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He had respected her wishes, for some reason choosing to use the tiny room rather than the far more comfortable guest-room. And she had admired him for that, for the way he had Obviously wanted to spare her any puzzled looks she might have received from Meg. He had been a different man then, she thought miserably as she made her way reluctantly upstairs. He was a frightening stranger now.
She couldn't use the dressing-room, of course, so Meg would have to draw her own conclusions. Because even if Jude were already asleep, which she doubted, he would hear her and wake no matter how quietly she moved across the bedroom. But she had to sleep somewhere and the guest-room was the only other choice, because she wasn't sleeping with him. She had too much pride to share intimacy with a man who hated and despised her, even if he was her husband.
The bed in the guest-room was always kept made up and aired, and the room itself was only slightly less luxurious than the one she and Jude had shared until now. But she wasn't interested in her surroundings, and a sob built up in her throat, hurting, as she unzipped her dress and reflected that her marriage, which had once seemed to hold so much promise, was dead before it had properly come alive.
Clad only in a pair of midnight-blue satin briefs and tiny matching bra, she pulled back the bedcovers and viewed the cool linen sheets with less than enthusiasm.
'I prefer our bed,' Jude said, from right behind her, and before she knew what was happening he had scooped her up into his arms and her eyes widened with shock, for one still second, before she realised exactly what was happening and began to pummel her fists against his naked chest.
'What the hell do you think you're doing?' she spat, burningly, shamingly aware of his near nakedness, and hers. He was wearing only silky pyjama bottoms, and her scantily covered breasts were pressed against the warm satin of his skin. And, shamingly, a sheet of heated sensation flooded her body at the contact and she grew still, her body painfully rigid as she tried to hold herself away from him.
Her breath caught in her throat, a dry, painful sob, as he carried her out of the room. She would not be manhandled this way, but her renewed struggles had no effect at all on his effortless stride as he carried her along the dimly lit corridor to their own room.
'I'm taking you to my bed, where you belong,' he answered her angry question tersely. 'Scream if you like. The Thornwoods are safely tucked up in their quarters at the rear of the house. I doubt if they'd hear if you blew a trumpet.'
Pushing the bedroom door shut behind him with his foot, he crossed the pale ochre wool of the carpet in three long strides, dropping her to the smooth olive green cover of the bed and was down on top of her, his hips pinning her to the mattress, before she could move.
'This will be rape,' she warned throatily, her eyes glittering feverishly between the tumbled strands of her silkily silver hair, her breath coming quickly, making the rounded peaks of her breasts rise and fall rapidly.
'I don't think so.' He captured her clenched and flailing hands in one of his and shifted slightly, making her aware of his arousal, and she moaned, low in her throat, just once, as his lips descended to take hers.
Desperately, she clamped her mouth shut, trying to ignore the fever of need he was already arousing within her as his tongue forced her lips apart. But, as she had unconsciously known he would, he won that battle and she capitulated weakly to the insistent pressure of his mouth. And then, as if he knew he had her subdued, mindless, he trailed moist kisses down the length of her throat and on and down to circle her breasts, tormenting the aroused peaks until she could have screamed her frustration, her unwilling yet insistent need.
Then, gently, he eased the fabric of her bra aside, revealing first one tautly inviting breast and then the other, and she writhed frantically beneath him, moaning her rejection of the way he made her feel.
He had warned her that he would make love to her until she couldn't think straight, and this was precisely what he was doing.
Before, when they had made love, she had welcomed him eagerly, lovingly, knowing that at least he cared for her, that he found her body and her wanton response to him exciting. But this was something else, and, as he bent his dark head to suckle on the rosy-peaked breasts her traitorous body offered in open invitation, she made one last feeble attempt to stop him.
'Leave me alone!' It was a plea, a muted cry of despair, and she heard a rough echo of that despair in his voice as he derided,
'I would if I damned well could!'
And his mouth closed over one taut nipple, sucking moistly, making blind desire kick to urgent life inside her and she was lost in the devastating sensation of his hands, his mouth, his body, as he kissed and fondled every inch of her silky, sweat-slicked skin until she was ready to beg him to take her.
And then, poised above her accepting body, his face flushed with the dark blood of desire, he held her thrashing head in his hands, held it still so that she had no option but to meet the blaze of triumph in his eyes as his potent maleness tantalisingly nudged her ardent, feminine moistness.
'Who am I?' Vivid blue eyes froze her soul yet seared her senses, and her body grew still, waiting, tormented, uncomprehending.
'Do you know who I am, what I am?' he insisted, and she closed her eyes, her body aching for the relief only he could bring, the relief he was withholding.
He was playing games with her, and she shuddered hopelessly as his voice ground out, 'Open your eyes, damn you! Look at me. I'm not Fenton, so don't even try to pretend I am! I'm your husband, the man who is going to make love to you, again and again, until you don't know who you are or what you are, until all you can know, feel, taste, think, is me!'
And then he took her, almost savagely, as if he would never have enough of her, as time and time again he forced her to the delirious heights of shaming ecstasy.
CHAPTER NINE
CLEO tried to make her mind focus on what she was doing as she neared the bottom of the escalator. Stepping off, she took a fir
mer grip on her briefcase and was swept along with the tide of home-bound commuters. The Underground in the rush-hour was hell. But then, wasn't everything, these days?
This afternoon, spent with Luke in his office, had been grim. He'd made no effort to hide his dislike. And in her heightened emotional state it had been difficult to take. But she'd managed, though heaven only knew how, ignoring his scathing, 'Wonder Woman to the rescue!' as he'd scanned her outlined proposals for the salvaging of Slade Securities.
'Jude's approved this, I take it?' He'd finally laid the papers aside. 'Or is the whole proposal his brainchild?'
His derisive look had told her that, no matter what she said, he'd would never believe a mere female could come up with such precise figures and projections. He couldn't believe it because it would damage his ego. As far as he was concerned, only a masculine mind was capable of a clear-sighted and logical grasp of finance.
She hadn't disabused him; there had seemed no point. No point in anything these days. And she didn't have the emotional resources to endure a ding-dong verbal fight with him. Jude had drained her emotions dry.
