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'The expected sometimes doesn't happen, Cleo--'
She finished her drink in a gulp, her eyes flicking to his and away again because the message contained there was unreadable—or perhaps she wasn't ready to read it. She didn't know. She got to her feet, trying for poise, 'I really must go and change,' she tossed over her shoulder, her smile brittle. 'By all means we can cast our eyes over a few properties, get to know the market for when we seriously want to buy—some time in the future.'
If he had decided to charm her he was certainly succeeding, Cleo thought, rising from the table where they had lingered in lamplit intimacy over the delicious meal the Greek maid had prepared.
The trouble was, he could so easily disarm her, she < realised as he followed her out on to the moonlit terrace, bringing the brandy decanter and two glasses with him.
And to allow herself to be disarmed would be fatal. She didn't want her emotions involved, it would only lead to pain, because he would never become emotionally involved with her, with anyone, as far as she could tell.
And she was no masochist. She would keep to the letter of their bargain, but that was as far as it would go.
But as she went to the balustrade to look out over the silvery night, he followed her, placing a hand on her shoulder where the halter neckline of her dress left it bare. And this time she didn't shy away from his touch, even though that touch felt like needles of excitement pricking her skin.
'Cold?' he said. 'Shall I fetch you a wrap?'
She turned, simply to deny any feeling of coldness because for some reason she had never felt warmer in her life. He was close, so close, and even in the shadowy light of the moon she could see he was not quite as implacably cool as he pretended to be.
'No—I'm fine, thanks.' She moved back to the upholstered bamboo loungers, angled around the table, and sat cradling the drink he'd poured for her.
Something was coming to life between them, a vital new growth, but not something known. Not really known, although she could make a fairly accurate guess. But she had to remember, always remember, that this was a marriage of convenience. And then a thought passed through her mind, leaving an annoying foot-print, that maybe her motives had been suspect all along the line.
Solving her problem had depended on finding a husband her uncle and aunt, as her guardians, could approve of. But would she have asked Jude to marry her if he'd been fat and bald with a face like a pug and a mind like a geriatric slug? It was a question she wouldn't like to be forced to answer.
The sea was blessedly cool, lapping against her feet as she walked slowly along the water-line, the soft black night hiding he
r. Not that there would be anyone about at this time of night to see her. The thought comforted her a little, and a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as the breeze moulded the almost transparent lawn of her nightdress to the shape of her body.
She hadn't been able to sleep; the night was too hot, her thoughts jumping this way and that, making her mind ache.
That tension between them, that awareness, had been growing throughout the long evening, muddling her. And her 'goodnight' to him had been abrupt, far more terse than usual as she'd left the terrace, making for the solitude of her room.
But if she'd been looking for safe haven she hadn't found it there, and at last she'd slipped down to the beach, noticing the light coming from his room and wondering if he, too, found it impossible to sleep, if he found this marriage, entered into so coolly and objectively, had strange and rather terrifying facets that were only now beginning to reveal themselves.
She had never been drawn to the idea of marriage, the total commitment of love. Love was something she'd learned to do without since she'd lost her parents. Her mind, she supposed, was closed to the concept of it. She had imagined, for a brief span, that she was in love with Robert Fenton—and that had turned out to be an all- time disaster. And she'd emerged from the short period of infatuation recognising that what she'd felt had been a natural reaction to the years of dedicated study, the absence of close family love, the absence of fun and frivolity in her life. It had been a necessary, if unpleasant, part of growing up.
But if she had been looking for love, for a man she could respect, share the rest of her life with, then Jude could have been everything she could want in a man. He had a brilliant mind, was even-tempered—well, mostly—and he was strong, yet capable of tenderness, of deep humanity. He also respected her as an equal, and that counted for much—for more than the sum of his undoubted sex appeal, his wealth and position.
Yes, had she been looking for such a man, for love... A small wave, but higher than the rest, took her unawares, wetting her to her knees, and she stumbled, almost fell, then righted herself and turned and saw him a mere two yards away. Everything inside her seemed to stop, just for a moment, before racing on, the blood thudding through her veins, her heart pattering a demented tattoo.
'Jude--' Her voice was thick, his name dragged from her on a sighing breath that faltered hopelessly, because she had known in that instant when time had stood still for her, when her breath, her very heartbeat, had hung suspended, that she loved this man, had probably been falling in love with him since she'd first set eyes on him. It was almost laughably simple! It had certainly been inevitable.
Moonlight, slow and silver, touched his face, stroked his magnificent body with tender moulding fingers, stopping the breath in her throat.
Naked, save for brief dark swimming shorts, he looked pagan—the dominant male to her feminine fragility— and he said her name, like a question, his shadowed eyes, bereft now of their startlingly vivid colour in this ghostly light, raking her, lingering hungrily on the shape of her, on the aching softness of feminine curves only lightly and tantalisingly concealed beneath gossamer fabric.
'I couldn't sleep.* He moved closer, close enough to touch, and her skin turned to flame with the nearness of his almost naked body as he cupped her face in his hands, his eyes searching hers, revealing the depth of his own wanting.
His body shook with it. She could feel the fine tremors that ran over the taut, glistening skin so near to her own, feel the control as he released her, his fingers feathering lightly down the length of her throat before they fell away, clenched into fists now, revealingly, though she knew she was not supposed to know the effort it had cost him to restrain himself from touching her more intimately.
'I'll walk you back.' His voice was kind, but there was a roughness in it, just below the surface, that told her he wanted her, as she wanted him. 'Perhaps a hot drink might help? Me, too—probably more than the swim I'd decided to take before I saw you along the shore.*
He could have been a father, soothing a wakeful child for all the emotion he allowed himself to show. But Cleo knew better, and she wasn't afraid, not now, because she had at last admitted to herself the fact that she must have unconsciously known for months. She loved him, and that was why her proposal to him had seemed so logical, so right! She had been blind for so long, so convinced that she didn't need or want emotional ties that she hadn't recognised what was happening to her!
But she knew it now, knew that the restrictions she had placed on these early days of marriage must be almost intolerable to a man such as he. And they were intolerable to her, now, quite intolerable.
But, such was his sense of honour, he would make no move towards her until the period of restriction he had agreed to was over. Any move had to come from her.
'Jude--' He was waiting for her, just a step or so ahead now, but he pivoted round as her voice touched him, tense, his skin glistening in the silver light as though drenched with sweat, although the breath from the sea was cooling.
