Vincente drew out a case of cheroots and extracted one calmly. His tawny eyes surveyed her almost indifferently, as if assessing her qualifications. “I want you to break your engagement to Harding and marry me!”
“Marry you!” Dominique couldn’t believe her ears. “You can’t be serious.”
His expression was withdrawn but intense. “Oh, but I am,” he said calmly.
Dominique pressed the palms of her hands against her burning cheeks. “This is ridiculous! You don’t want to marry me! You don’t love me!”
His lack of emotion was uncharacteristic, his indifferent way of stating such assertions was unnerving.
What manner of man was he. What were his motives? What extra motivations had inspired such a command?
“Marry you!” Dominique couldn’t believe her ears. “You can’t be serious.”
His expression was withdrawn but intense. “Oh, but I am,” he said calmly.
Dominique pressed the palms of her hands against her burning cheeks. “This is ridiculous! You don’t want to marry me! You don’t love me!”
His lack of emotion was uncharacteristic, his indifferent way of stating such assertions was unnerving.
What manner of man was he. What were his motives? What extra motivations had inspired such a command?
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