Her wide, angry eyes clashed with his, and what she saw in the black depths was a wild, savage, almost desperate hunger, and it shook her to the core. Gone was the controlled Justin she knew. . .
'I won't let you go. I can't,' he groaned, his mouth claiming hers once more as his hand trailed down across her breasts to the soft mound at her thighs.
Frantically she tried to struggle free, but the mental bonds were as strong if not stronger than the physical. She moaned as Justin buried his head at her throat, trailing moist kisses down to her breast while his hand parted her legs. She could feel the rigid, masculine length of him poised near the juncture of her thighs and she gasped as his long fingers slid between her silken, feminine folds. She was lost. . .
'Justin. . .'
His fingers moved intimately against her and she melted, liquid and hot, but he made no move to take possession. Instead he lifted his head from her breast, and stared down into her passion-flushed face.
'You can't win, Zoe, so stop fighting.' He groaned. His head lowering, he kissed her long and deeply.
'Fighting'? She clung to him, the nails of one hand biting into his shoulder, while those of the other scraped over his flat belly, tearing at his shorts. 'Who's fighting. . .?' She moaned as Justin shrugged out of his shorts and fell back on her, slipping between her parted thighs. She could no more control her body's reaction to him than fly to the moon.
'You want me. . .' he growled, and she could not deny it as he sheathed himself deeply inside her, covering her cry of excitement with his mouth.
Zoe glanced at the sleeping man beside her. His black hair was wet with sweat and plastered against his skull; his strong-featured face looked years younger in repose, the thick black lashes brushing his cheeks, masking the usually piercing, intelligent eyes.
She stirred restlessly in the bed, her body aching in places and muscles she doubted she had ever used before, or ever would again. . . The early morning sun shone through the windows, flooding the room with the palest of primrose light.
It was going to be a nice day. The inconsequential thought flashed in her mind. The English always moaned about the weather, and yet she had never found it too bad; in fact, she had adapted to the climate with no bother at all.
Maybe that was her trouble—she had been far too pliable, adapting to her uncle and Justin in much the same way as she had to the weather, a young girl desperate to be accepted by the only family she had left. A psychiatrist would probably have a field-day with the past seven years of her life.
She lifted her hand to her head and swept the tangled mass of her sweat-wet hair from her brow. She was naked, exhausted, sated, and yet unable to sleep. The last few hours had been a revelation to her. Justin had made love to her with a demanding, savage intensity that surpassed anything that had gone before.
To her amazement, and shame, she had matched him every time. Lost in a mindless frenzy, she had held him, shared with him, and followed him down a dozen erotic paths she had never dreamed of, until finally, with the light of dawn just breaking, he had fallen asleep. .
She glanced once more at him. A twisted smile curved her full lips but never reached her icy blue eyes. The irony did not escape her—only the threat of divorce could persuade her husband to spend all night in her bed. Nor could she avoid concluding that Janet had been right about her husband. He was a three-times-a-night man and more. But it also underlined the fact that Janet had been telling the truth. . .
A tear slowly trickled down her cheek; she sniffed and, turning, buried her head in the pillow. A strong arm fell over her waist and hauled her into the hard warmth of a masculine body. She swallowed hard; the last thing she wanted was that Justin should find her crying.
She lay tense and silent, expecting any second to hear him speak, but after a while she realised it had simply been a reflex action—he was still asleep. She stifled a yawn and closed her eyes; she was tired, so very tired.
At least in sleep she would not feel the pain of his betrayal, was her last conscious thought.
The following night the pain was still eating into Zoe's heart, tearing at her stomach, preventing her from eating. She shoved her chair back from the dinner-table and stood up.
'Do you want coffee in the study?' She addressed the question to somewhere over Justin's left shoulder. She could not bear to look at him. Dinner had been a miserable, silent affair and she could not wait to get away.
'So you are speaking to me; I'm flattered,' he drawled sarcastically. 'I was beginning to wonder, after your stony silence all evening.'
'Answer the question. Anything else you have to say to me can be said through a lawyer,' she flung back, and stepped back as Justin leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over in his haste.
'Zoe, I will not tolerate that kind of talk from you. You are my wife, and my wife you are going to stay. I thought I made that perfectly clear last night.' His black eyes clashed with her contemptuous blue ones. 'But if you want another demonstration I will be happy to oblige.'
'Sex. You think that solves everything.'
'I didn't hear you complaining.'
'Oh! I'm going for the coffee.' And with a toss of her head she walked out of the room and to the kitchen. She knew that Mrs Crumpet was off tonight; she had said goodbye to the lady a few hours earlier, knowing she would not see her again.
Everything was arranged. She had awakened at lunchtime to discover from Mrs Crumpet that Justin had gone to London. She had been glad; the thought of facing him after the night they had spent together had filled her with anger and humiliation.
She had spent the rest of the day quietly and efficiently packing her clothes; the cases were safely stowed in her wardrobe. Her flight was booked on the morning Concorde to New York, and if she could just get through the next few hours without breaking down she would be home free. . .
'Zoe, we have to talk.' She was just reaching for the coffee-cups from the top shelf of the cupboard and her hand shook at the sound of her husband's voice. 'Here, let me.' He reached over her head and picked up the cups.
She could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck, and slowly, reluctantly, she turned around. Her back was against the kitchen units; Justin was much too close. 'Thank you,' she mumbled, edging warily along the counter and out of his reach.
His long body tensed. 'For God's sake, Zoe, I'm not about to leap on you in the kitchen! There's no need to behave like a frightened rabbit,' he said bitingly. 'Look at me.'
'I'm making the coffee.' She watched the percolator for what seemed like an awfully long time.
'OK, have it your own way. But we will talk.'
She heard the scrape of the pine kitchen chair on the quarry-tile floor and knew that Justin had sat down. She imagined that she could feel his eyes burning into her back and her hand shook when lifting the coffee- jug. She carefully poured the aromatic liquid, filling two cups.
Slowly she turned, a cup in each hand. He was sitting, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, a dejected slant to his wide shoulders, and for a second she felt a bitter regret for all she had lost. But, as if sensing her scrutiny, he straightened up immediately.
I’ll have my coffee here; it's been a hell of a day in court and I need it,' he said flatly.
'Yes, I'm sure.' They were talking like two strangers— stiltedly, meaninglessly. She placed a cup in front of him and took the seat opposite, and gratefully lifted her own cup to her suddenly parched lips. This was probably the last time she would ever speak to him at any length, she realised, and the thought hurt. Even though she knew it was for the best, she frowned.
'I'm sorry, Zoe.' He looked at her frowning face, his eyes wary. 'I should not have behaved as I did last night.
You have every right to be angry. He broke off andshe looked straight at him, her sapphire eyes wide with a hurt she could not disguise.
How could he be so insensitive? He was apologising for making love to her! Not, as she had expected, for marrying her for all the wr
ong reasons. 'Yes, yes, I damn well have. . .' She swore furiously.
'It won't happen again, I promise.' He held her gaze, his features taut. 'I—I lost control.'
'You don't see it, do you?' Shaking her head, she stared at him. 'I couldn't give a damn about your control or lack of it.'
'What? Then why?' He contemplated her from beneath half-lowered lids as though her anger were some strange phenomenon.
She drained her cup and stood up. Last night she had not had the nerve to ask about his final betrayal—had not wanted it confirmed—but twenty-four hours and a lot of heart-searching later she had no such qualms.
'Where were you the night before our wedding?' she demanded, and, glancing down, saw the guilty colour rise in his face.
'Janet, was it?' he asked, his mouth turning down. 'I might have guessed.'
'You have not answered the question,' she prompted icily. 'But your face says it all. You spent the night inher apartment until she threw you out at two in the morning.'
'It was not like that,' he said savagely. 'Nothing happened.' He leapt to his feet and, walking around the table, caught her arm as she would have walked out of the door. 'I can explain.' He spun her round to face him. 'If you would just give me the chance.'
Zoe watched him; he looked oddly vulnerable, still wearing the three-piece suit he had worn for the office, but his tie was loose and his hair rumpled. 'Go ahead; it should be interesting,' she sneered.
'I was at Janet's apartment on the eve of our wedding, but you have to understand that I hadn't seen the woman for over six months. She had been on a case in Hong Kong. She returned to England that day and called me. She had heard I was marrying you, and was upset.'
His dark eyes burned down into hers, a rare anxiety in their depths. 'God knows why. I hadn't slept with the woman in over a year. She was a friend, nothing more. I wouldn't have asked you to marry me otherwise, Zoe. Unfortunately Janet seemed to think differently and proceeded to get blind drunk, maudlin and suicidal in that order. I had a terrible time getting away from her.'
She didn't believe him for one second. Justin was a formidable, mature male by any standards; if he wanted to get rid of someone he could with one cutting phrase. He was renowned for it. Never mind about all the rest— his conniving with her uncle, his lack of desire for her when apparently he was a sex maniac with other women. He must think she was a complete fool.
But the worst part was that, deep inside, she wanted to believe him, to swallow her pride and forgive him. She opened her mouth, about to tell him so, when the telephone rang.
'Oh, hell!' Justin swore violently and, letting go of her arm, marched across the kitchen to the wall-mounted telephone and picked up the receiver.
'Yes, Gifford here,' he barked.
But Zoe was glad of the distraction. Without him holding her and the mesmerizing quality of his dark gaze muddling her mind she knew what she had to do. Get away. . . She turned towards the door.
'Zoe.' He called her name. She glanced back over her shoulder: one of his hands was stretched out to her, the other over the mouthpiece. 'Come here.'
Why not? It would be the last time, she told herself, and crossed to his side. He curved his long arm around her waist and hauled her in tight to his body. 'I have to drive back to London. A client has got in a bit of a bind.' He said urgently, 'I'll probably be back very late. I won't disturb you. But we will continue this discussion over breakfast, yes?' His mouth curved into a wary smile. 'Please?'
'Yes,' she affirmed. 'About nine, in the conservatory; the weather forecast is good for tomorrow.' And she would be long gone. . .
'Fine.' He gave her a relieved look and, bending, pressed a swift, hard kiss on her lips.
She responded—she could not help herself—but she laughed without amusement as she walked upstairs. How could she sink so low? Discuss the weather with an Englishman and he was instantly reassured of one's reliability, she thought wryly, completely ignoring the fact that neither Justin nor she was totally English.
CHAPTER FIVE
The VIP lounge for the Concorde flight to New York was filling up slowly. Zoe sat in a comfortable, soft-cushioned sofa, her head back and her eyes closed. She had done it; she had left her husband.
It had been ridiculously easy. With her bags already packed, she had simply crept out of the house at the crack of dawn, and free-wheeled her car down the drive so that the noise would not wake Justin.
She had known he was asleep because she had lain awake all night and heard him come home well after three in the morning. She had listened to him enter her room and feigned sleep when he'd stood over her and whispered her name. Much later she had stealthily crossed to his room, and heard the deep, even tenor of his breathing, before slipping quietly away.
'Zoe. What are you doing here?'
The sound of a familiar voice startled her, and her eyes flew open to rest on the rangy figure of the tall Texan as he strolled across the lounge towards her. 'Same as you—catching a plane, I hope.' Her attempt at humour was pathetic, and her smile wobbled dangerous. 'I—I got away earlier than expected,' she added hesitantly.
'And does your husband know?' Wayne asked quietly, sympathy softening his hard face as he lowered his considerable length on to the sofa beside her.
She shook her head, moisture flooding her lovely eyes, too choked to speak.
'Want to tell me about it?' His arm slid comfortingly around her shoulders, and the sheer will-power that had carried her through the past two days finally deserted her. Zoe turned her face into his broad chest and let the tears fall.
Neither of them saw the powerfully built, black-haired man enter the lounge and stop just inside the door; nor did they see the look of devastation in his eyes before he turned and left.
Zoe pulled on her cut-off jeans and slipped a Lycra bandeau around her breasts. She found a large, brightly coloured bath-towel and slung it over her shoulder; she picked up a paperback, and a sun-block cream, then wandered out of the house on to the wide sundeck.
Her gaze swept along the sandy beach; a couple of joggers lifted their hands and waved. She waved back, a tiny smile lighting her huge eyes. She breathed deeply, relishing the scent of sand and the sea, the pacific rollers rhythmically lapping the beach—a soothing music to her trouble mind.
On arriving in America two months ago, she had gratefully accepted Wayne's offer of accommodation at his Malibu beach-house. He had listened to her tearful story of her ill-fated marriage, had comforted her, and in a more practical way had handed over to her the quite substantial amount of money in her trust fund.
She dropped the book and the sun lotion on the table, and the towel on a nearby lounger, before stretching her scantily clad body out on top of it. She had acquired a light tan in the past few weeks, but this was to be her last day in the Californian sun. Tomorrow she was moving to Maine. It was for the best; she had to make a life for herself—she placed a protective hand over her stomach—especially now that she knew she was pregnant.
Wayne was an extremely attractive man, and a true friend, but she had realised very quickly that she did not fit into the free-and-easy, party-going lifestyle that her parents had enjoyed and Wayne still pursued. She had been a teenager when she'd left America; she had returned from England a badly hurt, disillusioned young woman, and somewhere along the way she had fallen between the two lifestyles.
She was luckier than most—she had money—but her own pride and sense of self-worth would not allow her to sit around doing nothing for very long. She had to make a new start.
She liked Wayne, but over the last few weeks she had had a sneaking suspicion that he would not be averse to something more. She was finished with men for good, but she had no desire to lose Wayne's friendship, so, as tactfully as she could, she had told him that she was moving to Maine. Her excuse that the Californian climate was too hot for her he appeared to accept, and anyway she had gone to school in Portland; she loved the area.
Once Wayne had realise
d that she was serious he had done everything he could to help her. He had flown her up to Portland in his own private jet, and in a whirlwind drive up the coast she had fallen in love with the tiny village of Rowena Cove, situated on a spindly peninsula pointing out into the sea midway between Brunswick and Bath.
She had viewed and signed a lease on a lovely old white-painted, double-fronted eighteenth-century house. Dark green shutters framed windows that looked out over Casco Bay and the clincher for her had been a large, airy attic, fitted out as a studio.
Zoe stretched and yawned widely. The afternoon heat was wonderful but she was too fair to tan easily; she would have to go in shortly. She sat up and hitched up her top. Her clothes were packed and ready; the house she had leased was part-furnished and even had a daily housekeeper—a Mrs Bacon from the village—so she would not be entirely alone.
A shadow darkened her lovely eyes. Not so long ago she had thought that she would never be alone again; she had been a fool to herself, loving a ruthless, ambitious man: Justin. Simply thinking of him took all the sunshine out of the day. It still hurt. She had the horrible conviction that it always would. . .
Two days ago when the local medical centre had confirmed her pregnancy she had been elated and terrified in equal proportion. But, once she had recovered from the initial shock, reaction had set in.
In her heart of hearts she knew she should tell Justin- he was the father and entitled to know. She had even considered swallowing her pride and returning to England to try and make some kind of marriage for the sake of their unborn child.
But she was no longer the girl who had fled so hastily from England; she had had time to think, to absorb the pain of her husband's betrayal. She accepted that Justin did not, nor ever had loved her, and, thinking clearly and realistically, she dared not take the risk of returning to England.
Justin was a powerful man in the judicial system of the country, a high-flyer with all the right connections. If he decided he wanted the child and not her, she knew that if it came to a custody battle, she would not stand a chance, and she wasn't prepared to take the risk.
The Valentine Child Page 7
