by Janet Dailey
"What makes you think I would try?" she demanded, tossing her head back.
"You're the woman of the house now. Keeping it clean is usually the wife's chore," Roarke shrugged, leisurely moving away from her.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she spat. "That's why you're looking forward to keeping me around for a few months, so you can have free maid service, and a cook, and all those other things."
"I doubt that it will be free. You'll probably demand an enormous allowance," he murmured.
"I want nothing from you!" Tisha stormed. "Not your name or your money!"
"What do you want?" he asked quietly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he looked at her.
Her throat constricted with pain. She wanted his love, but she could never tell him that. Instead she drew herself up proudly.
"To be left alone." With an imperious turn, she started for the hallway, finding it impossible to continue fielding his comments.
"Where are you going?" Roarke asked with a bland show of interest.
"To bed," she tossed over her shoulder.
"It's a little early, isn't it?"
"It's only nine o'clock," she agreed, "but I have to unpack and shower yet.
"It has been a rather hectic, nerve-racking day," he admitted. "It probably wouldn't hurt to turn in early."
"For once we agree," she murmured sarcastically, and hurried down the hall before he could reply in kind.
Her suitcases were sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. She had no intention of unpacking them since she was determined not to remain very long in the house, certainly not the few months that Roarke had mentioned. The line of her mouth tightened grimly as she searched through the cases for her pyjamas. But Blanche had only packed a slinky silk nightgown that clung suggestively to her curves.
Taking it, a blue robe and the nightcase with her cosmetics, Tisha scurried into the bathroom adjoining the master bedroom, trying very hard not to recall the last time she had been in there. At least she wouldn't have to wear Roarke's pyjamas this time, she thought wryly as she stepped into the shower stall to adjust the water temperature.
A quarter of an hour later, she was dressed in her nightgown and had slipped on the covering robe before opening the door into the bedroom. As she stepped into the room, she saw Roarke standing on the other side of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt.
"What are you doing here?" Tisha breathed, her eyes widening as he removed his shirt.
"I decided you had the right idea about making it an early night," he returned smoothly.
"You're not sleeping in here?" It was meant to be a statement, but the uncertainty in her voice made it a question.
One brow was raised in mockery before he turned to sit on the bed, his back to her. "I'm not about to spend another night trying to sleep on the couch."
"Well, I will, then, because I am not going to share a bed with you!" Tisha declared, moving hurriedly towards the door, afraid at any moment to feel Roarke's hand on her arm.
A glance over her shoulder as she opened the door into the hall revealed that he was still sitting on the bed, now removing his shoes. Worst of all, she felt disappointed that he hadn't tried to make her stay. Some weak part of her wanted her objections to be swept aside.
Inside the study, Tisha stared at the couch, realizing she had forgotten to get any pillows or blankets, but reluctant to return to the room where Roarke was in case she gave in to any last-minute persuasions. Sleep was impossible anyway, she decided, walking aimlessly about the room.
A stereo record player was enclosed in a cabinet on the far side of the room. Leafing through the phonograph albums stacked next to it, she chose one and put it on the turntable. She returned to curl on to the couch as violins cried a melancholy tune. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she cradled her chin on them and listened to the sad melodies that matched the sorrow in her heart.
A shadow fell across the steps. Her muscles stiffened as she raised her head to stare at Roarke. Her pulse was beating a wild tattoo in her throat at the implacably calm expression in his face.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded in a wary tone.
The dark eyes swept over her before he mounted the steps and walked towards the stereo wailing in the corner.
"I'm not going to stay awake tonight listening to lonely violins," he answered, flicking off the switch.
She was sure that he could hear the pounding of her heart in the ensuing silence. She tried to appear as calm and in control as Roarke did.
"Would you bring me a pillow and some blankets?" she requested icily.
"No."
His reply was spoken so quietly that at first Tisha didn't realize what he had said. When it did sink in, she unconsciously tilted her chin at a defiant angle.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you won't need them," Roarke answered, still standing in the shadowy corner near the record player where it was difficult to see his face.
"Why? Have you decided to sleep here instead?" she asked, maintaining a hostile facade with a concerted effort.
Slowly his footsteps eliminated the distance between them until he was standing in front of her, his unrelenting eyes holding hers captive.
"No. And neither are you."
There was an agitated shake of her head. "I'm not spending the night with you." Her voice trembled, making her words uncertain.
"Yes, you are," Roarke answered smoothly, reaching down to draw her to her feet. "So stop arguing."
Tisha tried to pull away from his grip. "No, I'm not! I don't want to!" There was panic in her voice.
"And stop lying." One corner of his mouth quirked in a humourless smile. "Don't try to pretend that you don't want me as I want you."
"No! No! Please…" As she increased her struggle to free herself, he smoothly picked her up and carried her in his arms down the steps, through the door into the hall. "Put me down!" she gasped, uselessly kicking her feet in the air while one arm was pinned by her own body against his chest and the other was restrained by Roarke. "I don't want to go to bed with you! I don't want you to touch me! This isn't part of our agreement!"
"There was no agreement," he informed her. "You were the only one who assumed there was."
The bedroom door was open and Roarke carried her in, closing it with his foot. Out of the corner of her eye, Tisha saw the bed, its covers turned down, and she wiggled against the firmness of his hold.
"Stop it! Put me down!" Her cry was only a forlorn hope now as he carried her down the steps. "You're a hateful, unprincipled beast!" she accused uselessly. "I'm not some Sabine woman to be dragged into your bedroom to satisfy your animal desires!"
With an amused sigh, he set her on her feet, his hands still holding her arms at her side, while his eyes mocked her little attempts to twist free.
"There's only one way to silence you, isn't there?" he smiled.
And he pulled her hard against his chest, halting the vitriolic flow of insults with a conquering kiss. For a moment, Tisha was able to resist the assault on her senses, but his ardour was much too determined and persuasive and she could no longer keep her love bottled up.
With a surrendering sigh, she slipped her arms around his neck, no longer fighting his attempts to mould her closer as she gave herself up to the rapture and fire of his touch. While his mouth sensually explored her neck and the hollow of her throat, she yielded gladly when his hands slipped the robe from her shoulders.
As his fingers touched the shoulder strap of her nightgown, Tisha knew there was no turning back. And there was exultant gladness in knowing she didn't want to either.
"Roarke," she whispered. The ache for him was in her voice. "I want you to know I love you."
"I guessed that all along," he murmured against her mouth.
"Roarke—"
"You talk too much," he declared, lifting her again into his arms and carrying her to the bed, his mouth effectively shutting off any more attempts at conversation.
&n
bsp; Later in the night he turned to her again, and this time Tisha offered no token resistance to his desire. There was none of the pain of before as he aroused her to the fullest delights of womanhood.
When the morning sunlight awakened her, she slipped quietly from the bed, glancing briefly at Roarke's slumbering form as she picked up the robe from the floor to hide her nakedness. The bliss that had so tenderly enveloped her last night was gone, replaced by the sobering memory that Roarke had not wanted to marry her.
Staring out the window, Tisha tried to hate him for taking advantage of the situation, for making her his wife in deed as well as in word. He had admitted that he had guessed that she loved him and had used the power this gave him to satisfy his own needs. Yet the light of day didn't lessen her desire to spend the rest of her life with him. And Roarke was planning to file for a divorce in a few months. Tisha never realized how humiliating it was to want someone who didn't want you.
Never would she beg to stay! Last night she had been weak. Today she had to be strong and all the days that followed this one. Her pride would have to conceal the depth of her love because she could never tolerate his pity.
She turned from the window, her gaze hungrily seeking the masculine figure in the bed. He was awake, lazily watching her with a dark light in his eyes that immediately sent an answering rush of fire through her blood. But Tisha determinedly tilted her chin.
"Good morning," she greeted him coolly.
Roarke propped himself upright on one elbow, arching a brow as he searched her face. "Good morning," he returned, his eyes narrowing slightly. "We must have had a cold front move in during the night."
She ignored his innuendo at her frigid greeting. "I'm going to make some coffee. If you want any, you can come out to the kitchen and get it."
To get from the window to the steps leading to the door, Tisha had to go by the bed. Even though she was prepared for some movement from him to prevent her, she still wasn't able to elude the hand that closed over her wrist.
"What's the matter with you?" he demanded. The covers fell back, revealing the bareness of his muscular, tanned chest while she fought the intoxication of his touch.
"I don't want any morning romp in the bed, so let go of my arm," she answered sarcastically.
There was a disbelieving frown beneath the tousled light brown hair on his forehead. "What happened to the loving woman I held in my arms last night?"
"Last night was a mistake!" There was an angry tremor in her voice. "And it's a mistake that won't be repeated!"
With a vicious yank, he pulled her on to the bed beside him, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he searched her rebellious face. Tisha lay rigidly beside him, not fighting nor attempting to escape.
"What is it? Are you ashamed of what happened between us last night?" Roarke muttered.
"Yes!" the clipped affirmative striking out at him more effectively than her hands.
"For God's sake, why? We're married."
"Let's not go into the legality of what happened," she replied swiftly and with freezing derision.
"You can't forget it either," he reminded her.
"Nor can I forget that you were forced to marry me with Father figuratively standing behind you with a shotgun!" Tisha retorted.
She saw the savage light go out of Roarke's eyes as he threw back his head and laughed. Her breath was caught by the engaging smile on his face when he brought a tender gaze back to her face.
"That's what's bothering you, isn't it?" he murmured, the smouldering fires in his eyes making her heart race.
"It was a low, contemptible thing you did last night, taking advantage of the situation and me," she snapped, swallowing back the longing that rose in her throat.
"Why is it contemptible to make love to my wife—who enjoyed it very much? Didn't she?" His lips followed her jaw-line in a feathery caress.
"Don't change the subject!" She forced herself to remain immobile even as he found the pulsing cord in her neck. "My father forced you to marry me!"
"No one—with the possible exception of you—has ever forced me to do anything, Patricia Caldwell Madison," Roarke said firmly, abandoning his exploration to gaze into her glittering eyes.
"Do you deny that you were an unwilling party to our marriage?" she demanded angrily.
"I deny it most emphatically," he answered. Tisha stared at him in open-mouthed surprise. "Has the cat finally got your tongue?" he teased with an impish grin.
"Are you saying…Do you mean…" She was terrified to put the question into words for fear she was misunderstanding him.
"I am saying and I meant that I love you, that I wanted to marry you, that I wanted some day to feel our children growing inside you, and that it's you I want to see in the rocking chair beside me when we've both grown old together."
There was an exquisite sob of pleasure at his tender and unmistakable declaration of love.
"Then why…Daddy…" Her thoughts were going in so many directions that she couldn't get the questions out. "You were going to postpone the marriage."
"Only because I wanted you to be sure you loved me." His fingers traced the outline of her mouth. "All of this would have been much less complicated if your father hadn't shown up last week. It put you on the defensive. I thought a long engagement would give you time to admit that you loved me, but your father didn't see the need. And the day I gave you the ring, I was certain beyond any doubt that you loved me. You aren't the type to put your happiness in another person's hands unless you love them."
"I do love you, Roarke. I finally admitted it to myself at the church when we took our vows," she murmured, not even aware that her hands were creeping around his neck. "I just couldn't believe that you loved me."
"Well, you can stop doubting it," he ordered.
"I think," she whispered, brushing her lips teasingly against his while a mischievous light of happiness sparkled in her eyes, "that you may have to spend the rest of your life proving it to me."
"It will be my pleasure," Roarke answered. His arms brought her closer in his embrace. "I hope you're not determined to make that coffee now."
"What coffee?" Tisha smiled, meeting his lips eagerly as his head moved down to hers.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1976 by Janet Dailey
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-1827-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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