it had to be in the event they had a house
full of guests, so Whitney wasn’t worried about provisions.

What did worry her was finding Christian lounging in the
dining room, a plate piled high with warmed up meatloaf and mashed potatoes
before him. He looked up as she flew through the door and skidded to a stop at
the first table.

Whitney’s heart sank and all she could manage was a weak, “Oh,
you are here then.”

“Where else would I be, Mrs. Dade?” Christian asked in an
amused voice before taking a mouthful of the delicious smelling casserole.

“I thought… When I couldn’t find you earlier…I thought,”
Whitney stammered, too flustered in finding that she was caught in the now
raging snowstorm with the one man on the face of the earth who could destroy
her will, her soul, her heart to form a coherent thought.

“You were hoping that I had left and had gotten stuck
anywhere other than here, right?” Christian supplied for her, watching her
expression while he continued his meal.

“Right, I suppose,” Whitney replied lamely. “And don’t call
me Mrs. Dade.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart but it appears we’re
stuck with each other.”

In more ways than one, thanks to you.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, indicating the plate in front of
him.

From where she stood across the room, Whitney nodded. She
was hungry. Making sure she skirted the table at which Christian was seated,
she made her way into the kitchen and rummaged in the refrigerator until she
located some fresh fruit and cheese. She didn’t think her nervous stomach could
handle anything heavier.

She carried the food back into the dining room and plunked
down across from Christian, who had just finished and was wiping the corner of
his mouth with a napkin. If they were going to be forced to endure each other’s
company, they might as well make good use of the time.

“Just a moment ago you were too scared to walk near me,”
Christian observed dryly, unable to keep his dark eyes from raking over her as
she settled herself and began to pick at her plate. It had been hell keeping
away from her the last two days knowing that nothing stood between him and his
need to take her other than his pride.

“I’ve never been scared of you,” Whitney replied hotly.

“You, my sweet, are a very poor liar,” Christian laughed, a
low, throaty sound that sent shivers up Whitney’s spine.

“What I am,” Whitney paused to spear a slice of banana, “is
mad. I thought we were going to discuss all the decisions that need to be made
around here together? You’re running around like you’re the only one whose
opinion matters. Well, it’s not. Is that plain and simple enough for you?”

Christian’s eyes narrowed perceptibly as he regarded Whitney’s
flushed face and eyes which seemed to be shooting green shards of ice directly
at him. Damn, if he didn’t want to carry her up to that prissy bed she’d put in
his room and make love to her that very moment. He could almost taste her
silken skin, remembering how it had felt to nuzzle the smooth column of her
neck, how it had felt to ravage her honeyed mouth with his own hot, hungry
tongue. Even now, he could feel himself responding to her nearness, his body
aching to possess her, to put an end to their endless arguing by turning her
angry words into the passionate pleadings of a woman writhing with need.

But he couldn’t. There would most certainly be other women
after her, women who wouldn’t demand he bow to their whims. Women who would be
willing to use him as much as he would use them, neither expecting anything
more with the dawning of the next morning. Hell, half the women in America
wanted him now that he’d appeared on the cover of that McLaughlin woman’s new
book. But Whitney would never be that way. She wanted commitment, security. He
couldn’t give her that, so he’d never be able to give in to himself and purge
the frequent fantasies he had about her by turning them to wondrous reality.

He had to keep his distance, something much easier to do
when she was busy sharpening her claws on him. Cynicism would stand him in good
stead for once, providing the wall around his wanderlust that he was unable to
maintain with his fragmented self-control.

“If I need your opinion, I’ll give it to you, Whitney. Until
then, just keep out of my way.”

“You’ll give me an opinion?” Whitney screeched, unable to
believe even Christian could be so callously chauvinistic. “How dare you talk
to me like that! Here, I’ve got something to give you too!”

Christian dodged the plate as it flew past his head but the
fruit it had held rained down upon his head and shoulders. As calmly as if he
were picking lint off the sleeve of a coat, Christian deliberately removed each
piece and laid it on his napkin. The fact that he was not yelling back at her
caused Whitney some small degree of misgivings but she shoved them aside, much
too angry at his caviler attitude to want to analyze his reaction, or lack of
it. Later, she would realize that was the point at which she made her fatal
mistake.

The air grew unbearably tense as the minutes ticked by. Whitney
was unable to tear herself from her seat until she confronted the reaction that
would undeniably be unleashed toward her. She wasn’t wrong.

“Come here, Whitney.” Christian’s low, ominous command
impaled Whitney to her chair more completely than her own will had been able to
do. He wasn’t even looking at her but she could sense the contemptuous fury
hidden below the surface of his deceptively soft words. She had crossed the
line this time and she knew it.

“Whitney, I said to come here,” he repeated still staring
down at the table in front of him, refusing to let her see the depth of his
rage. When she steadfastly refused to move at his command he finally allowed
his temper to explode and brought his clenched fist crashing down on the table,
spilling water everywhere and sending the service ware flying. “Now!”

Whitney flinched at the outburst and sent the chair spilling
to the floor in her haste to escape the room. She had tried to convince herself
that she could handle Christian Dade but this time she knew he wouldn’t let her
go. He meant to punish her for her outburst, even though he had provoked it and
instinctively she knew that he wouldn’t stop with just a few kisses meant to
remind her that she was and always would be, of the weaker sex. He wanted to
humiliate her, just as she had done to him, she had seen the steely
determination of his intent flash in those dangerously dark eyes of his. It
wasn’t a question of who was right and who was wrong. He was reacting with
pure, animalistic instinct to an unwelcome threat, using the one method that
would ensure he would emerge the victor.

She had fear giving flight to her racing limbs but Christian
was quicker. He scrambled over the top of the table between them instantly,
tackling her about the waist and dragging her to the floor. He rolled so that
he broke her fall, catching her weight with his own but never once loosening
his hold on her. Before she could recover, he expertly flipped on top of her,
straddling her hips with his knees and holding her hands in one of his own
above her head. As disadvantaged as she was, Whitney still refused to show him
how scared she was.

“You’ve not kept any other promise you’ve ever made to me,
so what’s it to be now, husband? Rape?”

“Rape? I don’t think that will be necessary, do you? Most
sane individuals find that after angering me once, it is not wise to repeat the
mistake. You, however, don’t seem to have any sense of self-preservation. You
plunge ahead, knowing full well that if you provoke me enough I’ll have no
recourse but to employ my most effective weapon against you and we both know
what that is, don’t we? That razor-sharp tongue should really be put to better
uses, sweet,” Christian told her in a husky voice, dipping his face to within a
hairsbreadth of Whitney’s. His warm breath mingled with her own and desire, hot
and molten erupted deep within her, much to Whitney’s mortification. How could
she possibly hunger so feverishly for a man she hated so deeply? Even when he
made no pretense that he was determined to degrade her, her body betrayed her,
thrilling to each point of contact his massive frame made with her own.

“And perhaps it will but not with the likes of you,” she spat,
trying not to focus on the part of him pressed so intimately against her. “You
swore never to take anything from me again against my will, remember? Or were
your words as worthless as your intentions?”

“I believe my exact words were that I’d never force myself
on you. I never said anything about what was freely offered.” Christian slowly
rocked his hips against hers as he spoke, grinding the hard bulge of his
manhood against the sensitive center of her while all the time maintaining his
grip on her wrists to still her weak struggles. He dredged up every ounce of
willpower he possessed to keep his hands from roaming the tempting curves and
valleys of her body, regardless of his promise to her, or the one to himself. He
only wanted to scare her, remind her that he would brook no interference with
his decisions. To actually succumb to his body’s cry for release would be to
admit his need for Whitney was greater than his need for the home he loved so
dearly. Nothing was more important than building upon his father’s reputation
and memory. Nothing and no one!

The building storm of emotions within Whitney surpassed the
blinding, swirling storm outside, pulling her into the pulsing vortex. She
strained against Christian, trying to dislodge him from where he held her
locked tightly between his powerful legs but she only succeeded in causing
herself more mortification as her own soft flesh reacted to the thrusts by
becoming warm and moist, swelling in anticipation of joining with her husband.

A soft moan escaped her as her eyes fluttered shut and she
lost herself in the all-devouring need Christian had lit with her. Even fully
clothed and without laying a hand on her he was able to make love to her and
her pleasure rose with each slow, tortuous thrust and within moments she lay
writhing beneath him, panting erratically, her eyes glazed over with yearning
passion. She was powerless to fight any longer the intense attraction she had
for the handsome man who had made her his wife. It was too overwhelming, too
penetratingly piercing to withstand and she gave in to it, allowing her
struggles to turn to answering movements, meeting each driving plunge with
searing abandonment.