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She stood like a rag doll as he undressed her. She could manage for herself perfectly well, but wasn’t about to tell him so. Her damp sweater disposed of, he hooked impersonal fingers beneath the waistband of her leggings and dragged them down over her slender hips.
Bella shuddered as molten fire pooled deep down inside her. She wanted him so; her entire body was on fire for him, transformed into a silent, desperate cry of need, a plea for his lovemaking—a cry he surely must hear deep inside him, an inner cry of such longing she could almost hear it throbbing on the air.
His eyes slid over her body, lingering, dark colour slashing his hard, prominent cheekbones. And she knew, even before she heard the harsh rasp of his breath, that her body’s silent cry of need had reached him, touched him....
Instinctively her hands went out, small palms sliding against the darkly stubbled, hewn contours of his face, long and elegant fingers resting on his temples, feeling the violence of the pulse there.
Jake moved sharply back, as if stung by a horde of angry hornets, his eyes bleak and mouth compressed as he delivered tersely, ‘Shout if you need anything. I’ll leave the door open.’
And he walked out on her, chilling indifference clearly stamped on the rigid lines of his broad back.
CHAPTER SIX
BACK in his room, Jake leaned against the closed door, teeth gritted, his head thrown back.
It had been a close call. Damn it, his body was still shaking. For several minutes his concern for her had been his salvation, helping him to strip her down as if he were a professional carer.
Only when she’d stood before him wearing nothing but those wicked wisps of lace that so lovingly cupped inviting, rosy-tipped breasts, and yet another scrap of lace-trimmed silk that covered...
He groaned, levering himself forward and shrugging out of his soaked jacket. He’d been doing fine until then. Just fine. But looking at her, remembering the passion and glory of their lovemaking, the meeting of their souls that had made them seem indivisible, had brought him to the point of reaching out for her, holding her, making her his again, and only his, for the rest of time.
But the smouldering, drowning invitation in her eyes when she’d slowly reached out and touched his face had brought him right back to his senses. Back with a hard, resounding crack.
Sex had been someth
ing she’d always been good at. Very good. As insatiable as he’d been himself where she was concerned.
So insatiable, indeed, she’d been hopping into bed with that wife-stealing, wife-cheating bastard Maclaine whenever he’d been away. While he’d been working his guts out for them both, determined to secure their future, she’d been playing around with the man who’d been her lover all those years ago.
He’d keep that firmly to the forefront of his mind. It was a cast-iron, rock-solid defence against whatever acts of sorcery she dreamed up next!
It would be masochistic madness to weave the fabric of his life with hers again, naively hoping she would stay faithful. He couldn’t take the heartbreak and disillusionment a second time around.
He’d been short on trust ever since his father—the man he’d loved, respected and, above all, trusted—had committed that ultimate betrayal, taking his own life and leaving his family to make what they could of the financial mess he’d left behind.
When Bella walked down the stairs, reluctantly dressed in flowing black silk trousers topped by a sleekly narrow white linen jacket worn over a black body, she was perfectly in control.
Watching as he’d walked out of that bathroom, she’d been devastated, hardly able to believe he’d been turning his back on the possibility of a mutual admission that they still cared for each other.
Because for a little while they’d been close, she knew they had, both physically and mentally. Closer than they’d been for a long time before their marriage had finally broken up. She’d felt it in her bones, felt the blossoming of hope in the quiet certainty of her heart.
The briefly wonderful hope had been cruelly shattered when he’d walked out of the door. He’d fought the growing closeness because he didn’t want it. So be it. She could handle it, couldn’t she? What was that old saying? You could take a horse to water but you couldn’t make it drink...
Getting through to him when his mind was made up was impossible. She remembered now exactly when that fact of life had finally hit home...
Bella let herself into the Docklands apartment and thanked heaven for the central heating. The late-January evening was bitterly cold.
She removed her suit jacket and kicked off her shoes. And smiled. She’d been doing a lot of that just lately—smiling. Ever since Guy had made that proposition, given her existence a meaning that had been strangely absent during the two years and one month of her largely solitary marriage, she’d been feeling euphoric.
Dear, darling Guy!
They’d been heavily involved all day, and she felt pleasantly tired and thankful that she wasn’t hungry because she had nothing in. Life had been too hectic since Guy had put forward his tempting offer to spare time for boring things like food shopping!
Deciding to listen to music, open a bottle of wine and come down from the high she now seemed permanently on, before getting an early night, she frowned as the phone in the living room shrilled out.
But it could be Guy. She lifted the receiver expectantly and Jake said, ‘I’m at Heathrow. Can you fetch me, or shall I hire a car?’
He sounded desperately tired. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said quickly, her brows drawing together. He never flew in unexpectedly; he always let her know when he’d be home. She hoped there was nothing wrong.
