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‘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?’
