Bought: One Husband

‘Yes, she’s fine. Fortunately he talked some sense into his sister’s head before she got in too deep. She’s working hard and playing hard, and most of the time lives within the allowance he makes her. He could keep her in idle luxury for the rest of her life, but he insists she makes it under her own steam. Mind you…’ he stood up and stacked their empty plates ‘…on the few occasions when she’s overspent she can wheedle more funds out of him. She can twist him round her little finger! And as to your other question, she really won’t mind your using her room. Chloe’s one of the most giving people I know.’

He carried the plates and dishes they’d used over to the sink, rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher, and Allie thought with a stab of shock, He’s in love with his friend’s sister! The very real fondness in his tone when he spoke of her was unmistakable, and he hadn’t bothered to hide the way his impressively tough yet attractive features softened with deep affection when he mentioned her name.

To her horror, she recognised the hot, hard lump in her gut as jealousy, and told herself not to be such an all-fired fool. They had a business arrangement. His private life was nothing to do with her.

Her suddenly clouded eyes watched him as he dried his hands, unwillingly skimming those wide shoulders, the narrow waist and long, denim-encased legs. Her breath caught in her throat. So much potential.

Potential for what?

She wasn’t going to answer that. And when he smiled at her and asked, ‘Coffee, Allie?’ she nodded, looking away, because she couldn’t bear to be on the receiving end of something so charged with sexual chemistry when it didn’t mean a damn thing. She forced herself to think of something else.

Had falling in love with his best friend’s sister made him realise that his feckless lifestyle didn’t make him good husband material? She made herself consider objectively. Was that why he’d tried to pull himself up by his bootstraps and start that window-cleaning business? Why he’d grabbed her offer of a substantial sum of money in return for marriage so that he would have something to offer his Chloe?

A year on and she’d be qualified and he would be free. Did he intend to use the money he’d earned to stake her in her own business?

It seemed perfectly and horribly logical. Allie discounted his earlier attempts to date her with no trouble at all. He was the dishiest man she’d ever laid eyes on and he had that indefinable aura of mastery that women seemed to go for. He probably had a string of meaningless affairs behind him and felt that embarking on another was no big deal. His real emotions would be kept on hold until he could go to the woman he loved without empty hands.

So why should that bother her? They weren’t really man and wife, not in the true sense of the words. That had never been their intention. So why did she feel rejected, spurned? And why did the warm summer night suddenly seem so bleak and cold?

CHAPTER EIGHT

IT WAS going to be another glorious summer day. Allie had woken early, in a sober mood.

She had made a fool of herself last night, though thankfully Jethro would not have guessed the reason behind her sudden, tight-lipped statement that she’d changed her mind about that coffee, the way she’d swept out of the room giving him a brusque good-night.

He would have put her ill-mannered departure down to boredom with his company, or, worse, an arrogant belief that he, the humble window-cleaner, didn’t merit normal politeness.

That made her squirm beneath the light covers. But at least he couldn’t have guessed that her behaviour had been a knee-jerk reaction to the humiliation of feeling like a hurt, rejected wife! That would have been utterly intolerable!

Thrusting her long legs out of bed, she headed for the shower, pulling the roomy T-shirt that passed as nightwear over her head as she went.

She really did have to get herself sorted, stop feeling and behaving like a mixed-up wimp. She stood under the shower and waited for the needles of hot water to ease the kinks from her body and the knots from her brain.

Jethro didn’t want her and she didn’t want him—except, of course, for what they could get out of each other. So her dog-in-the-manger attitude when his affection—love?—for his friend’s sister had hit her like a Stone Age cudgel just had to be down to the stress of the day.

Marrying Jethro had been deceitful, whichever way you looked at it—getting Studley for Laura under false pretences, deceiving Laura herself. But it had been done for her mother’s future happiness, and she didn’t care about getting the better of Fabian because he deserved it. In any case, he was no longer around to know what she’d done, or lose any sleep over it because just for once he’d been bested.

There was no need for her to feel guilty. Really there wasn’t. Feeling guilty only led to feeing stressed out. And feeling that led to imagining she wanted Jethro to kiss her again, imagining—

Enough of that, she told herself acerbically. Quite enough. You have a year of this fake marriage to get through, so start as you mean to go on.

Pleasant, polite, but distant. Acceptably distant. And she would start by making breakfast and meaningless remarks about the weather.

Sorted. She felt better. Dressed in a pair of workman-like navy cotton trousers, topped by a sleeveless white shirt, she pushed her feet into canvas mules and left her hair loose to dry naturally.

But the kitchen clock told her it was barely seven. There was no sign of Jethro so she wouldn’t start making breakfast yet. For all she knew he could favour lying in bed until noon.

She knew nothing about him, and intended to keep it that way.

‘Hungry?’ He walked into the kitchen via the garden door, making her practically jump out of her skin. At least she put the way her heart was doing an Irish jig down to being startled.

She blinked at him, then turned away quickly and began to fill the kettle at the sink, fumbling. Did he have to look so vibrantly male? Did he always have that aura of dangerous sexuality? Did he make every woman he came into contact with lose her backbone, lose her marbles?

The kettle overflowed, and his elegantly made, strong-fingered hand took it from her, turned off the tap. He was so close, that big hard body not touching hers, but almost. Wearing frayed denim cut-offs and a sleeveless black vest he was dynamite, his skin tanned, roughened by dark body hair. Every inch of him exuded highly potent masculinity and she could feel the heat of him, smell the clean male scent of him, reach out a hand and touch him. If she wanted to.

Her skin burned, catching fire from his. Something twisted low down inside her and she felt dizzy. She closed her eyes to shut him out and told him, ‘I was going to make breakfast but didn’t know if you were up.’ And she wondered if that was her voice, or if a chicken had wandered in and someone was strangling it.

‘One of these days you will,’ he answered enigmatically. Amusement, warmth and sensuality laced his voice, but she wasn’t going to ask what he meant by that remark and shuffled her feet sideways, putting very necessary space between them.