The Faithful Wife

Here today and gone for at least a month! she amended in her head. Well, the black-eyed devil had finally walked out for good, and now she didn’t have to subordinate herself to him or anyone else!

‘I said, get out,’ she repeated when he made no move.

He was seemingly rooted to the spot in the open doorway, his straddle-legged stance familiarly dominant, thumbs hooked into the back pockets of his jeans, dark hair falling over one eye, the unintentional designer stubble adding to the aura of rakish danger that was coming off him in waves, filling the room...

Tantrums suited her, he thought, hooded eyes appraising the wild black tumble of hair falling over naked creamy shoulders, the hectic flares of colour on those perfect cheekbones, the silver fire of her eyes, the tempting glimpse of pert, palm-sized breasts glimmering beneath the lace of that piece of seductive night wear he remembered so well. One out of many such pieces of sorcery, designed to send a man out of his mind...

He hauled his unwise thought processes back on line. Sure, she could still fire him up, but it was only common or garden lust, not the rare and precious bloom of love. That had died when he’d moved heaven and earth to get back to her for what had been left of their third wedding anniversary—and found her wrapped around Maclaine.

Bleak anger settled in his heart, turning it to stone. Had Maclaine dumped her? Was that what this was all about? Had she set this thing up—wasting his time, trying his patience to the limit—because she was conceited enough or stupid enough to believe that she only had to bat those fabulous lashes at him to get him to take her back, live with her and miraculously forget she was an adulterous bitch?

Sure, she’d told him in no uncertain manner to get out of her room. But that was only for openers; the end game would be something else entirely.

She’d made no attempt to cover herself—and what sensible woman packed such man-trap bait for a holiday in the winter wilds of Wales with her kid sister?

Her protestations of innocence regarding her part in this wearisome far

ce would have held a darn sight more water if she’d been muffled in flannelette right up to her pretty pink ears!

‘Right.’ He cleared his throat. He tried to pull his eyes from her but couldn’t; they were stubbornly intent on drinking in all that sensual loveliness, and there didn’t seem to be a damn thing he could do about it. ‘Let’s get things sorted out.’

His voice had husky undertones, Bella noted. Oh, he’d tried to make it crisp, but he’d dismally failed. She knew that tone, recognised the sultry gleam in those hooded eyes. He wanted her. He couldn’t disguise it. Not from her.

Two years into their marriage, around the time she’d gone back to work with Guy, he’d stopped wanting her. He’d barely been at home at all, and had been exhausted when he was. The lust that had led him to marry her had finally been slaked. But it hadn’t completely died...

The shock of it made her stomach twist, ignite with curling flames of fever that rampaged through her body. She sucked in a sharp breath and dragged the duvet up to her chin. The passion of her rage with Evie and Kitty for landing her in this mess had encompassed him, making her oblivious to what she was wearing.

‘Go away.’ She knew she sounded feeble now, hated herself for it. And, far from doing as she’d said, he took a few more paces into the room. Any closer and she’d weakly give in to the temptation to beg him to take her in his arms, hold her and make love to her again. Beg him to take them both back to the beginning, when she’d believed everything to be perfect and that he could give her everything she wanted.

‘I’ll go when you’ve explained why you were so desperate to get me here.’

The delayed modesty, the wide, troubled eyes, didn’t fool him. It was all a cynical act. It took one to know one, he thought tiredly, wanting to get this sorted out, packed away and put behind him as he had assumed—wrongly, it would seem—it had been for the whole of the past twelve months.

‘You don’t believe a word I say,’ she accused, her voice shaky. He thought she was a scheming liar. It hurt. It shouldn’t, because she ought to be used to it, but it did. Unbearably.

Her eyes filled with tears. If he didn’t leave this room, right now, she’d go to pieces, and her pride wouldn’t let that happen twice in one day. Just as her pride hadn’t let her try to make contact of any kind with him after he’d ended their marriage by walking out.

‘Just tell me what it’s all about,’ he suggested tiredly. Suddenly he felt drained. He didn’t want to argue with her, to have to play it her way and coax and cajole her into explaining herself. He wanted out.

Bella saw bored indifference, heard it in his voice, and anger stirred again, deep, deep inside her. ‘How can I, when I don’t know?’ she said through gritted teeth. She saw him shrug, turn away, and knew she wanted to feel relief because he was on his way out but, perversely, didn’t.

She wanted to beg him to stay, to stop accusing her of something she hadn’t done, talk to her, just talk to her, treat her like an intelligent human being for once.

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t give you the opportunity,’ he said tonelessly. ‘I can’t force you to tell me why you set this up, and quite frankly I don’t want to put myself to that kind of trouble. If you’ve blown the opportunity to tell me your reasons you’ve only yourself to blame.

‘I’ll be leaving at first light, and you won’t be going with me. Even getting to the nearest farmhouse and a telephone won’t be a picnic, and I’ll make better headway on my own. Let me know if you want me to arrange transport to get you out of here.’

Closing the door behind him, he clattered down the staircase. No way could he spend the night tossing and turning in a bed only a few feet away from hers, with only a partition wall separating them.

Seeing her again had brought needs he’d subjugated for twelve arid months bludgeoning back to life. He was only flesh and blood!

Hell! Here he was, Jake Fox, subject of enough articles in the financial press to fill a ten-ton container, having made his first paper million on the money markets before he was twenty-two and now, at thirty-four years of age, the head of his own worldwide insurance company—yet he was totally unable to handle this woman and what she did to him, take her dubious machinations in his stride.

But hadn’t she always made a sucker out of him?

Tossing an armload of dry logs on the embers, he sank into a chair, almost welcoming the hypnotic howl of the wind, the insistent memories that now could not be denied...

The very first time he’d set eyes on her...