Page 14 of Claiming His Wife

'Sleep it off, Cass,' he advised grimly. 'You ob­viously decided to get drunk—' he laid cruel em­phasis on the word '—to help you through the night. Well, I've got news for you, mi esposa. I find that a definite turn-off.'

He marched back to the door, then paused, his tone dry, 'I'll join you later, if only to make sure you don't raid the wine cellar for more Dutch courage. But, never fear, I won't touch you. So sleep well.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cassie stirred fretfully and came awake. And wished she hadn't. Asleep, she didn't have to relive the scene of her humiliation, the way her red-hot antic­ipation of the night ahead had been so effectively doused by the ice of his parting words.

Drunk.

It was still only the middle of the night and the room was in total darkness. She'd been too busy cry­ing herself to sleep to think about anything practical, like turning off the bedside lamp.

Roman must have done it.

For the first time amid the internal racket of her clamouring waking thoughts she heard the sound of his breathing. And held her own breath, her naked body going tense beneath the fine silky sheet.

He had joined her. He had said he would.

But the bed was huge and he was lying as far away from her as he could get without falling off the edge.

He had said he wouldn't touch her.

Because he believed she'd deliberately got drunk so that when it came to keeping her side of his Machiavellian bargain she would be too fuddled to take any notice of what was going on! Well, it had sort of started off that way, she admitted honestly, but somewhere along the line it had changed.

Quite when she had realised that she still loved her husband, always had and always would, she couldn't really recall.

It hadn't hit her like a bolt of lightning, but had been gradually unfurling inside her, like the newly opening petals of a rose, becoming more certain with every breath she took.

She loved him so.

Her heart leapt, twisted, and ended up somewhere in her throat.

Her life with Roman, before she'd gathered enough courage to leave him, had been liberally spat­tered with mistakes. Far too many mistakes, the greatest of which had been her inability to commu­nicate with him and explain her feelings.

Never again!

Whatever the future held—and as far as she knew he wasn't looking beyond three months—she owed it to both of them to be open and honest. Starting with telling him that if she'd given the impression that she was about to sink into an alcoholic heap, it had only been because the thought of spending the night with him had intoxicated her!

She hoisted herself up on one elbow, gingerly nar­rowing the distance between them. Her eyes were growing more accustomed to the darkness now and she could see the outline of his dark, beautifully shaped head against the white pillow. The sheet was tangled around his hips, and the shadowy sweep of his tautly muscled back was a temptation too far.

Her heart lurching, her mouth running dry, she reached out a hand and touched him. Just gently. From the warm nape of his neck her fingers slipped between his shoulder blades, loving the warmth of his skin, the slick texture, and down, down the ridge of vertebrae, sliding across to the hard prominence of his hipbone, exploring him as she had never dared to do before.

The arm he wasn't lying on was flung upwards, covering his face, giving her tenderly roving fingers access to the lower part of his chest. And lower, trail­ing down the washboard flatness of his stomach, her fingers stilling as they tangled in crisp, thick body hair.

Her heart was beating wildly, clamouring beneath her breast, her breathing difficult to regulate. She could touch him if she wanted to, and she did want to, but it would be an invasion of his personal pri­vacy, wouldn't it? While he was asleep?

Forcing her hand to stay quietly and exactly where it was, she pulled in a ragged breath and bent forward to put her lips against the oiled satin skin of his shoulder, her throbbing, almost painfully aroused breasts meeting the hard plane of his back.

She wriggled against him, pressing closer; she couldn't help it. Her mind had gone on holiday and she was acting on instinctive, primitive need. Being so breathtakingly close to him, skin to burning skin, felt so right, so natural. She couldn't begin to imag­ine why she'd ever been unable to respond to him.

A small mew of pleasure escaped her throat, her whole body so sensitised now she knew she was about to wrap herself round him, make him wake, force him to bring her the release that only he could give.

But if he didn't want to give it?

The thought cooled, her like a dash of icy water. If he rejected her, as she had formerly rejected him, pushing him away whenever he came near her after the awkwardness of their wedding night, she would be utterly devastated, humiliated...

She sucked in a savagely painful hiss of breath, realising for the very first time exactly how he must have felt and why, after a time, he had stayed away from her so often.

Sudden tears burned behind her eyes. How could she have done that to him when she'd been so much in love with him? How could she have been so self-centred, never giving a thought to how he must have felt, absorbed in her own immature hang-ups?

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