Bought: One Husband

by Diana Hamilton

  She could do without it.

  So why the dragging sensation of loss?

  She refused to find the answer to that, and went down to the kitchen to make a start on supper.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THEY ate supper on the terrace. At least that was the general idea, but she noticed that neither of them seemed to be doing anything more than push the food around their plates.

  Allie had grilled steaks and concocted a salad from the greens she’d found in the bottom of the fridge. When Jethro had brought wine to the table he’d said curtly, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll replace every last crumb before we leave. We wouldn’t want the man who has everything to miss out, would we?’

  He was still angry with her, or hurt, or feeling diminished, she decided ruefully. She’d obviously come over as being considerably more interested in the man who had the lot than in the man she had married, who had nothing. Was that what he thought? Strangely, imagining what he must be feeling made her own heart ache in sympathy.

  Allie longed to stop him hurting, to assure him that having nothing didn’t matter, that if he wanted to he could go places, achieve anything, win back his pride in himself. Tell him that she would do her best to help him if he wanted her to.

  But hadn’t she already counselled herself that allowing their relationship to get more personal, closer than it need be was inherently dangerous? He had stated his intentions as far as their marriage was concerned, and he couldn’t be blind enough to have failed to see how physically attracted to him she was. True, she’d done her best to hide her reactions, but she didn’t think her best had been good enough.

  So she said nothing—nothing remotely important. Just made uncomfortable small talk and watched twilight sink over the gardens, listened to the contented call of the doves. And she knew that whatever happened in the rest of her life she would never be able to hear the sound of doves without experiencing the wash of sadness that made her heart feel cold.

  His statement, when he made it, took her by surprise. His voice was harsh, at odds with the softly warm twilit night. ‘Are you always so trusting? Only seeing what’s right under your nose and taking it as being the complete truth? Do you never look beneath the surface of things?’

  He didn’t know why he’d said it, only that he’d needed to lash out. Because although she had to be aware of the sexual chemistry between them she was uncomfortable with it, and seemed incapable of seeing him for the man he was. She was just putting up with him because she had to. All her admiration was for the shadowy figure of the man who owned this house, this land, a home in Mayfair, a private jet, worldwide business interests that had made him a millionaire many times over.

  Her eyes narrowed as she watched him pour what was left in the bottle into her wine glass. She suspected that she had already drunk the lion’s share. He had been remarkably abstemious, eating hardly anything at all and drinking even less.

  ‘Tell me what you mean by that.’

  She was watching him intently, as if trying to read his mind. She looked devastatingly desirable in the gentle half-light, her hair a shimmering drift of pale golden silk, her shadowed eyes holding his, her lips soft and relaxed, curving just slightly into a smile—dreamy from the wine?—her small but perfect breasts tantalisingly delineated beneath the soft cotton of her top, tormenting him.

  Beneath the table his hands bunched into fists. He took a deep breath. He could hardly tell her that he was the man with everything, the man she clearly felt so much empathy for. Even if she believed him he didn’t want to see her go through the process of reevaluating everything, bestowing her admiration, her respect, on him because of what he’d achieved, not because of who he was inside himself.

  Instead he told her, because it seemed as good a get-out as anything else, ‘You’ve carved out a brilliant career for yourself in the face of what must be tough opposition. I would have thought you’d have gathered a modicum of caution along the way. Yet you leapt headlong into this marriage—I even had to stop you paying me before I’d signed on the dotted line, remember? And I would have thought you’d have had the common sense to insist on a pre-nuptial agreement. For all you know I could take you to the cleaners after the divorce, claim part of your future earnings.’

  She recognised the trace of bitterness in his voice and reminded him quickly, ‘I thought you didn’t want a divorce.’

  She didn’t know why she’d blurted that out. Surely she wanted to forget what he’d told her this morning? Perhaps it was the wine talking? She decided it probably was when he leaned forward, resting his tanned forearms on the table-top, and concurred softly, not a sign of bitterness now, ‘I don’t. Believe me, sweetheart, I don’t. I just thought I’d draw your attention to your lack of caution. It can be a big bad world out there.’

  She gave a low gurgle of laughter and confessed, ‘I’m not completely wet behind the ears! I trust you, Jethro. Would I have suggested this arrangement if I didn’t?’

  She’d always trusted him, she realised now, with a tingle of shock. On some deep, inexplicable level she had always known she could trust him.

  ‘Do you? Trust me, that is?’

  He leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a loose-fitting white shirt in a silky fine fabric, open at the neck, the sleeves rolled back. A slight breeze had sprung out of nowhere, ruffling his thick dark hair. It was too dark now to see his expression clearly, but she could feel the renewal of tension in him, tightly controlled.

  She wanted to ease it away, but didn’t know how. Unless she were to give in to the blind instinct that made her want to push her fingers through that soft dark hair, slip his shirt buttons from their moorings, slide her hands over his naked skin, find the flat male nipples with her mouth and skim her fingertips over his body, over the washboard flatness of his stomach, down, and lower down, until—

  Heaven help her! She mentally stamped on her chaotic thoughts. She could trust him, but she sure as hell couldn’t trust the way he affected her!

  ‘Then let’s work on that, shall we?’ He seemed to have taken her reaffirmation of trust for granted. ‘Tell me why your uncle felt the need to put that condition on your inheritance.’

  Allie blinked. The nerves in her stomach were still haywire from the realisation that she wanted so badly to make love with this man. Her husband. Her stomach executed a few wild somersaults as the fact that they were man and wife took on a greater significance than the mere acquisition of Studley.

  And she hadn’t expected that question. She had expected— What? Something more intimate, an attempt to draw closer, a restatement of his own desire to make love to her?

  She swallowed disappointment with a mouthful of wine, told herself not to be so darn stupid, then lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug and told him, ‘I never really blamed Fabian for refusing to renew the lease. Studley was his, he was getting married, and he wanted to live there. But I did resent the speed with which he tipped us out—I am only human. Then two years later his marriage broke down and Studley was empty again. I told you that. My mother was shattered when he agreed she could go back provided she slept with him whenever he felt like it. I despised and loathed him then.’

  ‘That’s understandable.’

  Allie flicked him a glance from between her lashes, then turned her attention back to the wine glass she was holding, twisting the stem round and round in her fingers. How was it possible to be so aware of a man, so aware that nothing else seemed real?

  ‘I—well, we didn’t see him, or hear of him for years. We didn’t want to. Then, soon after my career took off, I took part in a fashion show which was part of charitable event, with the inevitable party afterwards. Not my scene, but it went with the job. Fabian was there. I knew I couldn’t be civil to him so I did my best to avoid him. When he tracked me down, I was ready for him. He started off by telling me I was the image of Laura as a young woman and supposed I was husband-hunting—was that why I’d chosen a modelling career, be
cause I had a good chance of getting a wealthy man who wanted a decorative wife? He was sneering, looking me over with his nasty, knowing eyes. He told me I’d obviously inherited my brains from him—because my parents hadn’t any—and that he presumed I wouldn’t make the mistake Laura had: ruin my life by marrying a spineless wimp, someone who couldn’t give me a decent lifestyle.

  ‘By this point I was seething. I said I had no intention of marrying anyone, ever. And if he was a prime example of the male sex, I reckoned I’d made the right decision.’

  She gave Jethro a rueful smile. ‘Needless to say, we didn’t part on amicable terms, and the next I heard he’d died suddenly of a heart attack. I can only suppose he put that condition on my inheritance out of spite, because of what I’d said about never marrying, to show me what I’d lost by being so anti-marriage.’

  Profound silence.

  Allie shifted in her seat. Her skin was crawling with heat. She was thankful for the near darkness because he wouldn’t be able to see how uncomfortable his silence made her feel.

  ‘I don’t feel ashamed of getting the better of him!’ she defended hotly, when his silence became too much to bear.

  She felt ridiculous when he leaned back, activated a switch on the wall that illuminated the terrace area with subdued lighting, and stated, ‘I’m not suggesting you should be. I’m a partner in it, after all. A willing partner.’

  The honeyed darkness of his tone sent shivers down her spine, her brain taking up the words ‘willing’ and ‘partner’ elaborating on them, translating ‘partner’ into ‘mate’, and ‘mate’ into ‘husband’. Which was what he was. And that put thoughts she’d tried so hard to oust straight back into her head, cementing them there.

  Unwittingly, her fingers gave the glass she held another violent twist, spraying drops of dark red wine on the white-painted cast-iron tabletop. Clumsily she tried to wipe them away with the tips of her fingers, but he caught her hand, held it, and she wished to heaven he hadn’t because her uncontrollable fingers twined tightly around his, her body trembling at the contact of warm skin, hard bone. And the pulse-point at the base of her throat was beating so frantically he simply had to see it and know what he was doing to her.

  But if he noticed how the simple handclasp had affected her he didn’t show it. His voice was light, almost indifferent, as he suggested, ‘Perhaps you should tell me why you made that decision. Not to marry. Ever.’

  He parodied her earlier related vehemence as he said the last word, and Allie withdrew her hand as if the contact scorched her, pulling together all her reasons, wondering if he was mocking her.

  Perhaps if she spelled them out he’d understand why she’d made the decision to live her life alone. More importantly, going over them would convince her of their validity.

  Around him, she needed convincing all over again.

  She took her time in answering, and he leaned back in his chair, his eyes shadowed, enigmatic.

  ‘I had you down as a spunky character. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of love, of real emotion?’ he taunted softly.

  A giant fist closed around her heart. He was mocking her. Her reasons were sound, based on common sense. They were!

  ‘Not afraid. Just sensible,’ she contradicted coolly. ‘I don’t want to end up like my mother, or Fran. They fell in love, for what it’s worth, and both ended up being deserted—in different ways and for different reasons, but deserted nonetheless. I saw what it did to both of them. Fran grew bitter and joyless, and my mother was simply—’ she shrugged, spreading her hands in a helpless gesture ‘—lost, with nothing to live for. Years ago I made the decision not to entrust my dreams, or my personal happiness, into the safe-keeping of a man. And time and time again I’ve been proved right. I’ve seen too many of my friends and colleagues leap starry-eyed into marriage, only to see them, six months later, walking down the stony road to the divorce courts.

  ‘Love, lust, whatever you want to call it, is just a word to describe the urge the human race has to reproduce itself. While it lasts it makes you vulnerable, open to hurt, makes you dependent. When it’s over it leaves you empty.’

  ‘Ah, a cynic,’ he slid in smoothly when she paused for breath.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘No, a pragmatist.’

  He expelled a sigh, so faint she wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t been so tuned in to everything about him. ‘You know I want you, and if you could bring yourself to admit it, the feeling’s mutual. Sexual desire. You can’t hide the way your flesh trembles with excitement when I’m just that little bit too close to you, the way you catch fire when I touch you.’

  As if to demonstrate his effortless sexual mastery, he reached over the table, ran his hands lightly over hers and on, over the tingling skin of her forearms, until he reached her elbows. Allie’s breath caught in her throat at his touch. She knew she should pull away, but, crazily, didn’t want to.

  His fingers tightened as he got to his feet, still holding her, moving to her side and easing her upwards, close against his powerful body.

  They were barely touching, his hands resting lightly on either side of her narrow waist now, but she couldn’t breathe, her lungs locked with a trembling expectancy. She lifted her face to his and met the glitter of his lowered golden eyes. She parted her lips as the trapped air shivered from her chest. She knew he would kiss her, and this time she would allow it not, as before, just for the benefit of an audience, but because she wanted it, craved it with an urgency that made her gasp and instinctively move closer. And now their bodies were touching, breast to thigh. The heat of him made her tremble, reduced her bones to the consistency of melted honey.

  As his hands moved beneath the soft cloth of her T-shirt she arched her body, her arms clinging to him, because without his support she knew she couldn’t stand. Her breasts were aching for the touch of his hands and she moaned softly, desire flaming through her as she looped her arms around his neck, her fingers twisting in the soft hair at his nape, her voice thick and heavy as she whispered, ‘Touch me!’

  But his hands moved away, found hers and brought them down between them before lifting them to his mouth. He grazed a light kiss across her knuckles.

  ‘Call it the instinct to reproduce, if you like, or sexual chemistry. Whatever, it’s not a bad beginning. But there’s more to it than that for me.’

  His cool, measured tones flayed her. She felt cold, and lost. Terrifyingly lost. She didn’t want to hear what he was saying as his eyes homed in on hers with undisguised bleakness. ‘I’m in love with you. I love you. I care for you and want to go on caring for you for as long as we both shall live. How’s that for starters? And, you never know, you might grow to love me if you gave it half a chance. But you don’t subscribe to the view that the world is well lost for the sake of love. You won’t risk emotion because you might get hurt. You might not like it, but you can’t stop your body wanting mine. But you won’t let yourself admit it could go a hell of a lot deeper and further than an itch to be scratched. You won’t show that much vulnerability because you might be betrayed.’

  He took a pace away from her, his dark shadow looming over her, and somehow he seemed even bigger and stronger, more daunting than before. Her breath shivered in her lungs. Every word he’d said had been like a knife-thrust to her heart. And it shouldn’t be like that because she was right, wasn’t she? He was asking her to love him and she couldn’t. He was asking her to risk all the things she feared most. Hurt and disillusionment. She wouldn’t.

  ‘Go to bed,’ he instructed. His voice was level but she could hear the anger beneath the surface. ‘Lie in your safe, celibate bed and ask yourself if you know what you’re missing. Though I doubt if your sterile heart will supply the answer, because you’re a coward, Alissa.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  COWARD.

  He’d fired the word like a bullet into her brain and it lodged there, long after he’d swung on his heel and walked back into the darkened house.

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nbsp; Everything inside her hotly repudiated the insult. She paced the terrace angrily, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. How dared he accuse her of cowardice? How dared he?

  Hadn’t she been the strong one, holding her mother together after her father had thrown in the towel and taken his own life all those years ago? Hadn’t she embarked on a modelling career, even though she’d hated it, as the best way of earning money quickly—the money she needed if she were to settle Laura in a country home of her own, give her back her lost security, some of her lost happiness?

  It had taken her years of hard graft, posing, smiling for the cameras, always pretending to be something she wasn’t, before she’d hit the big time. But she’d stuck at it. And when Fabian had, as it were, thrown down the gauntlet, she’d picked it up without a qualm and lied her head off to his solicitor.

  That had taken courage. Proposing to Jethro had taken courage! So how could he accuse her—?

  Her feet stilled, her stomach tightening. He’d been talking about something entirely different, she acknowledged at last. Her ability to take charge of her own life, rely on herself, was not in doubt. He’d been accusing her of not being brave enough to rely on him. On his love.

  Weakly, she sank back on the chair she’d been using earlier, picked up her half-full wine glass and drained the contents.

  Was she brave enough to accept his love, believe in it, open her mind to the possibility of returning it?

  She didn’t know.

  An hour earlier she had known. Had been quite definite about the lone road she intended to walk in life. The safe road. And now she was questioning it!

  The question opened like a flower inside her, slowly admitting answers that were certainties. She rested her head against the back of the chair and let it happen, let the warmth grow, fizzing through her veins, the answers beginning to come thick and fast.