‘We don’t have to do this,’ she said in the cool tones that told him that the fluster brought on by the kissing, stroking and holding of last evening was buried well in the past as far as she was concerned. ‘It was good of your friend to say you could borrow his holiday cottage, but as it won’t be a real honeymoon I don’t see the point. So why don’t we head back to London instead? We did agree we’d share my flat for the duration of the marriage. In any case, we have to present ourselves, and the marriage certificate, at Fabian’s solicitors.’
‘Plenty of time for that,’ he stated unequivocally. ‘You can phone for an appointment from the cottage; you’ve got all of three weeks to wave the thing under his nose and claim your inheritance.’ The engine rattled and coughed as he negotiated the huge traffic island on the by-pass and pointed the battle-scarred bonnet west.
No way were they heading back to her place.
Last night, after they’d escaped from her family, she’d described her flat as ‘tiny’. One small bedroom, more like a cupboard, really, but there was a sofa-bed arrangement in the living room and he could sleep on that. She used it herself on the rare occasions when Laura came to visit, and it wasn’t really that uncomfortable.
He could live with a flat of shoe-box proportions, sleep on a lumpy sofa contraption—no problem. If he had to take up residence in a dustbin to be with her, he’d do so gladly. But once back in London, on her home territory, she’d take herself off, make herself scarce; he knew she would. Once the business with the solicitor was over she’d be lunching with her agent, getting back into the swing of things, and before he knew it she’d be off on a shoot on the other side of the world, putting as much distance as she could between herself and her unwanted but unfortunately necessary husband.
He needed a couple of weeks, just the two of them alone together, to get her to change her mind about his role in her life—and when he’d accomplished that, sofa-beds and separate lives would be the last thing she’d want.
‘Think about it,’ he said smoothly. ‘I already told Laura that my old school-mate offered us the use of his country hideaway. I said we’d be there for a couple of weeks and she has the phone number, remember. She’ll start to get suspicious if she tries to contact us and can’t, and then discovers we passed up the opportunity of a free honeymoon in rural isolation.’
He had a point, Allie conceded sinkingly. They must do nothing to make her mother suspect that this marriage was anything other than a true love-match. They couldn’t do a single thing to rock the boat until the fat lady sang. And that wouldn’t happen until Laura was safely back at Studley and ready to believe, twelve months down the road, that the marriage simply hadn’t worked out.
It was the ‘rural isolation’ bit that made her toes curl. Back in London she could stay out of his way for most of the time, start her career moving again, get involved in her work, take charge of herself for a change. Ever since he’d agreed to marry her he’d been the one taking control—fixing the wedding up so quickly, telling Laura that there was no point in hanging round since they knew they were going to spend the rest of their lives together, apparently contacting an old schoolfriend to ask for the use of his cottage because, as he’d said, he couldn’t afford the South of France or a Caribbean island, not on what he earned as a fledgling window-cleaner.
‘How isolated?’ she asked, hating the note of apprehension in her voice, trying to assure herself that there was nothing to get paranoid about because they had a non-consummation pact, didn’t they? He wouldn’t try anything on, would he? And the way she’d turned to a jelly when he’d kissed her and held her had been down to nervous tension.
Hadn’t it?
‘Not a neighbour in sight,’ he answered blithely. ‘Just the birds an
d the bees and the butterflies.’
Wrong—all the butterflies in creation had taken residence in her tummy. ‘Won’t you get terribly bored?’ she suggested, out of sheer desperation. ‘With nothing to do?’
And she shuddered when a million electric sparks bombarded her spine as he turned briefly to her, his mouth a sensual curve, his golden eyes heart-crashingly wicked as he murmured softly, ‘I’ll find something. You can bet a year’s earnings on that.’
Wisely, Allie shut her mouth, and kept it shut for the next twenty-odd miles. He hadn’t actually meant anything, even though his eyes had been definitely carrying a come-to-bed message. He was just teasing, winding her up, having fun at her expense.
She hoped he wouldn’t keep it up during the coming two weeks. It would drive her crazy if he did! And she was not going to ask herself why that should be.
He broke the lengthy silence. ‘Almost there.’ They were inching down a steep gradient now, down an unmade track with grass growing along the centre and high leafy hedgerows almost meeting overhead, cutting out the sunlight. Welsh border country, and, as the crow flew, not too far from Studley. Romantic country.
She didn’t want to think of romantic, but couldn’t help it when the final bend brought them to a high garden wall with an arched opening that gave them a glimpse of a stone-built cottage, very much larger than she’d expected, with roses sprawling round the wide oak door and dozens of tiny-paned mullioned windows that twinkled in the late afternoon light.
‘It’s beautiful!’ Despite being dead set against coming here at all, Allie couldn’t quash the exclamation of delight. From what she could see of the obviously extensive gardens Jethro’s friend favoured the rampageous cottage style, and if she craned her neck she got a glimpse of an archway in the high stone boundary wall which framed a tantalising vista of meadows, trees and distant rolling hills.
A perfect place to spend a week or two soaking up the peace, wallowing in the serenity of the Garden of Eden before the Fall—but there wasn’t going to be a fall, she reminded herself when her body went into high-tension mode as Jethro strolled round from the rear of the van to open the passenger door at her side.
If he touched her he would spoil it all, shatter the trance-like peace of this magical place. She held her breath and her skin prickled with the tightness of expectancy and apprehension, because after that charade last evening in front of Laura and Fran she knew that his slightest touch was capable of starting a major riot inside her.
But he made no move to help her out, simply held the door open, reaching for the two suitcases he’d fetched from the rear while she’d been lost in admiration of the property, and left her to it.
Left her to unwillingly admire his back view as he carried the cases towards the cottage door. Somehow he’d managed to find time to buy a suit in honour of the occasion. It certainly looked brand-new, and very definitely off-the-peg. But the poor cut and inexpensive fabric did nothing to detract from the superb body beneath, or the fluid, macho grace of the way that body moved.
Allie gulped around the rock that had suddenly taken up residence in her throat and reluctantly followed.
Jethro unlocked the heavy oak door, reclaimed the suitcases and pushed his way in, and hoped to heaven his staff had absorbed his telephoned orders and would follow them to the letter. Any slip-up could ruin his long-term plans.
He had no worries as far as Jim, his gardener, was concerned. Practical, reliable, unquestioning, male, old Jim wouldn’t come near the property for the next two weeks because his boss had told him not to. But Ethel, his housekeeper, who kept the cottage spick and span during his lengthy absences, would be itching to know why she’d been instructed to fully stock the deep-freeze, fridge, larder and wine racks and then make herself scarce for a couple of weeks.
He wouldn’t put it past her to be hovering around, ostensibly just on her way out after carrying out his orders and stocking up on food and wine, her black eyes sparking with feminine curiosity as she waited to see just why he wanted this place entirely to himself, and who, if anyone, he was bringing with him.
Unapologetic for the sexism of his thoughts, he strode through to the kitchen, relieved to find it innocent of any avidly curious female presence, and then went back to collect Allie, who was still hovering in the hall, twisting the tawdry wedding band round and round on her slender finger.
His heart twisted with compassion. The poor darling was wired up with nerves, had lost that fabled cool, touch-me-not persona that had been—as he’d discovered to his cost—bone-deep, not merely a trademark.