Passionate Retribution

She flinched as Luke's long fingers began to knead the tight muscles of her shoulders and neck through the thin material of her shirt. Magically he was locating and eliminating knots of tension. It was a dangerously pleasant feeling, one which made her feel languidly relaxed. His next words made her realise what a dangerous condition that was to be in.

'I can think of other activities to which you could apply your feverish energy,' he drawled, and she choked on the sigh of pleasure that had been leaving her lips, instantly alert to the danger of his fingers and the seductive, gravelly drawl of his voice.

'I was just trying to relieve the monotony of your constant company,' she responded, standing up and distancing herself from him. 'If you've cooked I might as well sample what you have to offer. And there's no need to leer in that vulgar manner,' she grated. 'It's the food I'm referring to.' His expression could in no way be classified as a leer, but it was incredibly disruptive, a fact her trembling limbs bore witness to as she followed him through to the dining area.

'I do enjoy a smattering of vulgarity myself, infant, but then I'm not a Stapely, am I?' he said, holding a chair for her with mock-formality. 'Actually I wasn't offering anything but food. We must keep up your strength.'

Emily glared at him, managing with effort to retain her self-control. 'For the ordeal ahead.'

'Wedding nerves,' he observed sympathetically. He only grinned wryly as she ignored him and took the other seat on the opposite side of the table. 'A common affliction.' He moved to the kitchen area and began to dispense a very passable spaghetti sauce. 'Aren't you glad I'm a modern man? I can cook, wash, sew on buttons…'

'The perfect wife,' she snapped nastily. 'Don't forget blackmail. Your talents are impressive—I'm still congratulating myself on my supreme good fortune.' She almost choked on the sense of injustice that swelled in her chest.

'I have hidden depths,' he agreed, with a smug indifference to her distress that made her want to scream.

'So do sewers!'

Luke placed a heaped plate in front of her. 'Be careful, infant, or I might think you're trying to be grotesquely offensive. Parmesan?' he asked, as she opened her mouth to confirm this accusation vehemently. 'And I might have to take measures to break that little habit early on in our relationship.'

Emily took the cheese and glowered at him as he took his seat opposite her. 'I may be going to marry you, Luke, but, believe you me, I won't be the sort of wife you'll want your friends to meet. You'd be amazed at how indiscreet I can be when I put my mind to it!' she warned him. She wanted to make it clear that his intimidatory tactics left her unimpressed.

'That should win me the sympathy vote, if nothing else,' he said drily.

Discretion won the day after a brief internal battle, and their conversation stayed safely monosyllabic. The food was good and Emily realised just how hungry she was as she attacked it. The wine eventually dulled the edge of her anger and thawed some of her open hostility.

'Do you write for yourself or to sell books?' The words came out gruffly to break one of the long silences that had arisen. Not companionable silences, at least not on her part, but noisy silences when her mind grew over-active and her motor skills stiff and awkward.

Luke looked up from his task of mopping up the glass of wine she'd tipped over the table. 'What was that, Emily?' he asked, and she had the impression that he'd only been half listening to her. His mind was obviously elsewhere, she thought resentfully. She repeated her question with a hint of hauteur this time.

He straightened up and rolled the cuffs of his shirt up his forearms, exposing the dark, tanned skin covered with a fine mesh of dark hair. 'Are you getting very intense and asking me about artistic integrity?' he asked in the lazy, mocking way she was accustomed to.

'Actually I'm in the fortunate position of being able to do both without having to compromise too much.' He raised a brow as she refilled her empty glass. 'Is that wise, considering the present state of your coordination?'

Emily narrowed her eyes. 'Do I need your permission?'

'You can get plastered and swing from the chandeliers as far as I'm concerned, infant,' he replied, his light tone at variance with her swift antagonism.

'I think I can guarantee I won't do that,' she returned, colour tingeing her cheekbones. 'I thought authors based their heroes on themselves? Yours are always so…ordinary.'

'Aren't I?'

The cerulean blue of his eyes was intent and difficult to look away from. His overt male vitality jarred on her senses; the only predictable thing about Luke, she found herself thinking, was that he would always be unpredictable. Ordinary he would never be.

'You call managing to juggle a career as a photo- journalist with news reporting and writing very ordinary?' she drawled nastily, as though this excess of talent were a criminal activity.