Page 27 of Savage Obsession

It didn't fit into her undeviating delineation of what their type of marriage should be, and without her carefully drawn-up guidelines to cling on to she was in danger of drifting woefully off course.

'So you decided, after weeks, to do it right now. Couldn't it have waited until you could have asked someone else to reach the stuff down?'

He had released her now, stuffing hi

s hands into the pockets of his robe, rocking back a little on the heels of his bare feet. And she stepped back, away from his overpowering sexual appeal, knocking against the back of the chair and earning herself an impatient scowl.

'I couldn't sleep.' Did she have to sound so over­wrought? she asked herself edgily. And why was she so suddenly aware of how truly awful she looked, her bulky, clumsy body forcing her to stand with her feet planted wide apart, the weight she had put on extending to her face, giving her the begin­nings of a double chin?

'Neither could I,' he admitted, his rarely seen smile flickering briefly along his beautiful male mouth. 'That's why I heard you blundering about in here.'

Blundering. She bit down on her lip at his choice of word. He might as well come right out with it and tell her she looked and moved like a whale out of water.

She swung quickly away, furious with herself. Why did it matter? Women in her condition shouldn't care if they were unattractive, and minding that he should describe her as blundering was surely abnormal, especially since he had never really wanted her at all, but had simply used her because she was his wife and was available.

But his cool fingers caught her hand, trapping it beneath the tensile strength of muscle and bone, and the intonation of gentleness in his voice was something she hadn't heard since she had run out on him to go to France.

'As neither of us can sleep, why don't we do the job together?' His hands went to her shoulders, exerting a soft yet firm pressure as he sat her down in the nursing chair then turned in one fluid movement to reach the pile of packages and car­riers from the top shelf. 'You unwrap them and tell me where to put them.'

The old, almost forgotten warmth and ten­derness was right back in his voice, in the dark grey eyes that slanted an understanding smile towards her, and she sat there, feeling like a beached sea mammal, wondering at the ease with which he breached her carefully erected wall.

But only a small breach, surely, she informed herself, the merest trickle of all that she shouldn't allow getting through her defences. So she said, to put the matter right, 'There's really no need for you to bother,' her voice carrying just the right amount of disparagement, not enough to sound offensive.

He gave her a quick underbrow look, sucked in his breath, then responded lightly, 'No bother. I'd like to get acquainted with my heir's wardrobe.'

That figured, she thought, attempting to stir an inner resentment that simply wasn't there to stir, so she gave up trying and the coil of tension inside her was slowly released, and she went with it, letting her guard down because her brain had gone on hold, she recognised, not really caring much at all.

And she actually found herself enjoying un­wrapping the tiny garments, running her fingers over the soft wool, the tiny silken ribbons, gurgling with laughter as he held a minute bootee between his long fingers, his expression wholly perplexed male.

'You wouldn't think anything could be small enough to fit into this.'

'You could be right.' Tomorrow she would regret the lowering of her defences, but right now she was simply allowing herself to relax, to enjoy the closeness that had been growing over the last half an hour. 'The way he kicks, he could emerge wearing soccer boots—size twelve,' she said then winced as a hefty movement served to prove her point.

'What is it, Beth?' With a swiftness that took her breath away, Charles was on his knees beside her, his brow darkly furrowed as he took her hands in his. 'Are you in pain?'

The amazing thing was, he looked as if he cared, Beth thought on a dizzying wave of stunned dis­belief. In the space of half an hour he had reverted to being the warm, caring man who had been her much loved husband before that accident, before Zanna's return. It made her nervous; she didn't know how to handle it. She had been so sure she was at last schooling all that hopeless love for him out of her heart, and yet…

'No.' She shook her head, the soft wings of her hair flying around her flushed face. 'He's decided to go in for disco dancing, I think.'

Relief washed his anxious features but his eyes held a hesitancy that was completely new in her ex­perience of him as he asked huskily, 'I'd like to feel our child move. Would you mind?'

In her experience of him, he had always taken what he wanted, and right now she was seeing a side of him she hadn't known existed. And, gently, she took his hand and laid it over the bulge of her stomach and the look of incredulous wonder in his dark eyes as Junior obliged with a well aimed kick brought tears to her eyes.

Still kneeling, he moved closer, an arm around her, his hand still resting gently, reassuringly, over her stomach, and for long, timeless moments his eyes held hers, her stupid heart leaping and jumping like a wild thing as he told her quietly, 'You are beautiful, Beth. Never more so, in my eyes, than you are right now.' And then the moment was gone as he grinned, his brows rising. 'There he goes again! No wonder you can't sleep if he keeps this up all night!' Lifting his hand, he tilted her chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding her eyes with his. 'Tell me something—we keep referring to the baby as "he". Will you be disappointed if we have a daughter?'

She shook her head, half dazedly, scarcely com­prehending. This was the type of intimacy she had written out of their marriage—for the sake of her self-respect, her sanity. And here she was, lapping it up, weak fool that she was. Her condition must be making her especially vulnerable. But she managed huskily, 'No. Will you?'

'Of course not.'

And, silently, she echoed his words in her head. Of course not. He already had a son. He would feel no driving desire to sire a male child to rear in his image. But, strangely, even that thought had no power to wound and she dismissed it, every cell in her body melting as he stood up, pulling her with him, a muscle working at the side of his jaw as he told her, his voice thick with something nameless, something that made her bones go weak, 'I want to sleep with you tonight. Just to hold you in my arms, you and our child, nothing else.'

Beth couldn't speak for the emotion clogging her throat, and his wide, sexy mouth firmed with de­termination as he swept her up in his arms, telling her, 'The world went black for me when I saw you teetering around on that chair. Tonight I need the reassurance of holding you close, keeping you safe.'

And as if he would listen to no argument, no protest, he carried her through the partly open door into the master suite and gently laid her on the huge double bed, tucking the soft duvet carefully around her.

Beth blinked back tears, snuggling into the warmth, her face burrowing into the soft down pillow, breathing in the faint, slightly spicy scent of the aftershave he used, the heady, musky male presence of him.

It had been a year since she had shared this room with him, this bed. It felt like coming home and fresh tears glittered in her eyes because he had never, ever admitted a need for reassurance before.

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