Christmas Child

He met her eyes in the mirror. Troubled eyes? Surely not. Yet how was he to know? If Mattie had problems she never came to him with them; they didn’t have that type of relationship.

No messy emotional scenes of the sort he’d been afraid of when he’d been pussyfooting around the question of whether or not he should tell her he wanted to introduce sex into their marriage. Nothing tortured or angst-ridden to muddy the waters. If Matts had a problem she would simply buckle down and think her way out of whatever it might be.

‘Relax,’ he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, pushing the narrow straps out of the way as he began to massage the kinks out of tense muscles.

Maybe she was simply tired, and had a long day. ‘It will probably bore our socks off, but as long as we show our faces it won’t matter if we leave early. We’ll have supper in our favourite restaurant after—would you like that?’ His hands were caressing now, sliding forwards, touching the soft warm skin that rose just above the top of her slip.

‘I’m fine, really I am.’ Her voice now had a definite husk to it. ‘Supper would be lovely.’

The flush that had stolen into her cheeks made her eyes glitter. There was a tiny zip at the back of her slip. He pulled it down, eased the cups of the silky garment out of the way and stroked her breasts.

She was, as always, beautifully responsive. Her gorgeous breasts were swelling into his hands, her lips parting, her soft, deliciously scented flesh beginning to quiver, her long, tangled lashes flickering. Whoever would have guessed that the dowdy ill-fitting clothes of his little grey Mouse had hidden a body that was unadulterated, simmering sex? It never failed to amaze him. Or arouse him.

He shifted closer, pressing against her, his voice thick, his need great. ‘And it won’t matter a damn if we’re late.’

‘No?’ An impish gleam suddenly sparkled in her reflected eyes. ‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Very.’ His breath caught in his lungs as she twisted round on the stool and every sinew in his body tightened as he looped his arms around her and lifted her gently to her feet.

‘On your own head be it…’ Her voice tailed away on a breathless whisper, the teasing note swept away on a rip tide of desire, her mauve-shadowed eyelids closing as she swayed into the heat of his body and then away again to step sinuously out of her slip, her body naked for him except for the wicked black lace briefs she was wearing.

Waiting for him, wanting him as he wanted her.

Beautiful! His head was swimming, his heart pounding as he put one hand on her waist, the other at her nape and took her soft, parted lips with his, drowning in her fevered response to his possessive passion, drowning in the sexy grace of her, the sensual loveliness of her, the utter perfection of her.

He gasped as he at last released her mouth, his breath shuddering. ‘Witchery… The things you do to me! Sheer witchery—Mattie—!’

His voice didn’t sound as if it belonged to him. It sounded as if it came from a man in the throes of a deep and wild emotion. No other woman had ever made him lose his grip.

No other woman—an unheralded thought, as bright as a thread of pure silver, briefly penetrated the fog of desire his brain had become. He tried to grasp it but it slipped away like quicksilver as she insinuated a satin-smooth thigh between his hair-roughened legs and slid her hands down over his stomach to cradle the potent force of his manhood, the movements so erotic it made his bones shake.

With a muffled groan he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. And kissed her, kissed every silken, scented inch of her skin, sliding the wicked briefs down the length of her lovely legs, taking his time, making this right, needing to give her everything of himself, to make it as perfect for her as she made it for him.

Her breathing was shallow and fast, her hands touching him, demanding, feverish, her body on fire, burning for his, and he knew her so well, knew every nuance of expression, knew, quite exactly, when to cover her, to slide deep within her, feeling her buck against him, her body arching with need, and when she cried his name hoarsely and he felt her body spasm around him he let himself go and was consumed in the liquid, golden fire that was his Mattie.

His Mattie. His wife. The woman who had come into his life, made magic, transformed it. Made changes in him he was only just beginning to properly understand, to welcome.

They were very late, Mattie thought, looking around. The venue was packed with the seriously rich and the type of people who hung around them. The noise level was absolutely incredible.

‘I don’t want to leave you,’ James said, taking two glasses of what looked suspiciously like flat champagne from one of the circulating waiters. ‘You look so beautiful. But needs must. We’ll circulate and I’ll meet you back here in thirty minutes. No more. Then I’ll wine and dine you, and after that, who knows?’

His eyes had the drenched look they always had after they’d made love, Mattie thought, watching him swing away into the throng. Not only once, on the bed, but again in the shower. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. But beautiful? Well, she did her best. The tawny russet-coloured sleeveless silk sheath she was wearing was one of the ‘Must Haves’ Dawn had insisted she buy all those months ago.

Soon she wouldn’t be able to get into it.

Which was why she hadn’t wanted to come here tonight. She needed to tell him she was pregnant.

Her GP had confirmed it this morning. Three months pregnant. It must have been that very first time in Barbados. The only time they’d made love without using protection. And she’d assured him there would be no consequences and, worse, he’d trusted her implicitly. It made her feel just awful!

She didn’t know how he was going to take the news. It was something she was going to have to find out, and sooner rather than later.

He didn’t want children. And she didn’t want the child she was carrying to be unwanted by its father.

Already she was feeling fiercely protective of the new life inside her.

But surely, once he got used to the idea of fa

therhood, he’d be happy, too. She knew why he was so adamantly against having a family of their own. It went back to his childhood. He was afraid that he, like his own parents, would be unable to commit to a child, and he wouldn’t condemn any child to the type of upbringing he had had.