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Expelling a soft breath, Allie replaced the portrait on the shelf. Chloe was extremely pretty but, unlike the other times when he’d spoken of his friend’s sister, Jethro’s voice hadn’t held a smidgen of warmth. Did that mean that what he’d said was true, that he wasn’t remotely interested, romantically, in Chloe Abbot? Or did it simply mean that he was miffed with her, Allie?
Because she’d waffled on about his friend, the stuff they appeared to have in common? And when he’d told her that his friend owned vast tracts of the surrounding countryside he’d sounded—well, almost defeated, and that didn’t sit right. Although he might be short on worldly goods he’d always come over as being at ease with himself, assured, confident. As if he could have the world at his feet if only he could stir himself to be bothered.
Her brows drawn together, she walked up to her room, stripped off and stood under the shower. Did he feel inferior to that other man, the brilliant achiever? It was more than likely, considering the gulf that now yawned between the men who had been boys together at school. Should she tell him what she believed, that worldly possessions didn’t mean a thing so long as a person had integrity?
Perhaps not, she decided, pulling on clean white briefs. He would think she was being patronising, and besides, it was safer to keep their relationship as impersonal as possible.
And, come to think of it, he had spoken at length on the subject of the owner of this house, but he’d never said anything about himself, his family, where he’d lived and what he’d done before moving in with his grandmother.
So if privacy was what
he wanted, that was fine by her. Non-involvement was safer.
Deciding against a bra—it had been a hot day and didn’t seem to be getting much cooler this evening—she pulled on a soft cotton T-shirt and a pair of skimpy shorts. She wouldn’t say anything that might make him think she wanted to get personal. And she couldn’t explain why she’d babbled on about his wonderful, successful friend either, apparently rubbing his nose in his own failure.
When he’d first suggested their outing she hadn’t wanted to go, her head still buzzing with all that stuff he’d said about wanting their marriage to be a real one, the feeling she’d had of being tempted into something she’d always known would be wrong for her.
But every excuse to cry off she’d fabricated in her brain had seemed either lame or downright ridiculous. So she’d gone along, and she needn’t have worried because he’d been the perfect platonic companion.
It had only been at the end of the long, strenuous but enjoyable day, when they’d been on the terrace and he’d taken that twig out of her hair, that, for her, everything had changed.
Such a small and simple thing. Just the touch of his fingers on her hair. And she had instantly become shimmeringly aware of everything about him. The height of him, the breadth of him, the scent of him, and most of all the sheer male presence of him. And suddenly, as excitement had fizzed through her veins and crackled down her spine, a real marriage to this man had become a temptation she could barely withstand.
Deeply aware of the sudden, urgent danger, she had walked into the study and babbled fatuously. Annoyed him. She’d made him feel inferior. And she’d ended an effortlessly companionable day on a sour note.
Perhaps that was for the best. Sour was better than the other—the slide of his warm, intimate eyes over her features as he’d restated his wish to make their marriage real, to have children with her, the emotional rack he put her on whenever he was near—
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.
