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So that in itself was a definite plus. All he had to do was find the patience to wait. He moved her now cold coffee, poured orange juice from the jug and pushed the glass towards her with the tip of his finger.
She gave a small start, as if the gesture had been threatening, and his heart clenched painfully. He hated to think she saw him as a danger. He said soothingly, ‘Chloe’s a lovely lady—about your age, at a guess. Talented, sassy—a touch too much so at times—and pretty. But believe me, I have no designs whatsoever on her virtue, and as for marriage, that’s completely out of the question. And Allie…’ His voice lowered sinfully. ‘I prefer blondes. With eyes the colour of sapphires, overlaid with violet, tall and graceful, delicate, yet perfectly formed—’ He noted the faint flush of colour creep over her skin and held back.
She’d got the message; he was sure of that. He wouldn’t push it. Besides, there was no going back on what he’d so misguidedly said earlier, so he had another misconception to put right.
His heart was thumping around, fit to burst itself, but his voice was level, not too light but not heavy either, as he explained, ‘I meant what I said about wanting our marriage to be a real one. A lasting one. I didn’t say that as a ploy to have my wicked way with you—though that would come into it. I meant for ever, till death do us part. I meant something lasting and worth having. Children, the whole bit.’
The question Why? sprang to her lips. She bit it back. She didn’t want to hear him try to persuade her that he’d fallen in love with her. Not if it wasn’t true. Did she want it to be true?
She couldn’t answer that; she really couldn’t. And the only other reason she could come up with for his stated wish to make this marriage real was her earning capabilities. Did he believe he was onto a good thing, seeing her as a meal ticket—no need for him to bother to go out cleaning windows for a crust?
Somehow, she couldn’t believe that, either. Perhaps it had something to do with the sincerity in his voice when he’d denied having any romantic interest in Chloe, talked about making their marriage something worth having, mentioned children, but one way or another she was beginning to trust him.
The orange juice relieved the sudden dryness of her mouth, enabled her to regroup her defences, to state flatly, ‘I don’t want marriage. You knew that when we entered this agreement.’
It was time to back off, let what he’d said permeate her mind, gain a foothold, put down roots and bear fruit. He gave her a soft smile, a small, seemingly insouciant shrug. ‘Sure I did. But you might come round to the idea, given time. You’ve got a year to think it over, maybe change your mind. So why don’t we drop the subject, enjoy the rest of the day?’ He felt the coffee pot, made a grimace of distaste. ‘I’ll make fresh; this is stone-cold. Eat something.’
He gestured
vaguely at the croissants, the dish of fresh fruit, and headed for the kitchen. He was sweating, his heart pumping. The effort to keep everything low key, appear laid-back to the point of near idiocy had been purgatory when all he’d wanted to do was take her in his arms and kiss her, peel away every scrap of clothing from her willing body and devour every delectable inch of her with his eyes, his hands, his mouth…
He groaned and put the kettle on.
‘Hungry?’
‘Ravenous!’ Allie responded with the wide smile that lit up her whole face, gave it a beauty that was almost out of this world. Jethro looked away before the sheer radiance of her could damage his hands-off policy, slipped the lightweight haversack—empty now of the fruit and bottled water they’d taken with them—down from his shoulders, and pushed open the French windows.
He looked back at her because he couldn’t help himself. She’d caught the sun. There was a band of light freckles across the bridge of her nose, a warm flush to her skin, a dewing of sweat above her deliciously curved upper lip. They’d spent most of that day, the first of their so-called honeymoon, exploring the surrounding countryside, and her energy and enthusiasm had been boundless as they tramped fields and woodlands. Exertion and the fresh air showed in the way she looked now—sun-soaked, sleepy, a button missing from the sleeveless white shirt that had collected mossy smudges from the woods.
He ached to trace the track of those tiny freckles with his mouth, taste her sweat, run his hands through the wild tangle of her hair, strip away her clothes and his, soap her agile, graceful body under a cooling shower until her sleepy eyes glittered with desire.
Instead, obliquely giving her one of the reasons he’d fallen so heavily and permanently in love with her, he said, ‘You’re not obsessed by your appearance, are you, Allie? Considering the way you earn your living, I find that remarkable, and very refreshing. You’ve got a twig in your hair.’ He reached out a hand and plucked it away. Touching the shimmering blonde rumpled mass of silkiness made his fingers tremble.
Allie gave an involuntary gasp, and in case he wondered why the touch of his fingers in her hair should make her drag air into her lungs as if she were drowning she turned it into a yawn and covered it with the tips of her fingers. She made herself relax, telling him truthfully, ‘I’ll put on the glam for the catwalk and cameras, otherwise I’m not interested.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘What you see is what you get.’
If only! he thought savagely. He tossed the twig clear of the stone paving slabs of the terrace and ushered her in through the French windows. Keeping his physical distance, behaving himself, acting like a big brother had been harder than he’d thought. A damn sight harder. But somehow, throughout the long, hot summer day, he’d managed it.
‘This must be his study,’ Allie exclaimed, taking an immediate and vocal interest in the small room, examining the book-lined walls, the desk that held a laptop, telephone and fax machine. ‘There must be hundreds of books.’ She ran her fingers over some of the spines. Each and every one of them seemed to have been read, and her absent host’s tastes ranged through Dylan Thomas, Proust, Dickens, and a handful of well-thumbed tomes on land management and environmental studies. ‘Is he a closet farmer, or maybe a conservationist as well as a business brain?’ she questioned, her voice painfully over-bright.
Yet the feeling of knowing the man who was Jethro’s friend was oddly comforting, even if it did verge on the weird. Her compassion for his lack of parental love, the tastes they appeared to share, and deliberately putting the spotlight on him, talking about him, put Jethro and the effect he had on her momentarily in the shadows.
‘I rarely socialise,’ she said, noting a P.D. James she hadn’t yet read, deciding to borrow it and retire to her room with it as soon as they’d eaten. Getting involved in the plot would take her mind off what was happening to her, the way he heightened her senses until the tension made her want to scream. ‘Like your friend, I find books are great companions. And I suppose my love of the countryside, and my concern for what’s happening to it, is down to Laura’s influence and my years at Studley.’
She had the humiliating feeling that she sounded like a pathetic idiot, but she had started on this and somehow she couldn’t stop. She babbled breathlessly, ‘I guess he must feel at home in the open spaces, otherwise he wouldn’t keep this place on, now that his sister’s got a life of her own.’
‘How nice of you to take such a warm interest in the man,’ Jethro said stiltedly. Then mentally berated himself for putting himself in the downright farcical position of being jealous of himself! He drew in a deep breath. He wished he hadn’t started out on this charade, but the wish was futile. He had to run with it until the time was right because he’d given himself no other option. And that time wasn’t now.
If he were to confess that he was their absent host she wouldn’t believe him, would think he was insane.
‘As far as I know, he has every intention of settling here more or less permanently. It’s a good place to raise a family. And you’re right, of course. He is interested in conservation. We walked over a small fraction of his land today.’
He knew his voice sounded wooden, but he couldn’t lighten up. He had the hateful feeling that he was getting nowhere with her. She was far more interested in the fictional Bill Abbot than she was in the flesh and blood reality. Because the flesh and blood man she’d married, the penniless window-cleaner, didn’t warrant so much as a passing thought?
She’d turned her back on him, her long hair swinging forward to hide her face, but not before he’d glimpsed the heightened colour of her skin, the down-flick of the thick crescent of lashes that effectively hid her expressive eyes. And she’d reached for the silver-framed photograph of his sister, seemingly intent on committing the pretty features, the cloud of dark hair, the obstinate chin, to memory.
‘That’s Chloe,’ he said tonelessly, almost dismissively. He needed out, needed space. He’d mired himself down in deception and had to work out how best to extricate himself before he said or did something that would ruin any hope of winning her trust, let alone her love. A project that seemed pretty damn hopeless at this moment. ‘I suggest we both freshen up, then fix something for supper.’
He walked out of the room because he couldn’t stand being close to her, and yet not close to her at all. He had to plan some kind of viable strategy. Around her, he couldn’t think straight.
