The Unforgettable Husband

HE WAS half right on most counts, André discovered the next morning when she appeared for breakfast wearing a dusky mauve outfit consisting of a skimpy camisole-type top and a tight little skirt in a darker shade of mauve. Both of which did hot things to his libido even though her icy demeanour was supposed to be freezing out all of that.

Her hair was back in its screwed-up knot, and she was limping again. It didn’t surprise him but it damn well annoyed him. Would she ever learn to embrace caution?

No, he answered his own question. Caution had never been a word Samantha recognised.

‘I’ll keep that appointment,’ she announced as she joined him at the table.

It was all he was going to get, and wisely he didn’t try for any more, other than murmuring a relaxed toned, ‘Coffee’s hot, juice is cold, take your pick.’ Then he returned his attention to the newspaper he had folded open on the table.

As for Samantha, she refused to react to his non-reaction, though she was pretty sure he was sitting there expecting her to. And even if he did look good this morning, in a bright white shirt and grey silk tie that matched the colour of the jacket hanging on the back of his chair, she still hated him and still fiercely resented the way he was orchestrating her life.

It was a resentment which hadn’t faded one little bit by the time she stepped out of the specialist’s consulting room a couple of hours later.

She found André lounging on the corner of the desk belonging to the pretty receptionist, who was looking all smiling and doe-eyed at him.

The little flirt, she thought scathingly. And worse—he was enjoying it! Resentment turned into something really ugly that burned like acid in her chest.

‘If you’re ready,’ she snapped with enough venom to make them both take note of the green sparking in her eyes.

The nurse blushed, but he didn’t. In fact his eyes began to gleam behind the dangerous slits he had narrowed them into. Samantha ignored the both of them and walked as haughtily as she could with a limp towards the exit door, felt him come up behind her and had to fight to suppress the urge to spin round and scratch his flirting eyes out!

‘Watch it.’ The warning was spoken in silken threat right against her earlobe—and suddenly she froze like a statue as a desperate sensation of déjàvu went washing through her.

Sensing the change, he stepped around her so he could look into her face before releasing a soft curse and grimly taking hold of her shoulders. ‘You’ve gone that funny shade of pale again,’ he informed her huskily.

‘Mr Visconte?’ The receptionist’s voice was pitched with fluttering concern. ‘Is your wife feeling ill? Shall I—?’

‘Just get me out of here,’ Samantha breathed tautly. ‘I need some fresh air.’

Without another word he folded an arm across her shoulders to lend support while murmuring a polite goodbye as they made their exit. As soon as they were outside, Samantha moved right away from him. She felt hot and stifled, and had to stand gulping in some much needed breaths of air in an effort to stave off the feelings of faintness while he watched and waited for her to get a hold of herself again.

‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘are you going to tell me what brought it on this time?’

No, I am not, she answered silently. ‘It was just too warm in there, that’s all.’

‘Liar,’ he drawled. ‘You were about to faint again and we both know it.’

Her colour returned—all her hostility returning right along with it. ‘Do we really have to have an inquisition on every small gesture I make?’ she flicked at him.

‘No.’ He shrugged, displaying a frustrating calmness the more irate she became. ‘But if you feel fit to spit, I assume you also feel fit to walk?’

‘Go to hell,’ she said, and limped off down the shallow steps and onto the street.

He fell into step beside her, not touching but close enough to catch her if she decided to fall into a pathetic swoon.

They reached the car. He unlocked the door and saw her inside before going around to climb in beside her. The engine fired but the car didn’t move. Sitting there beside him, staring fixedly ahead, she waited with gritted teeth for what was coming.

As if on cue, the first question arrived. ‘What did the doctor say?’

‘Exactly what you said he would say,’ she replied. “‘Be a good girl. Do as you’re told and everything will be fine one day.’”

Her tone dripped sarcasm. But she couldn’t help it, she felt as if she were fighting for her very life here—yet she did not understand why!

Again, he showed that uncanny knack of latching onto her thoughts by sighing heavily. ‘Why do you feel you have to do battle against me all the time? Did the doctor offer you no reassurance at all about me?’

‘He performed beautifully,’ she assured him. ‘He confirmed that you are indeed who you say you are and I am who you say I am. He then went on to ask me a lot of questions which I have to presume were supposed to give everyone else answers to what is wrong with me—since everyone seems intent on keeping me in the dark about myself! Then he went on to advise me to work with you not against you, because you only had my best interests at heart.’

‘But you don’t believe that?’ he assumed from her acid tone.