Christmas Child

And she’d do.

She felt her face go red and abstractedly poured fruit juice into one of the tall glasses. Then stared at it. She didn’t want it, and, even if she did, there was a lump in her throat the size of Snowdon and she wouldn’t be able to swallow a single drop of it.

She wanted him to make love to her, oh, of course she did. Just thinking about it made liquid flames ignite deep inside her.

But she was going to have to think this out. Rationally. Take a leaf from his book and not allow her emotions to rule her head.

She got to her feet, took a deep breath and followed him. She knew his integrity of old; all she had to do was ask the question. Ask him if he’d be using her in an attempt to drive the memory of Fiona out of his head.

Because, if he was, it wouldn’t work.

She knew there was no way she could be favourably compared to the fabulous, sophisticated woman he had really wanted to marry, and it followed that if it came down to it he would find her a poor bed mate. An inexperienced virgin. Without love on his part it would be a disaster and could only make everything so very much worse.

If she followed her emotions and let him make love to her he would feel himself tied. Trapped. He was an honourable man without a cruel bone in his body—he would hardly turn around then, tell her their marriage wasn’t working, and ask for a divorce.

She negotiated the length of the sprawling white villa and turned onto the sweep of emerald-green grass. He could have gone inside by the main entrance, but somehow she didn’t think so.

The heat seemed oppressive now and her T-shirt was sticking to her body. She pushed her hair out of her eyes with the back of one hand and glanced around. Twin stone pillars marked the transition between the driveway and the track that led, she guessed, down to the small village and harbour she’d seen from the helicopter yesterday. He would hardly have gone that way, dressed as he was.

Mattie headed seawards. A short flight of wooden steps led down to the sheltered cove. The silvery sand curved in a crescent, an empty crescent. The fluttering inside her subsided to a dull ache of disappointment then began in earnest again, tying her stomach in knots as she saw him cleaving through the jade-green waters, far out.

She lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the painful glare of the sun, watching him, her teeth biting into her lower lip. Mercy had talked of sharks. Fear closed its icy fingers round her heart.

Stupid! she chided herself. He knows what he’s doing, he always does. Foolish to think, even for a moment, that she was watching a man who was trying to outpace some private demons. James wasn’t like that. He was merely using up some of that boundless energy of his while giving her time to think about what he’d said.

And because his emotions weren’t in play, he wouldn’t be too bothered about her answer.

He wasn’t as ‘off women’ as he’d believed himself to be. Sex was important to him, after all. It had only taken a few weeks of celibacy for him to come to that conclusion.

If she wouldn’t oblige then their strange marriage would be over and he’d turn to one of the lovely young creatures who hung around him.

With a dredging sigh of relief she saw him strike back towards the shore. Her shoulders relaxed and just as suddenly her mind became as crystal clear as the stretch of glittering waters that lay between them.

His reasons for wanting to make their marriage a real one no longer mattered. Forget the ethics of the situation, they weren’t important.

She wasn’t a cowering mouse, she was a full-blooded woman and he was her husband. And she loved him enough for both of them, enough to make up for his lack in that department.

Kicking off her canvas shoes, she walked slowly into the water, heading towards him, and when the wavelets reached her waist she stopped, watching his powerful crawl, the dedication he was bringing to the expending of energy. And when a wave, higher than the rest, soaked her T-shirt, she gasped, feeling her breasts harden, her nipples peak against the wet fabric.

He saw her then, she knew he did, because he changed to a lazy side stroke, his eyes on her as he slowly drew closer, almost as if he didn’t want her breaking his solitude.

Still yards away, he stood up, slicked back his wet hair with one hand, and all she could see was the tension in his powerful body and all she could hear was the thunder of her heartbeats, the gentle lapping of the water until, long moments later, he said, ‘What are you doing?’

A fair question. Fully dressed and up to her waist in water! She felt her lips curve. ‘Making a symbolic gesture—meeting you halfway.’ And held out her arms.

‘Matts—’ He began to move towards her and she could see the stark query in his eyes. She pushed through the water, reaching him, her hands touching his shoulders, feeling the silky tightness of his warm skin, the tautly defined muscles that lay beneath with the tips of her fingers.

His breathing was as shallow and rapid as her own, his stomach muscles clenched. Mattie’s toes curled into the sandy bed of the sea and her body shook with fine, helpless tremors.

‘Kiss me,’ she invited, her voice breathless, and saw his eyes darken.

‘You want me to?’ he asked softly. But he didn’t reach out to touch her; his hands were clenched into fists at his side.

Love gave Mattie the courage she needed. Her hands slipped from his shoulders, captured one of the fists and slowly unclenched his fingers, her eyes intent on what she was doing. ‘Can’t you tell?’ She lifted his hand and placed it on one engorged breast, the peaking nipple telling the truth, and she heard the harsh drag of his breath, saw the deep shudder that swept through his body.

‘You’ve thought this out?’ The hand that had so briefly held her breast dropped back to his side. ‘It wasn’t an ultimatum, Mattie,’ he said flatly. ‘Just a statement of fact. I want a full marriage, but I don’t want you to agree to something you would be unhappy about.’

‘You’re not making this easy,’ she muttered, feeling faintly ridiculous and very awkward.