The Unforgettable Husband

She licked the honey spoon. It could have been deliberate—but probably wasn’t. Whatever, he felt his body stir, his own eyes darken in response.

‘Bitterness hurts almost as much as the reason for it,’ she said. Then she licked the darned spoon again with the full flat surface of her pink tongue.

‘So you’ve decided to do what?’ he prompted from somewhere way at the back of his overactive hormones.

‘Try to put it to one side, I suppose.’ She shrugged. She dipped the spoon into the porridge now, and began eating it.

In dire need of something casual to do, André picked up the teapot and began pouring. Then he thought, To hell with it, and threw caution to the wind.

‘You know, I’ve been thinking too,’ he said, pushing a cup towards her. ‘Has it occurred to you that if you hadn’t had your accident and lost your memory you probably would have come back here eventually?’

‘I know it.’ She surprised him by admitting it. Then surprised him again with an impish smile. ‘Got the memory back,’ she reminded him. ‘It’s telling me all sorts of things I’d forgotten about.’

Meaning what? He wanted to ask, but didn’t dare in case he didn’t like the answer. So he stuck doggedly to the point he had been trying to make. ‘Well, don’t you think that if you had come back we would have gone through more or less what we have been doing for the last few days? Only, you would have been angry instead of frightened and bewildered,’ he added. ‘And I would have been digging my own grave by maintaining my lofty position as victim, because pride would not have allowed me to accept I was in the wrong when it would have meant my grovelling at your beautif

ul feet.’

‘Would you have done—eventually?’ She looked really curious to know.

‘Haven’t I been doing that in one way or another?’ he countered ruefully.

‘When?’ Putting down the porridge spoon, she replaced it with the teaspoon from her saucer. ‘When have you actually got down at my feet and grovelled for forgiveness for anything?’ she demanded, calmly using the teaspoon now to dip into the honey pot again.

His loins began to tighten in anticipation of another round of sensual torment. The porridge was gone, which meant there was only one place that spoonful of honey was meant to go. His eyes suddenly felt as hot as the rest of him.

‘Put that spoon in your mouth and I will give you a full demonstration of how a man grovels.’ He growled at her.

The spoon became suspended halfway between honey pot and her parted mouth. The air began to sizzle. His body was infused with that tight tingle of readiness to move like lightning if she forced him to. All it needed was for that spoon to finish its journey and there was no way, now, he could back away from a challenge he had thrown down without thinking it through first.

Spoon in mouth, I go for her. Spoon laid down, I stew in my own damned frustration.

Her eyes began to glow. His began to burn. The spoon went into her mouth. He was around that table before she had a chance to do more than drop the spoon and shriek, ‘André, no!’

‘André, no—you little liar,’ he gritted, lifted her to her feet and kissed her hotly.

She melted as the honey had melted into the hot porridge. Slow and smooth, sensual and sweet. She couldn’t even hold herself upright. His arms tightened around her; his mouth lifted free. He tasted of honey, she tasted of honey, the air swirled with its seductive scent.

‘You’ve been gunning for this reaction since you came down the stairs,’ he accused, his voice like gravel.

‘That isn’t true!’ she protested.

‘No? Then, why the skimpy robe?’ He challenged. ‘Why are you wearing nothing beneath?’ Her cheeks grew hot. He grinned like a tiger with his prey all neatly tied up and ready to eat. ‘You knew I was sitting down here worrying about you. You knew I’d be waiting like some slavish lap-dog for you to give me permission to leap. So I’ve leapt,’ he gritted. ‘Now let’s see if you like what the lap-dog turns into when he’s aroused.’

‘You are no lap-dog!’ She flashed the words at him scathingly. ‘More a scavenging wolf, feeding on the remains of those weaker than you!’

‘Are we talking about the Bressingham and your father again?’ He sighed out wearily.

‘And the Tremount. And the lies!’ Her eyes flashed all hell and damnation at him. ‘And the arrogant belief that you only have to touch me to make me bend to your will!’

‘The lies, I apologise for. The Tremount, I don’t,’ he said. ‘And the last little truth is your own cross to bear, cara mia, not mine!’

And to prove it, he kissed her again. She bent, she melted, she groaned and cursed him and kissed him back as though her very life depended on it. He picked her up in his arms and started walking, mouth to mouth, giving her no chance to come back down to earth again.

Out of the kitchen, down the hall and past the study, still bathed in soft light and the sound of Puccini. Half sobbing in his arms, she was so annoyed with herself for letting him do this. He walked the stairs with his lungs beginning to burst—not from the work of carrying her, but because he needed her so badly he was barely managing to control himself.

The bed awaited, still with the cool white duvet thrown back and the imprint of her body pressed into the sheet. Laying her down on that same imprint, he finally broke the kiss so he could straighten and begin taking off his clothes.

The little witch just lay there and watched him, bold as brass. ‘If you want this to stop, say so now,’ he gritted on a sudden twinge of conscience.