Christmas Child

by Diana Hamilton

  Why, after keeping well away from her for weeks, had he decided he could spare a whole month out of his busy working life to be with her?

  Unless he wanted her well away from everyone who knew them before he told her that he now realised their paper marriage had been a mistake, that he wanted to end it. It was the only thing she could think of that made any kind of sense. It most certainly wasn’t because they were a normal, recently married couple and he wanted weeks of her undiluted company!

  The breakdown of their marriage, coming so soon after the public and humiliating rejection Fiona had subjected him to, and the resultant publicity, would be something he would find utterly distasteful.

  Perhaps he wanted her help in the damage limitation department.

  The thought was deeply depressing.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  Behind closed eyelids Mattie’s mind was drifting in neutral, fuzzy round the edges. But the soft concern of his voice, the touch of cool fingers on her forehead as he moved a tangle of rumpled hair to one side, made her come fully awake, shamefully aware of the nuisance she’d made of herself.

  She opened her eyes slowly. The big double bed was comfy and she was covered by a white cotton cut-work spread, and the room was blessedly cool, many long windows with the bright Caribbean sunlight slanting downwards through the partially closed hardwood louvres, making the pale sage green decor misty by contrast.

  ‘James,’ she managed thickly. Bending over her, his face was shadowed, dark brows drawn down, but there was a hint of a smile on his sensual mouth. What on earth would he be thinking of her? That her behaviour was par for the course—that he couldn’t have expected anything else from his gauche, unsophisticated wife?

  She shuddered inside. Fiona wouldn’t have been airsick, she wouldn’t have come within a whisker of passing out in the transit lounge of Barbados’ airport, or thrown up again on the scary helicopter flight out to this island. She wouldn’t have arrived a sweaty, crumpled wreck, barely able to stand.

  Fiona would have taken it all in her stride, lapped up the first-class nine-hour flight, sipping champagne, making witty, clever conversation. But then Fiona wouldn’t have been feeling ill with apprehension, wondering if her marriage was about to end.

  Mattie groaned. ‘Is it tomorrow yet?’ she asked stupidly.

  The smile in his voice told her he’d registered the silliness of her question, but he didn’t answer it, simply asked again, ‘How do you feel? You’ve slept for hours.’

  How did she feel? Mattie sat up against the white-covered pillows to find out and only when she saw the sinfully seductive yet intent gaze of his eyes did she glance down and discover she was naked, the twin pertly rounded globes of her breasts the focus of his complete attention.

  Flustered, she jerked at the spread to cover herself. The caress of his eyes had been like a physical touch, almost as if his hands had shaped and discovered her, his mouth suckled the rosy tips. Already her breasts had hardened, her whole body on fire, pulsing with need.

  She smothered another groan. Somehow she was going to have to cope with the way she ached for him, wanted him, needed him. Their marriage was going nowhere; it was about to end—she was certain of that now. She could think of no other reason for his sudden desire to take them both out of circulation for an entire month.

  ‘Did you put me to bed?’ She injected asperity into her tone but inside she felt as if she were coming unstitched, imagining his hands on her body, his eyes. She couldn’t remember much about their arrival apart from a headache that had felt as if her scalp had been split in half, the tablets he had given her, him carrying her up the stairs.

  ‘No, Mercy did. Under the circumstances, I thought it best.’

  The brusqueness of his tone made her shiver, the way he stepped back from the bedside, thrusting his hands into the pockets of the light cotton jeans he was wearing, his wide shoulders rigid beneath the black sleeveless vest, distancing him.

  Under the circumstances of their crazy marriage he wouldn’t want any physical contact. It made sense. ‘And who is Mercy?’ she asked lightly, refusing to let him know how much the death of even the smallest, stubbornly lingering hope could hurt.

  ‘Mercy and her husband Manuel look after everything here. They come with the territory—which is ours for the next month.’ He strode round the room with the loose-limbed grace that was so characteristic of him, opening the louvres, letting the light flood in. ‘She will be bringing your breakfast shortly.’ He turned back to her, a flash of silver in his narrowed eyes. ‘After you’ve eaten—not before—’ he stressed, ‘you can shower and dress. Wear something light, the temperature’s soaring. We’ll spend the day quietly, give you time to fully recover.’

  Recover, she thought blisteringly as he walked out of the room. Be fit and strong enough to take what he had to tell her, that he wanted to end their marriage as seamlessly as possible, discuss tactics—perhaps he would spend most of his time away, on far-flung construction sites, while she sat quietly at home, so that their eventual divorce wouldn’t raise a single eyebrow because their separateness would have been accepted.

  He wouldn’t tell her the real reason—that after seeing Fiona again he couldn’t bear to have another woman take her place, even nominally. That he wanted to be free to pursue the woman he did love, persuade her to change her mind about marrying him. He was far too urbane for that. His emotions too carefully guarded.

  Well, she had news for him! She couldn’t go on this way, either, swinging between hope and despair; wanting him, always wanting him, was driving her mad.

  And she was already recovered and he couldn’t tell her what to do. She slid her legs out of bed to prove it, swayed alarmingly, gritted her teeth and tottered to the en suite bathroom, admiring the pale green marble, the spotlessly gleaming chrome, the sparkling glass door of the shower cubicle, the shelves and shelves of lotions and essences.

  Showering and brushing her teeth made her feel much better. A tray had been left on a table beneath one of the windows, so Mercy must have been here while she was in the bathroom.

  The rich aroma of hot coffee teased her nostrils but she ignored it for now and dressed in a simple light blue gauzy cotton skirt and a plain white T-shirt first, then drank her coffee, too wound up to sit, staring out of the window over an expanse of closely mown emerald-green grass to the sea that lapped against a white, crescent-shaped cove.

  She closed the louvres. She wasn’t about to be seduced by paradise. She was going to be tough. Tough enough to go along with whatever he had to say to her.

  The eggs Benedict beneath the domed cover she lifted turned her stomach but she forced down some of the fruit as a token gesture, then hunted for her flat canvas shoes. Mercy must have unpacked last night. All her things were neatly hung, her underwear and nightwear folded in drawers.

  As were his. Mercy wouldn’t have known, of course, that they occupied separate rooms. No doubt James would discreetly move his stuff today.

  James. Despite having talked herself into a state of common sense, she felt her stomach tighten at the thought of facing him, talking things through.

  But she had to do it. Now.

  Straightening her spine, she walked out of the room, down a broad curving flight of polished wood stairs and found Mercy instead.

  A small, curvy woman, in her mid-forties, Mattie guessed, admiring the smooth, coffee-coloured skin, patrician features and bright dark eyes. She looked efficient, imperturbable, nice to have around. She said, her accent faintly Spanish, ‘I hope you have got over the effects of your long flight—I know how disorientating such journeys can be.’ Her smile was sympathetic. Mattie took to her immediately, feeling marginally more relaxed.

  ‘I’m absolutely fine, thanks,’ and then, because she had to, ‘I’m looking for my husband. Have you seen him?’

  ‘He’s waiting on the terrace, by the pool. I will show you.’ She led the way through an airy room, full of sunlight, with tall French wind
ows open to the sea breeze, explaining, ‘It is best you use the pool until you learn which beaches give safe bathing. Some have reefs which protect them from wild seas and sharks, some have not. Manuel will tell you.’

  ‘I’ll stay with the pool!’ Mattie answered with a lightness she was far from feeling. Every step she took brought her nearer to him, every second that passed brought her nearer to the time when she would hear him tell her that everything was over.

  ‘I will bring fresh coffee out in a moment. And fruit juice, yes?’

  Mattie heard what Mercy was saying but could only nod in abstracted reply, blink the film of moisture from her eyes, force herself to focus on the sparkling waters of the huge outdoor pool, the mellow stone paving of the terrace backed by flame trees, their branches covered with vivid scarlet blossoms.

  And the man who was waiting. James, indolently stretched out on a padded lounger, his hair slicked to his skull, the skin that covered his tautly muscled body spangled with droplets of water, his only concession to modesty skin-tight black swimming briefs.

  How on earth could she hope to keep a clear head, a cool mind, be able to discuss their future rationally when every power-packed inch of that perfectly formed and honed male body was an open invitation to touch, a temptation too far?

  But then when had life ever been fair?

  It was up to her to do the best she could.

  ‘Mattie—’

  Mercy’s voice must have alerted him to her presence. She hadn’t moved a muscle herself. She could hardly breathe.

  He sat up, swinging his long legs over the side of the lounger. The olive tone of his skin was darkened by a very male dusting of body hair. She still couldn’t breathe.

  ‘You look much better.’ Approval in his voice, but there was no smile. His mouth was tight, as if he were gritting his teeth. She was sure there were lines of strain on his lean, handsome face and his eyes were unreadable behind the dark sunglasses he was wearing.

  So he, too, was finding the situation difficult. She knew he was far from being a callous man—he would find it hard to tell her that the simple, mutually undemanding partnership he’d mooted when he’d proposed marriage was now unacceptable, that he wanted her out of his life as soon as was discreetly possible.

  Bitter-sweet compassion twisted sharply inside her. She longed to take his face between her hands, kiss away those betraying tension lines. But she couldn’t do that. Instead she would have to make this as easy as possible for him, pretend that his change of mind didn’t matter to her.

  ‘Don’t hover.’ He managed to raise a smile of sorts. ‘Sit here, out of the sun.’ He indicated the other lounger, separated from the one he was using by a low table, completely in the shade of a huge flower-patterned parasol. ‘I don’t want your skin to burn.’

  Not much danger of that, Mattie thought dully. Unlike him, she was modestly covered. But the blue waters of the huge pool looked cool and tempting. He had obviously been swimming and had things been different she would have shot back to her room, pulled on her swimsuit and plunged straight in.

  But things weren’t different and she couldn’t stand here for ever, like an intruder at a stranger’s party. She made her feet move, the light breeze moulding the fine fabric of her skirt to her thighs, her heart sinking to the pit of her stomach.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ he told her as she perched gingerly on the edge of the vacant lounger, as if it were made of spun sugar and would shatter beneath her weight.

  Crunch time, she thought, her mouth going dry, her heart pumping. She wanted to run away and hide. She didn’t want to hear this. And almost sobbed with relief when Mercy appeared. Reprieve, if only for a few moments.

  The tray that was deposited on the low table held a pot of fresh coffee, cups, cream and sugar. A tall jug of fruit juice, glasses, an insulated container of ice cubes. ‘Oh, lovely, thank you, Mercy!’ she babbled, aware of the hot tide of hysteria rising inside her. ‘Isn’t this nice, James? Will you have coffee, or juice?’

  Aware that Mercy was beginning to turn away Mattie didn’t wait for his answer. ‘What time would you like to serve lunch, Mercy? What time would suit you best? Something light, I think, don’t you? In this heat!’ She wished, she wished she could shut up! She could babble for hours but it wouldn’t alter the inevitable.

  Delaying it wouldn’t make it any easier to bear. Besides, the tension was killing her! Best to get it over with. Out in the open, then she’d know where she stood. While they were still legally married she would always hope; she wouldn’t be able to help it. So ending it would be the best way for her, in the long run.

  ‘One o’clock will be fine, Mercy.’ The sound of his voice alerted her to the fact that the other woman had been saying something. Mattie hadn’t heard a word. She’d been too busy chasing her own thoughts round and round in her head, the internal din they’d been making drowning out every other sound. Except his voice.

  Mercy had retreated. So this was it. With a conscious effort she raised her head, scooped her hair away from her face with both hands and said flatly, ‘You had something to say to me.’

  ‘I have.’ The long line of his mouth was tight. He removed his sunglasses and put them on the table, next to the tray. She could see his eyes now but they told her nothing. The silver gaze was steady, half obscured by the hooded lids and heavy black lashes.

  ‘Well?’ she prompted, desperately holding herself together, hoping she didn’t look as shatteringly apprehensive as she felt.

  He was leaning forward now, tanned forearms resting along the length of his tautly muscled thighs. Mattie kept her eyes glued to his. If she let them wander to the breadth of his shoulders, the wide firm chest, the washboard-tight midriff, and down to the skimpy briefs that clung to the essence of his masculinity she would be lost, a gibbering, pleading, weeping wreck.

  ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this,’ he said sombrely. His brows knotted in a frown. ‘Before we married we made a bargain. I have to tell you, Mattie, I find I’m unable to stick with it.’

  She felt the blood drain out of her face. She closed her eyes. She felt sick. Hadn’t she guessed, known, this was about to happen? And hadn’t she told herself she would make it as easy for him as she could?

  She huffed in a shallow breath, unscrewed her eyelids and told him thinly, ‘I understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t think you do.’ His voice was lower now, gentler. ‘I saw our marriage as an oasis of peace with the business safely under the umbrella of our union. Our lives running companionably along parallel lines—no meeting point in the physical sense—no sex to muddy the waters. You went along with that, and it’s probably what you still want. Expect. Am I right?’

  She had no idea what he was getting at and, in any case, she was incapable of answering. She simply blinked at him, her lips falling apart. Oh, she might have gone along with his idea of a marriage of convenience, kidding herself that she could be content. But how could she tell him that she wanted him in every way there was with every atom of her being?

  ‘I know I’m right,’ he answered his own questions, his voice heavy. ‘When I warned you of the probable consequences if you continued to dress provocatively you couldn’t jump back into your old style of dressing fast enough! But I have to be honest with you, we both deserve that much—Matts, I want you. If you went around wearing an old sack, I’d still want to take you to bed. I can’t live like that—wanting to make love to you yet having to keep to the letter of our bargain. And I don’t imagine it would be something you’d be comfortable with, either.

  ‘So we make our marriage a real one, or we end it. It’s up to you to decide which way you want to go. No rush.’ There was a hollow look in his eyes, a downward twist to his mouth. ‘We have four weeks here, time enough for you to make up your mind. I won’t put any pressure on you; whatever happens it will be your decision entirely.’

  For a moment he looked achingly vulnerable. Then he pulled himself to his feet. ‘You look st
unned,’ he said dryly. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll leave you in peace to think it over.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MATTIE watched him go, her heart pounding in her chest. As before, when he’d asked her to marry him, she couldn’t believe her own ears. She must have misheard, or misunderstood. Her brain had suffered some sort of burn-out. She was going crazy!

  How could he possibly want to make love to her when the gorgeous, ultra-sophisticated Fiona had once shared his bed? Unless, of course, that was precisely the reason.

  He wanted to use her to drive the memory of the woman he still loved out of his head.

  The bargain they’d made was a non-starter because he was a normal, virile male.

  He needed sex.

  And she’d do.

  She felt her face go red and abstractedly poured fruit juice into one of the tall glasses. Then stared at it. She didn’t want it, and, even if she did, there was a lump in her throat the size of Snowdon and she wouldn’t be able to swallow a single drop of it.

  She wanted him to make love to her, oh, of course she did. Just thinking about it made liquid flames ignite deep inside her.

  But she was going to have to think this out. Rationally. Take a leaf from his book and not allow her emotions to rule her head.

  She got to her feet, took a deep breath and followed him. She knew his integrity of old; all she had to do was ask the question. Ask him if he’d be using her in an attempt to drive the memory of Fiona out of his head.

  Because, if he was, it wouldn’t work.

  She knew there was no way she could be favourably compared to the fabulous, sophisticated woman he had really wanted to marry, and it followed that if it came down to it he would find her a poor bed mate. An inexperienced virgin. Without love on his part it would be a disaster and could only make everything so very much worse.

  If she followed her emotions and let him make love to her he would feel himself tied. Trapped. He was an honourable man without a cruel bone in his body—he would hardly turn around then, tell her their marriage wasn’t working, and ask for a divorce.