The Bravo Billionaire Part 13

Jonas couldn't hang up when he was in bed with her. If he talked to her about anything important while he was actually in her presence, there was always the chance that she might talk back. He'd have to get up and put on his clothes and leave to get away from her. That could get awkward, so he just called her, said what he had to say and then said goodbye.

Emma set the phone down, her mind turning to those warnings of Deirdre's.

Let's talk about Jonas Bravo, who is a control freak... If you fall for a guy like that, you're in trouble. You've given him all the power, and he'll just use it against you...

They had been married for less than a week. True, that was only a tiny fraction of the year Blythe had given her to make Jonas Bravo into a different kind of man. It would be easy to tell herself that she still had plenty of time and it would be true. She did have plenty of time.

But she hadn't gotten off to much of a start, now, had she?

She'd let him do exactly what Deirdre had predicted he would take control and use her own craving for him against her. She'd allowed him to set up their marriage just the way he wanted it.

Jonas got back from New York on Tuesday. Emma knew he'd returned because he called to tell her he wanted to have dinner with her that evening at eight o'clock in the small dining room.

Emma said, "Oh, Jonas, I'd love that," feeling all warm and hopeful inside, thinking that this was more like it.

Jonas said, "Good. See you at eight," and hung up.

Emma dressed with great care that evening, in her one little black dress, which was much simpler and less provocative than the clothes she usually wore. Yes, it clung to her curves just as all her dresses did, but it fell to her knees rather than mid-thigh. It had a simple scoop neck and cap sleeves and seemed to her to be the kind of dress that would give off serious signals signals that said she'd enjoy a little conversation with her new husband for once, thank you very much.

She stood before the mirror in her dressing room and shook her head. "Real pathetic. Married for one whole week and you only see him in bed."

Even on the weekends, Jonas had proved elusive. This last weekend, he'd been in New York . And the one before, well, Emma had no idea where he'd been, exactly. Maybe working. She knew he worked very long hours during the week. He probably worked weekends, too. And he'd spent some of the time with Mandy Claudia had told her that. But somehow, he managed never to go to Mandy's rooms when Emma was there.

Well. Tonight would be different than the other nights. Tonight, Emma and her husband would talk.

What she hadn't counted on was how the sight of him hollowed her out, how all he had to do was put his hand on her arm and the blood seemed to rush up to the surface of her skin where he touched her, as if it only wanted to be closer to him.

Pathetic, she thought. Downright pitiful.

He led her to the living room where they'd shared drinks on their wedding night. He had the daiquiris ready banana flavored this time. The golden, icy confection tempted her.

But Emma couldn't afford to get any more stupid than his mere presence was already making her. Banana daiquiris were out. "No, thanks," she said.

He slanted her a look watchful, knowing. And he shrugged. He poured himself whatever he'd poured himself the last time, three fingers of something richly amber in color.

He raised his gla.s.s to her and he drank. And then he came toward her.

Oh, she wished he wouldn't do that. The closer he came, the more tangled up in yearning she got. And the more downright dazed. She was standing in front of one of the striped silk sofas, since she hadn't quite gotten around to sitting down yet. And then she couldn't sit down. Her legs felt spindly and weak as those of a newborn calf, yet at the same time, she could not get them to bend.

He stopped about a foot from her. It was way too close and it wasn't nearly close enough. She could smell him. He smelled so good, of some really nice aftershave and of healthiness and of something else, something that was just him, something that stunned her and drew her and made her want to grab him and run straight up the stairs to her bed.

"Dinner can wait," he said. He turned to set his half-finished drink on the little table next to the sofa. She just stood there, longing moving through her like a pulse, thinking how pathetic she was and at the same time, too aroused to even care.

He faced her again. "Ready?" He offered his arm. She hooked her hand through it. They turned for the door to the grand foyer and the stairs. * * * "An attractive dress," he said, when he was taking it off of her. "It suits you, in a whole new way." She actually opened her mouth then, to say what had been on her mind. "Well, I wore it because I thought it looked serious."

"Serious?" He had the zipper down. He put his hands on her shoulders.

"Yes. I was planning to talk to you about-"

"What?" He pushed the dress off her shoulders, his hands stroking down her arms.

"I thought-"

And he kissed her.

So much for thought.

He took away the dress, and her black bra and her pretty high-heeled shoes and even the pantyhose she had worn because they had seemed a kind of protection, a way to be more covered than usual around him.

Oh, well. So much for her plans for the evening.

He took off his own clothes and the two of them fell to the bed and after that there was nothing but sighing and moaning and some yelling, as well. * * * Emma knew that she needed a good talking-to. She needed someone to tell her what-for. For the first twenty or so years of her life, she had had her aunt Ca.s.s for times like these. And after Aunt Ca.s.s had succ.u.mbed to that melanoma she got because she'd always been so big on getting nice and tan, she'd had Blythe. Thinking about the wise things either of those two women might say now was like ripping open a healing wound. It made Emma's throat close up and her chest feel too tight. Well, Aunt Ca.s.s and Blythe were gone. If Emma wanted wise words, she'd have to look elsewhere. She and Deirdre had coffee and bagels together in Emma's office at PetRitz the morning after Jonas returned from New York . They talked a little about the workday ahead and then some about a new guy Deirdre was seeing, an accountant of all things. He sounded like a pretty decent fella, and Emma told her friend so.

Then Deirdre asked, "So, how's life at the mansion?"

Emma told all well, not the details, but the main points.

It was awful, putting it right out there, how in just over one week of marriage, she'd had nothing that even came close to a real conversation with her new husband, that his touch caused her IQ to drop fifty points. How he came to her late in the night, and left before dawn.

"I swear, Deirdre," Emma cried, "if he sleeps at all, it's never with me."

Deirdre shook her red head and munched her raisin bagel with raspberry-flavored cream cheese and said, "It's not like I didn't warn you."

Emma set down her coffee and made a low noise in her throat. "Oh, gee. Thanks. Say 'I told you so.' That is a big help and what are you laughing about?"

"It's too delicious." For a minute, Emma thought Deirdre meant the cream cheese, which she was licking from her fingers. But then she added, "My boss, the s.e.x toy."

Emma sat back in her swivel chair and tried to look dignified. "You are just too mean to live."

"What if the tabloids got ahold of what you just told me? Wouldn't that be rich? I can see it now, 'Dog Trainer Willing s.e.x Slave of Bravo Billionaire.'"

"Oh, I am so glad I talked to you about this," Emma muttered under her breath.

"All right." Deirdre had finished laughing. She leaned toward Emma. "So what are you going to do?"

Emma swiveled her chair back and forth. "I was hopin' that you'd have a suggestion."

Deirdre shrugged. "Get a backbone?"

"I've tried."

"Try harder."Oh, where were Aunt Ca.s.s and Blythe when a woman needed them?Deirdre was squinting across the desk now. "You're serious? You want advice? From me."

"Yes, I do."

"Well, then." Deirdre sipped coffee, took another bite of her bagel. Finally, she came out with it. "I'd say, try to talk to him one more time. But use a different approach."

"Different?"

"Yeah. Come at it a new way. Maybe don't try to talk to him right at first, when he shows up at the side of your bed. Get the edge off first, so to speak."

"The edge off?"

"Emma. You know what I mean. Make love, once or twice. And when you're both relaxed and satisfied..."

"Try to talk to him then."

"Exactly."

"And if that doesn't work?"

Deirdre swore. "What is the point with this guy? I gotta ask you, why don't you just enjoy the mindless s.e.x thing while it lasts and then-"

"That is not what this is about."

"Oh. Right. Sorry, I forgot."

"Just stop being sarcastic and tell me the rest."

"The rest?"

"The rest of your advice, what to do if I still can't get him to talk to me."

Deirdre paused long enough for a few of her yoga breaths. Then she slumped in her chair. "All right. If you can't get him to talk to you, then I'd go for action."

"Action?"

"Yeah, and don't ask me what action. You'll have to figure that out for yourself."

* * * That night, Emma waited. She bided her time. When her husband came to her, she didn't even try to get him to talk to her right at first. She let him lead the Yorkies and Festus away. Then she opened her arms to him and pulled him down onto the bed with her. She made love to him pa.s.sionately, tenderly. She gave it her all. Twice.

And then a third time.

Finally, well past one in the morning, he did what he always did, brus.h.i.+ng her hair away from her temple, whispering so softly, "Go to sleep."

Surprisingly, she found she felt clearheaded, for once. As if her resolve to reach out to him had finally become strong enough to override her overwhelming l.u.s.t for the man.

Emma took the hand that smoothed her hair and kissed it. Then she sat up. She reached over and turned on the bedside lamp.

The light helped, it really did. She felt more sure of herself than she did in the dark.

Jonas had sat up, too. He was frowning at her.

She gave him a big smile. "Jonas, have you noticed that we never seem to talk?"

He looked at her for a long time. And then he smiled. It was a very slow smile and a totally s.e.xual one. "I don't think we need to talk."

Oh, now, how did he do that? How could just his voice and his smile turn her into a quivering ma.s.s of burning desire?

Hold on, she was thinking. Don't go under. Don't give in.

She sat up straighter, and pulled the sheet tight around her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "There," she said. "Look what you're doin'. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"No." With a finger, he traced the tops of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, right above the sheet, causing hot little goose b.u.mps to erupt where he touched.

"Well, you certainly should be." She took his hand and gently pushed it away. "This is crazy, this thing between us."

He sat back a little which was good. The farther back he sat, the clearer her mind got. He said, "As far as I'm concerned, this thing between us is working out just fine."

She straightened the sheet a little, huffed in a breath. "Jonas. It is not working out just fine. We're married. We don't act like married folks. Not one bit."

"Why should we? This is hardly your average marriage."

"Well, you are dead right there, mister. If you ask me, it is a very strange kind of marriage. You come to my bed in the night. We make love. You leave. If you have something to say to me, you call me at work. We both know why you do that. So that you can hang up as soon as you're done talkin', So I won't have a chance to say anything you don't want to hear.

"Maybe you're happy with the way things are goin'. I'm not. Even if it is for only a year, I would like it to be the best year it can be. I would like more than beautiful lovemakin'. The way I see it, if there's gonna be lovemakin', there should be sleepin' afterward you and me, I mean, sleepin'. Together. And there should be talking. I want you to really talk to me."

He studied her face for a long, painful moment. Then he said, "Good night, Emma." He pushed back the covers and swung his legs off the bed.

She folded her arms over the sheet. "Just tell me, Jonas. Does this mean I'm not gettin' through to you?"

He sent her the kind of look he was famous for cold and dangerous as the blade of a knife.

She kept her chin high. "Aunt Ca.s.s used to say, 'Treat a man as he is, and he will remain as he is. Treat a man as he can and should be, and he will become what he can and should be.'"

He grunted. "Goethe," he said.

She frowned. "Huh? Gurta?"

"Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, German poet and dramatist. That quote came from him."

"Well, fine. Whoever said it, I am doin' it. I am treatin' you as you can and should be, Jonas Bravo. By the time our year is over, you won't be what you were."

He said something under his breath, something nasty, she just knew it. Then he started getting dressed. He did it swiftly and efficiently. No wasted movement whatsoever.

In two minutes from the time he'd left the bed, he was striding to the door, fully clothed. He went out, closing it quietly behind him.

Emma stared at the door he had shut on her. Okay Jonas, she thought. I have tried to get through to you with talk. Talk has not worked. Now action is called for.