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She would never let him touch her again—and, as soon as he realised that, he would surely agree to put an end to this farce of a marriage.
The soft breeze blew a strand of hair across Hannah’s face, and she tucked it behind her ear. It wouldn’t even be a matter of getting him to agree. He’d had plenty of time to calm down by now. He was a rational man, logical by training and by instinct; he had to have reached the same conclusions she had. He had to know they had no choice but to fly back to the States and end things as discreetly and quickly as possible.
She would even accept some of the blame herself, instead of laying it all on him.
‘We misunderstood each other, Grant,’ she said softly, as if he were standing before her, ‘but it’s not the end of the world. I’m willing to admit we made a mistake, and I’m certain you are, too.’
With a little nod of self-assurance, Hannah strode into the bedroom and prepared to face him.
She showered, pulled on a bright print dress and a pair of leather sandals, then sat before the dressing-table and put on just enough make-up to put colour into her cheeks. She had seen Grant negotiate; he would see a woebegone look as a sign of weakness, and she could not afford to seem weak in this encounter. Grant was too strong and formidable an opponent for that. Wasn’t that why she was in this mess in the first place, because she’d let him roll over her objections to marrying him?
She applied a light coating of mascara to her dark lashes, then stroked a warm coral lipstick over her mouth. She brushed her hair until it crackled with electricity, then hesitated. Glasses? Or contact lenses? The glasses lent a more authoritative look, she decided, and she plopped them on her nose.
Her courage almost failed her when she reached for the doorknob. She pressed her ear to the door, but she could hear nothing. Was he still asleep? Or—or was he gone? Hope surged in her heart. Maybe he’d not only reached the same conclusions she’d reached, maybe he’d acted upon them.
Well, there was only one way to find out. Hannah smoothed down her skirt, squared her shoulders, and flung the door open.
He was there, all right, standing at the bay window on the far side of the room, sipping what looked like orange juice as he stared out to sea—and he was naked.
No. Hannah’s heart thudded against her ribs. Not naked, exactly. He was wearing a towel draped around his hips. Her gaze flew over him. He must have been swimming: water glistened on his tanned shoulders, glinted like tiny crystals in his dark hair.
Once, on a quiet Sunday spent in a small museum, she’d rounded a corner and come upon a Greek statue in a sunlit alcove, a life-size figure of a man so perfect, so beautiful, that the sight had sent something that was almost a pain knifing into her heart.
It was the way she felt now, looking at Grant. He was standing absolutely still, caught in a ray of soft morning sunlight so that his skin looked golden. The statue had been marble, cold even to look at, but Grant’s flesh would be warm, warmer now than it had been last night, when her fingers had drifted over those muscled shoulders, the hard, clefted back, when she’d felt the satiny brush of his skin against her naked breasts…
She started to turn away, but it was too late. Grant swung towards her. Something glinted in his eyes—surprise, perhaps—and then his face became closed.
‘Good morning.’
His tone was unreadable but the greeting was civilised. It was, at least, a start. Hannah took a breath.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Did you sleep well?’
Was that sarcasm? She looked at him, saw nothing in the cool grey eyes, and decided that, even if that had been a gauntlet tossed down, she’d feign ignorance of having noticed.
‘Very well,’ she answered.
‘I’m glad one of us did.’ He smiled pleasantly. ‘That sofa’s not as comfortable as it looks.’
Hannah’s eyes narrowed. That had to have been a barb. But he was still smiling politely, as if a discussion of sleeping habits were one they had all the time, as if the night just passed had not been the first of their marriage…
As if he were not standing there wearing little more than that damned smile.
‘Would you like some fresh orange juice? Or coffee? The porter delivered a tray a few minutes ago.’
Either one would stick in her throat. But either was preferable to just standing here, with nothing but Grant to look at.
‘Coffee would be fine,’ she said with a quick smile. ‘Where did he put——?’
‘Over there. No, don’t bother, I’ll get it.’ He smiled back at her. ‘I want some more juice, anyway.’
He walked towards her slowly. She could see the flex of muscle beneath his skin. Her gaze flew to his chest, where drops of water glittered in the dark, silken hair, then fell lower to where the hair arrowed down his flat belly and disappeared beneath the towel so casually knotted across his hips.
‘How do you want it, Hannah?’ His voice was soft, a little husky. She looked up quickly, and their eyes met.
‘How do I want what?’ she whispered.
He smiled lazily. ‘Your coffee. Do you want cream and sugar?’
She let out her breath. ‘Oh. Oh, no, I—I take it black.’
Grant poured the coffee and handed it to her. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘My having to ask you a question like that, I mean. You know how I take my coffee, whether I like mayonnaise or mustard on my ham sandwich, you probably even know what size shirt I wear—and yet I know very little about you.’
Hannah took a swallow of coffee. It was hot and very strong. Maybe it would clear the cobwebs from her head, because if this conversation had a direction she had yet to discern it.
‘I guess that’s right,’ she said.
‘Why is that, do you think?’
She looked at him. There was an expression that could best be defined as interest on his face. Was this more polite chit-chat—or was he manoeuvring her again, in some way she could not understand?
‘Well,’ she said, after a few seconds, ‘that’s not unusual. That’s usually how it is with secretaries and employers.’
Grant nodded. ‘I suppose. But then, you’re not my secretary.’
He smiled pleasantly, and she did, too, even though she felt as if she were two people, one standing here having this impersonal conversation with a half-naked man who had only hours ago told her she had no choice but to give herself to him, the other trying desperately to figure out what the hell was going on.
Was he trying to make amends for his behaviour last night? Was he telling her that he knew they’d made a mistake?
Hannah smiled, too. ‘Well, no,’ she said, ‘I’m not your secretary, I’m your paralegal, but it comes down to the same——’
‘You’re not my paralegal either.’ His smile tilted just a bit. ‘Not any more. As of yesterday afternoon, you became my wife——’
Their eyes met, and what she saw in his made the cup tremble in her hand. She turned and put both cup and saucer down on the table.
‘—or have you managed to put that unpleasant detail out of your head?’
She looked up at him. He was still smiling, but now his smile looked as if it had been painted on.
‘Grant—’
‘I doubt if a newly-wed couple has ever used this suite as poorly as we’ve used it,’ he said.
‘Grant, listen——’
‘That bed wasn’t made for one.’ He stepped closer to her, so close that she could smell the faint salty tang of the sea on his body. ‘You looked very small and alone in it last night.’
Her eyes flew to his. ‘When did you——?’
‘You needn’t look so alarmed. I didn’t lay a hand on you.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Hell, if I were into force, I’d have used it yesterday instead of taking a ten-mile run on the beach.’
‘I don’t under——’
‘I’m talking about working off frustration.’ He smiled tightly. ‘Cold showers work too, but you, my lovely wife, had pre
-empted access to the shower.’
Hannah felt her cheeks redden, but when she spoke her voice was calm.
‘About—about being your wife.’ She took a deep breath. ‘We have to talk about that,’ she said. ‘I can’t be. Surely you know that now.’
He looked at her for a long moment, and then he reached out and stroked the hair back from her flushed face, the gesture curiously gentle and at odds with the dark look in his eyes.
His answer was a monotone. ‘Yes.’
Hannah’s heart lifted. ‘I was sure you’d understand,’ she said quickly. ‘I just knew——’
‘And we will talk, over breakfast. Just give me a minute to change, and I’ll join you.’
It was over, then, she thought as she stood near the window in the sitting-room and waited for him. Soon, all this would be finished.
Good. That was what she wanted, to put this behind her so that in time she wouldn’t remember any of it. She would forget everything. The way Grant had looked at her when she’d come down the aisle towards him; the way he’d taken her in his arms once they were alone; the way her body sang under the magic of his kisses and his hands.
‘Hannah?’
She sprang to her feet as the bedroom door opened. Grant was standing there, smiling, dressed in white canvas jeans and a navy blue T-shirt, and, when she saw him, something happened deep within her heart, something so fierce and unexpected that it sent a shudder racing through her.
‘Hannah? Are you all right?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. I—I’m fine. I just—I think I need some air.’
‘Let’s take a walk along the beach,’ he said, and somehow she managed to smile her agreement, even take his hand when he offered it to her.
‘That sounds nice.’
