Bought: One Husband

She moulded the shape of his naked shoulders with the palms of her hands, her head tilted, her hair sun-bleached and wild where he’d tangled his fingers in the long silky strands. ‘We don’t really want supper, do we?’ she suggested, her voice a sultry invitation. Already her body, naked beneath the cotton shirt of his she was wearing, was unbearably sensitised. She dug her bare toes into the cool green grass, stretching up to fit the apex of her thighs against the surge of his arousal that the brief shorts he was wearing did little to contain.

‘Not yet awhile.’ His eyes gleamed into hers as he moved against her provocatively. ‘Bed calls, don’t you agree, sweet wife?’

She was too far gone to answer, and curled her arms around his neck, nibbling his tanned shoulder as he swung her up and carried her back to the house. But the phone was ringing—an unprecedented event since they’d been here, an unwanted intrusion.

‘You’d better take it—it’s probably for your friend,’ she told him as he slid her down to plant her on her feet.

‘Or ignore it?’ he suggested, his eyes wicked, teasing her as she shook her head. ‘Well, if you insist—just don’t change your mind about going to bed.’

‘As if!’ She lifted her hand and put two fingers briefly and tenderly across his mouth. ‘Answer it, before it explodes! Give me a shout if it’s my mother.’ She wandered towards the kitchen, the tail of the borrowed cotton shirt brushing against her thighs. She had never been so happy in her entire life.

She took a carton of apple juice from the fridge and poured herself a glass, hanging around in case the caller was her mother. She’d spoken to Laura shortly after they’d arrived, to let her know they’d got here safely, that the old van hadn’t fallen to pieces on the way, that the house and surroundings were idyllic.

She would have to persuade Jethro to change the wretched vehicle for something that promised more reliability. She sipped her cold drink and decided that stuff like that could wait.

When they’d set up home in her tiny flat they could discuss how he could best use the money she’d paid him. If he wanted to carry on cleaning windows, that would be fine by her. She’d have to talk to him about keeping proper books, advertising his services, getting proper insurance. But it could wait.

They had two days left before their two weeks were up and she meant to make the best of them, not start wittering on about his work prospects, how they would manage when she had to give up work when the child they both wanted was on the way.

The line of his shoulders was tense and irritable when he walked into the room. She rinsed out her empty glass and said, ‘It obviously wasn’t my mother. Would you like apple juice?’

He shook his head to both, but he didn’t elaborate on who the caller had been. ‘I’ll go for something stronger.’ He reached the chilled white wine from the fridge. ‘Like

some?’

She watched his long, lean fingers deal with the foil round the neck of the bottle, insert the corkscrew. The simple task surely didn’t merit that grim look around his mouth.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked. He seemed, suddenly, to have gone away from her. ‘Tell me if there is.’ It had to be that phone call. Could it have been the owner of the house, his old schoolfriend, asking him to leave because he needed the place himself? Was that why he was looking so impatient?

‘Of course there’s nothing wrong.’ Nothing but Chloe’s rotten timing. Determinedly, he put his sister’s phone call—the ramifications of which could mean trouble—to the back of his mind. For what was left of their time here his priority was Allie.

‘Why should there be?’ He drew the cork, tucked two glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other. It would be their last night of being just themselves in this paradise; nothing was going to spoil it.

The real world of big deals, boardrooms, chattering faxes, business meetings on the other side of the world, his sycophantic entourage of secretaries, managers, assistants and minders would encroach soon enough. He would explain everything to her tomorrow. Tonight was for them, and only them.

He gave her the slow, intimate smile that always turned her spine to water. ‘I believe, Mrs Cole, that you and I have a date with a bed.’

And so the incident was temporarily forgotten.

Very much later she stirred in his arms. He was stroking her hair. Maybe he hadn’t slept. She had. His lovemaking had reached new heights of intensity; she couldn’t believe anything, ever, could get better than that. She turned her head drowsily. ‘What time is it?’

‘So Sleeping Beauty finally wakes.’ His fingers traced the line of her profile. ‘Almost dawn.’ The pads of his fingers rested on her mouth. ‘We’ll leave today, head for London.’

Allie twisted her head to look at him. In the grey pre-dawn light his features looked sombre, his eyes shadowed, unreadable.

‘I thought we’d be here until the day after,’ she protested. She’d made plans for their final full day here: take a picnic to the secluded lake in a fold of the thickly wooded hills, swim in the cooling waters, make love on the mossy bank…

‘Afraid not, sweetheart.’ He settled back against the pillows, crossing his arms behind his head. ‘You need to see that solicitor to sort out your inheritance—time’s moving on, remember. And I need to see someone about a business venture.’

Nothing that couldn’t have waited one more day, surely? She lifted herself up on one elbow, her head tilted as she peered into his face. His eyes were firmly closed. He wasn’t fooling her; she’d heard the regret in his voice because he hadn’t been able to hide it, and she knew he was as reluctant as she to end this blissful rural idyll.

‘What business venture?’ Was he trying to set up something that would secure their future? Did he have contacts in London through the old-school network? Or was it simply an excuse?

She suspected it was the latter when he merely said off-handedly, ‘Tell you all about it when it’s sorted.’

He could explain now, he thought. There was time before they need get up and begin to pack. How to begin, though? Would she see the whole thing as amusing? Understand why he’d made the decision to keep the reality of his life from her? Or would she view it as plain and simple deception, stop trusting him?

But she took the problem of how best to state his case right out of his mind when she wrapped her arms around him and nestled her head against his chest. ‘This place is a million times better than my poky pad, but to tell you the truth, my dear love, I don’t care where we are as long as we’re together.’