Bought: One Husband

She opened the bedroom door and went to find him.

She was back in control.

And nothing was going to change that. Ever!

CHAPTER SEVEN

SHE strode out of her room, her head high, her eyes narrowed, her jaw determined—and walked into the warm, shocking vitality of Jethro’s magnificent all-male body.

The breath whooshed out of her lungs as his steadying arms immediately enfolded her, and with it went all those tough resolutions to revert to normal, to remain cool, controlled and distant.

Impossible to fight the tumultuous sensations that engulfed her as her suddenly and wickedly sensitised body absorbed the heat of his, the burning imprint of the hard wall of his chest against her tight, peaking breasts, the potent jut of his pelvis, the strength of those long thighs that were melded to her own.

And somehow her arms had gone around him, too, her hands splayed against his broad back. He had obviously changed into the soft white T-shirt while his body was still wet from the shower, because it clung damply to him, and when she moved her fingers, stroking, she could feel the tautness of his muscles over hard bone, the moist heat of his skin. Her head lifted, her lips parting, tingling, eager. Her mind had gone hazy and the only thing she could remember was the way his mouth had taken hers twenty-four hours ago. She wanted that again. Craved it with a desperation that had come out of nowhere, engulfing her with a tidal wave of need.

Kiss me.

She almost said the words out loud, and was so relieved she hadn’t that she actually felt sick when he said, ‘Steady on. Where’s the fire?’ and disengaged their arms, their coupled bodies, and told her lightly, ‘I was on my way down to make supper. Come and keep me company. You can lay the table and open the wine.’ His smile was kind, in a big-brotherly way, so perhaps he hadn’t noticed her immediate and crazy response. But whether he had or hadn’t, she felt deeply mortified.

She knew how she’d felt: abandoned and—she had to face it—wanton. His for the taking, or as good as. And that was utterly, totally humiliating.

Hadn’t she spent the whole of her adult life ignoring her sexuality with no trouble at all? Surely she wasn’t going to get into difficulties around Jethro Feckless Cole?

He was already clattering down the oak staircase, oblivious to the tumult he’d left behind, ready for his supper. The brief interlude that had robbed her of her now tenuous composure already forgotten.

A man who had his priorities right, she decided acidly, following, but slowly. Filling his stomach with food was more important than filling his arms with her shamefully willing body. The light-minded sexual interest he’d shown before she’d proposed this marriage had been easily forgotten because he wanted the money far more than he had ever wanted her!

For which she should be profoundly grateful, she snorted at herself. Not peeved, for pity’s sake!

She turned and headed back to her room, and presented herself in the kitchen five minutes later. She’d made out a cheque to him. The figure would have emptied her bank account but it was worth it, because it was payment for the right to install Laura at Studley and because it reinforced the fact that their being here together was nothing more than a business arrangement.

Silently, holding her breath, she padded over the terracotta tiles and placed the cheque on one end of the polished oak refectory table. But he heard her—must have done—because he turned from the cooker and instructed lightly, ‘Open a bottle of wine, would you, Allie? You’ll find the rack in the larder.’

The wooden spoon he held in one hand swung idly towards a door between a massive pine dresser and a cavernous inglenook fireplace, and then he turned back to the meal he was making, stirring a pan which gently emitted a wreath of garlicky, tomatoey steam.

Allie wasn’t going to argue with him. She’d meant to leave the room as quietly as she’d entered it, take herself for a long walk, because she wanted to get herself straightened out after the rush of lust she’d fallen prey to a scant ten minutes ago.

But somehow he’d been aware of her silent presence. So, she wouldn’t get awkward about it, she’d stay and eat with him, and that way she could at least prove to herself that she was back in control of herself again and had won the battle with her wretched hormones.

The wine rack was enormous, and fully stocked. Allie felt distinctly uncomfortable as she selected a bottle of red. She didn’t know a lot about vintages but the label looked expensive.

‘We can’t keep using your friend’s food and drink,’ she stated briskly as she walked back into the kitchen where he was feeding pasta into a pan of boiling water. ‘Are there an

y shops nearby? I could replace what we’ve used and stock up with our own stuff.’ Mentally applauding herself for the achievement of a coolly restrained tone, she added crisply, ‘Your cheque’s on the table. I would imagine you’d like to pay it into your account as soon as possible.’

There. She couldn’t have said anything more calculated to force the business side of their relationship home if she’d tried. So if he’d noticed the way she’d clung, and stroked, and sort of—wriggled when they’d collided earlier he would have no option but to put it down to shock at being winded. She couldn’t bear him to think she—well, fancied him.

Because she didn’t. Well, not really. Not at all!

She started to hunt down the bottle-opener and Jethro said, ‘The village is five miles away and the single shop doesn’t offer anything more exotic than fish fingers and oven chips.’ He watched her open drawers, her lovely face devoid of any expression. Not too long ago she had looked at him with drowning eyes, her luscious lips parted just asking to be kissed, her body pressed against his and making sensational little wiggling movements.

Moving away from her had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He’d wanted to take what she probably hadn’t realised she’d put on offer so badly he’d hurt all over. But he’d made his decision. Making love to her could wait. It would have to.

He wanted to earn her trust, her respect; he wanted her to fall in love with him and share his certainty about their future together before he took her to bed. He wanted her to be as sure as he was.

He ought to be wearing a halo, he told himself drily and said aloud, ‘And banking the cheque can wait.’ Until hell froze over. He wouldn’t touch a penny of her money. Then he started to dish up their meal, and added, ‘Bob won’t mind our helping ourselves.’

She stopped fiddling with the bottle and the opener and withered him with a disdainful stare. Too late, he knew that his words, his lazy, throw-away tone, must have made him sound like the world’s worst sponger, and that was no way to earn her respect!