‘It will be her room I’m using now,’ Allie mused, twisting the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. ‘I hope she won’t mind. Bedrooms are such personal places. Is she OK now?’ It was strange, but she’d become so involved in their absent host’s story. She felt as if she knew the man, that there was a weird kind of empathy here. She shook her head to get rid of that kind of airy-fairy nonsense, and, smiling softly, Jethro reassured her.
‘Yes, she’s fine. Fortunately he talked some sense into his sister’s head before she got in too deep. She’s working hard and playing hard, and most of the time lives within the allowance he makes her. He could keep her in idle luxury for the rest of her life, but he insists she makes it under her own steam. Mind you…’ he stood up and stacked their empty plates ‘…on the few occasions when she’s overspent she can wheedle more funds out of him. She can twist him round her little finger! And as to your other question, she really won’t mind your using her room. Chloe’s one of the most giving people I know.’
He carried the plates and dishes they’d used over to the sink, rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher, and Allie thought with a stab of shock, He’s in love with his friend’s sister! The very real fondness in his tone when he spoke of her was unmistakable, and he hadn’t bothered to hide the way his impressively tough yet attractive features softened with deep affection when he mentioned her name.
To her horror, she recognised the hot, hard lump in her gut as jealousy, and told herself not to be such an all-fired fool. They had a business arrangement. His private life was nothing to do with her.
Her suddenly clouded eyes watched him as he dried his hands, unwillingly skimming those wide shoulders, the narrow waist and long, denim-encased legs. Her breath caught in her throat. So much potential.
Potential for what?
She wasn’t going to answer that. And when he smiled at her and asked, ‘Coffee, Allie?’ she nodded, looking away, because she couldn’t bear to be on the receiving end of something so charged with sexual chemistry when it didn’t mean a damn thing. She forced herself to think of something else.
Had falling in love with his best friend’s sister made him realise that his feckless lifestyle didn’t make him good husband material? She made herself consider objectively. Was that why he’d tried to pull himself up by his bootstraps and start that window-cleaning business? Why he’d grabbed her offer of a substantial sum of money in return for marriage so that he would have something to offer his Chloe?
A year on and she’d be qualified and he would be free. Did he intend to use the money he’d earned to stake her in her own business?
It seemed perfectly and horribly logical. Allie discounted his earlier attempts to date her with no trouble at all. He was the dishiest man she’d ever laid eyes on and he had that indefinable aura of mastery that women seemed to go for. He probably had a string of meaningless affairs behind him and felt that embarking on another was no big deal. His real emotions would be kept on hold until he could go to the woman he loved without empty hands.
So why should that bother her? They weren’t really man and wife, not in the true sense of the words. That had never been their intention. So why did she feel rejected, spurned? And why did the warm summer night suddenly seem so bleak and cold?
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS going to be another glorious summer day. Allie had woken early, in a sober mood.
She had made a fool of herself last night, though thankfully Jethro would not have guessed the reason behind her sudden, tight-lipped statement that she’d changed her mind about that coffee, the way she’d swept out of the room giving him a brusque good-night.
He would have put her ill-mannered departure down to boredom with his company, or, worse, an arrogant belief that he, the humble window-cleaner, didn’t merit normal politeness.
That made her squirm beneath the light covers. But at least he couldn’t have guessed that her behaviour had been a knee-jerk reaction to the humiliation of feeling like a hurt, rejected wife! That would have been utterly intolerable!
Thrusting her long legs out of bed, she headed for the shower, pulling the roomy T-shirt that passed as nightwear over her head as she went.
She really did have to get herself sorted, stop feeling and behaving like a mixed-up wimp. She stood under the shower and waited for the needles of hot water to ease the kinks from her body and the knots from her brain.
Jethro didn’t want her and she didn’t want him—except, of course, for what they could get out of each other. So her dog-in-the-manger attitude when his affection—love?—for his friend’s sister had hit her like a Stone Age cudgel just had to be down to the stress of the day.
Marrying Jethro had been deceitful, whichever way you looked at it—getting Studley for Laura under false pretences, deceiving Laura herself. But it had been done for her mother’s future happiness, and she didn’t care about getting the better of Fabian because he deserved it. In any case, he was no longer around to know what she’d done, or lose any sleep over it because just for once he’d been bested.
There was no need for her to feel guilty. Really there wasn’t. Feeling guilty only led to feeing stressed out. And feeling that led to imagining she wanted Jethro to kiss her again, imagining—
Enough of that, she told herself acerbically. Quite enough. You have a year of this fake marriage to get through, so start as you mean to go on.
Pleasant, polite, but distant. Acceptably distant. And she would start by making breakfast and meaningless remarks about the weather.
Sorted. She felt better. Dressed in a pair of workman-like navy cotton trousers, topped by a sleeveless white shirt, she pushed her feet into canvas mules and left her hair loose to dry naturally.
But the kitchen clock told her it was barely seven. There was no sign of Jethro so she wouldn’t start making breakfast yet. For all she knew he could favour lying in bed until noon.
She knew nothing about him, and intended to keep it that way.
‘Hungry?’ He walked into the kitchen via the garden door, making her practically jump out of her skin. At least she put the way her heart was doing an Irish jig down to being startled.
She blinked at him, then turned away quickly and began to fill the kettle at the sink, fumbling. Did he have to look so vibrantly male? Did he always have that aura of dangerous sexuality? Did he make every woman he came into contact with lose her backbone, lose her marbles?
The kettle overflowed, and his elegantly made, strong-fingered hand took it from her, turned off the tap. He was so close, that big hard body not touching hers, but almost. Wearing frayed denim cut-offs and a sleeveless black vest he was dynamite, his skin tanned, roughened by dark body hair. Every inch of him exuded highly potent masculinity and she could feel the heat of him, smell the clean male scent of him, reach out a hand and touch him. If she wanted to.
Her skin burned, catching fire from his. Something twisted low down inside her and she felt dizzy. She closed her eyes to shut him out and told him, ‘I was going to make breakfast but didn’t know if you were up.’ And she wondered if that was her voice, or if a chicken had wandered in and someone was strangling it.
‘One of these days you will,’ he answered enigmatically. Amusement, warmth and sensuality laced his voice, but she wasn’t going to ask what he meant by that remark and shuffled her feet sideways, putting very necessary space between them.
‘I’ll fix breakfast,’ he told her. ‘Why don’t you explore the rest of the house, make yourself at home? I’ll give you a shout when it’s ready.’
At home—as if! Allie grabbed the smoothly proffered get-out with much more speed than dignity, pushed open one of the doors off the hall, closed it behind her and leaned back against the polished oak, putting her fingers to her suddenly throbbing temples, sucking in a long, shuddering breath.
She was going to have to stop fooling herself, pretending that her catastrophic reactions to him were down to stress and nothing else, kidding herself into
believing that she could retain her cool composure, her indifference around him.
The unpalatable truth of the matter was that he turned her on. He was the only man who had ever made her so aware of her femininity that she didn’t know what to do with herself.
Facing it and uncomfortably acknowledging it was one thing; deciding what to do about it was another. She was stuck with him and she was going to have to tough it out, at least for the duration of their fake honeymoon. Back in London, in her own spartan surroundings, involving herself one hundred per cent in her work, hopefully doing a shoot abroad, she would be able to cope, see him only when absolutely necessary for appearances’ sake, put him out of her mind.
And she could do just that right now, she told herself. Stop thinking about him. Think of something else instead. This room, for instance. A long room, running the length of the house, panelled in oak with an enormous inglenook. In the winter-time there would be blazing logs to throw flickering warm lights against the walls. And apart from the faded chintz-covered twin sofas the furniture was all Elizabethan antique, obviously chosen to fit the age of the house, creating a timeless ambience.
Did her wealthy absent host fill his life with the acquisition of beautiful things because there was nothing else? She ran her fingers slowly over the glassy surface of a long Tudor sideboard and sighed. Somehow, strangely, she felt mentally tuned in to the man who had grown up without his parents’ love.
Which wasn’t as ridiculous at it sounded. True, until she was fifteen she’d had an idyllic childhood. Two gentle, loving parents, a deep bonding. As a family unit they’d been complete, her parents involving her in their lives, treating her as a respected equal.
She could remember painstakingly checking her father’s proofs for him, discussing plots for future books, tossing out ideas which he always took seriously, could remember her mother asking her advice on the next stage of development in the garden she was creating.
So close, the three of them. So her father’s death, and the manner of it, had made her defensive, made her throw herself into her work, made her hoard money as if nothing else mattered.
The door opened silently and Jethro announced, ‘Ready when you are. Shall we eat outside? It’s a beautiful morning.’
Absorbed in her thoughts, Allie questioned thoughtfully, ‘Is Mr Abbot married?’ and turned to face him, steeling herself against the now inevitable impact of him.
For a moment his eyes were blank, as if he didn’t understand her question. And then they hardened, the gold taking on an arctic chill that Allie would have thought impossible if she weren’t seeing the transformation for herself.
His mouth tightened and his face went hard. ‘Why do you want to know? Or is that a stupid question? Natural female curiosity about the marital status of any male between nineteen and ninety who also happens to be a multimillionaire, I take it.’
He felt as if he’d been plunged into a deep-freeze. Icy cold inside and out. He’d been targeted by enough gold-diggers in his life to be able to recognise the species at a glance. He would have staked his life on Allie not being one of them.
But why else would she have asked that question?
His eyes skimmed her features, as if to find the answer there. Thick lashes veiled the deep blue eyes and a wash of colour flared on her delicate cheekbones. The colour of shame? Because he’d seen through her artless question, right into her mercenary little soul?
He felt ill with regret. If he answered in the negative and she started to simper, and asked him if he would introduce her to his friend some time in the future, he would walk away from this fake marriage right here and now and leave all his hopes where this woman was concerned to go bury themselves.
‘What an unpleasant cynic you are!’ She raised her eyes at last and they fastened on his with contempt. She pushed long silky hair back from her face with an angry gesture and snapped at him, ‘If you really want to know, I was thinking about what you told me about him—feeling sorry for him, wondering if the man who apparently has everything has managed to find someone to love. Love can’t come easily to someone who never knew it during the early, important years of his life.’
It was said with a contemptuous vehemence that made him hate himself for lumping her in with the others of her sex who were only interested in the size of a man’s bank balance, not caring who he was, or what he was, what went on inside his heart and mind.
‘I’m sorry.’ He was, drainingly so. But it wasn’t enough. She was still bitingly angry and would have swept past him, out of the room, but he put a hand on her shoulder and felt her go very still. ‘I overreacted,’ he said gently. And, brother, wasn’t that the truth! One innocent question had had him verbally firing from the hip! ‘Bill’s had his fair share of women-on-the-make, trying to sweet talk their way into his life and his pocket. For a time he got so he didn’t trust any female under fifty.’ Beneath his hand he could feel the tension in her muscles, and without conscious thought he placed his other hand on the opposite shoulder and gently, rhythmically, began to massage out the knots. ‘But you’ll be happy to know that he recently married the great and only love of his life.’
He felt her relax, the slender bones and warm flesh melting beneath his hands. He moved closer, just close enough to feel the sweet heat of her body. Any closer and he wouldn’t be able to hack it. Already his self-control was leaking away faster than water through a sieve.
‘I’m glad,’ she breathed, then swallowed hard as his fingers slipped from her shoulders and gently caressed the bare flesh of her upper arms. She shuddered convulsively. Somehow she had to fight the sweetly sharp sensation that began deep down inside her and spread its heady torment to every part of her body.
Her flesh tingled, as if her veins ran with vintage champagne, and, trance-like, she spread her hands against his chest and weakly wished she hadn’t, didn’t know why she had, because she could feel the tautness of his muscles beneath her palms, feel the tiny tremors that told her he was as sexually aroused as she.
Which was madness. He might want a meaningless coupling, but she didn’t. She couldn’t open herself to the hurt that would follow. He loved Chloe Abbot; she had seen it in his face, heard it in his voice. Having sex with the woman who had bought a year of his life would be nothing more than a pleasurable way to scratch an irritating itch as far as he was concerned. But as for her—
Her brain shut down on the natural progression of that thought. She wouldn’t give the unwelcome revelation head room, and panicked, her hands bunching into fists, pushing him away.
‘Allie—’ His deep voice shook as his hands dropped to his sides. She could see the glitter of hot desire in his golden eyes and pulled in a sharp, anguished breath. If she weren’t careful she would go to him, back to his arms, give him what he wanted, take what she wanted. He was too much to handle. The temptation was greater than her diminishing reserves of self-restraint.
A mew of distress came from low in her throat and she closed her eyes in mute de-energising capitulation. If he touched her she wouldn’t be able to fight it, and then she would be doing what she had always vowed she wouldn’t: giving herself, her whole self, to a man and suffering the pain of the inevitable consequences, when lust turned to indifference and parting.
‘I want you, Allie. And you can deny it until you’re blue in the face, but the need’s mutual. I want to make this marriage a real one, but you have my word that I won’t push it until you admit you want that, too. Now, shall we eat?’
Confusion made her head spin. He’d talked about wanting her, making their marriage a real one, in a voice so devoid of emotion he might have been reading a shopping list. Then calmly suggested they have breakfast!
She had never felt less like eating in her life!
‘That wasn’t part of the agreement,’ she said through her teeth, anger running through her because he’d picked up the message her treacherous body had transmitted and was using it to his own advantage, so confident of getting wh
at he wanted he hadn’t felt the need to dress up his statement with even the smallest inflexion of emotion!
‘Eating?’
His lazy smile infuriated her. ‘You know damn well I didn’t mean that! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the agreement we made—we’ve been married less than twenty-four hours and already you’ve given me advance notice that you’re doing everything you can to break it.’
‘Not everything, sweetheart. I haven’t even begun to try.’ Amusement softened his voice, sent shivers down her spine. ‘I only have to come near you and something cataclysmic happens. But I’ve promised you I won’t push it, that I’ll wait until you’re ready to admit it, face up to what you want.’ His slow smile threatened to crumble her bones. ‘We’ll put the whole thing on the back burner and get to that coffee before it’s stone-cold. I know I need it, even if you don’t.’
He opened the door and stood aside for her to exit, and after a moment’s hesitation she did, her head spinning. Putting the troubled subject on one side, as he’d so laconically suggested, was out of the question. She was going to have to restate the ground rules again, loud and clear.
But how to do it effectively when he’d made it perfectly clear that he knew darn well how he could make her respond to his daunting sexuality without even trying, humiliating her so completely that her brain had dried up to the size and consistency of a shrivelled walnut?
It wasn’t until she’d followed him outside to where he’d elected they should eat breakfast—a teak table set beneath the shade of an ancient pear tree—that the answer came to her.
Bought: One Husband Page 8
