Public Wife, Private Mistress

And usually she slept naked. While they'd been to­gether, he'd never allowed her to do anything else. Had never wanted anything to hide her incredible body.

He switched to English. 'You always stole my shi

rts.'

And, with her innate sense of style, she'd managed to turn them into a fashion statement. She had a flair for making the ordinary extraordinary. A scarf tied in a certain way. Colours that no one else would dare to put together. Her artist's eye for design was visible in ev­erything she touched.

And then there was her hair. A sinfully sexy mass of fire and flame that reflected the tempestuous nature of the woman. It was enough to make a man lose his mind.

She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible, shrug. 'You have good taste in shirts. I didn't think you were coming home. I heard someone in the pool-—' Her voice still had the husky quality of the half-awake and even in the cool water he felt his body throb in response to her sleepy tones. How often had he woken her in the night to claim her body yet again, how often had she laughed softly and teased him in just such a tone as that?

He lifted himself out of the pool in an easy move­ment, seeing her eyes darken in response to his naked­ness. His own eyes slid down, catching the movement of her slender throat as she swallowed, reading the un­mistakable hunger in her glance before she concealed it with one sweep of her long, curling eyelashes.

His response to her involuntary glance was instanta­neous and he reached for a towel that one of his staff had thoughtfully placed on a lounger, cursing his in­ability to remain indifferent to this woman. It was as if his body was out of his control. Which it was, of course. From the moment they'd met, he'd been under her spell. Made vulnerable by man's original temptation. Woman. Only in his case just the one woman.

Stasia.

'I had calls to make.' He wrapped the towel firmly round his waist, depriving her of the view. Perhaps if she stopped looking he'd stop reacting. 'Work to do. I needed a break from the hospital.'

And most of all from his relatives, he reflected wea­rily. He wasn't going to admit that to her but it was clear that she knew what he was thinking.

He could tell by the look in her eyes. Those all know­ing, all seeing green eyes that took hold of a man and made him burn with wanting.

The silence around them throbbed and crackled with a tension that only the two of them felt and suddenly he was grateful for the towel. At least it hid the laugh­ably predictable workings of his body. For a brief mo­ment he wished he'd done as she'd requested and sent her to a hotel. Anywhere, as long as it was away from him.

Seeing her like this, half naked in his shirt, in his home, suggested an intimacy that no longer existed be­tween them.

He had to remind himself that she was no longer his. That he no longer held the right to feel the primitive and possessive thoughts that had such an iron grip on his normally logical brain.

It didn't help that she wanted him too. He could tell by the way her soft mouth was slightly parted, the way it always had when she anticipated his kiss, by the way her fabulous green eyes darkened, drawing him in. The signs were subtle, but they were there and he recognized

them as clearly as if someone had painted words on a wall.

He chose to dismiss them.

'Stop looking at me like that.' His voice was harsh. Harsher than he'd intended. 'Stop looking as if you want me, when we both know that you'll go after any convenient male body. I happen to prefer my relation­ships to be exclusive.'

Her beautiful face lost most of its colour. 'How can you say that to me?'

Innocent. Wronged. All those words came to mind as he looked at her and yet he knew none of them applied to her.

There had been nothing innocent about her when he'd caught her naked in their bed with another man.

'Because it's the truth.' Rico gritted his teeth. She managed to make him feel guilty even though he knew that he had nothing to feel guilty about.

Hadn't he caught her red-handed? Filling her days with the pleasures of the flesh when he was working? Spending her evenings in unsavoury nightclubs and tak­ing his young, impressionable sister with her.

'You're looking at me, too. So what does that make you?' Her voice was a choke and he frowned slightly, unsure what to make of her uncharacteristic response. He'd seen the tears in the hospital and had been sur­prised by how much the sight had bothered him. He knew how tough she was, knew that Stasia wasn't a woman to dissolve into tears.

It must be the awkwardness of their current situation, he decided. Being forced to face him, after the ultimate betrayal. The tears of a guilty conscience?

'If I'm looking at you then it's because I can't quite believe I was ever foolish enough to marry you,' he said cruelly, watching her flinch and wondering why it felt so necessary to hurt her when it was supposedly all in the past. When his relationships had gone wrong in the past he'd always been content to walk away. Part­ings had usually been amicable, invariably smoothed by elaborate gifts on his part, selected to soothe the guilt of not caring enough. But never had he felt this driven, burning need to strike out and inflict pain as he did with Stasia.

'I hate you.' She spoke the words on a soft gasp and for a moment he thought he'd misheard and it took him a moment to respond.

'Maybe. But like it or not, you also want me and that's something you're finding it difficult to live with.' He saw her take a step backwards and suddenly he wished she'd worn something, anything, other than his shirt. It was as if she was mocking him. Those glorious legs bared to mid-thigh, the buttons undone to reveal the darkened hollow between her full breasts. She had a body designed to drive a man wild.

And he should know.