The Millionaire Claims His Wife

“You’re right.” Annie reached for his discarded blanket. In one quick motion, she dropped her own blanket, wrapped his around her shoulders, and rose from the bed. Chase had a glimpse of ivory-colored skin and nothing more. “So you take the bed. I’ll take the chair.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m smaller than you are.”

She was. Definitely. Smaller, and fragile. Wonderfully fragile. Make that feminine. The top of her head barely brushed his chin. If he dipped his head, he could rub his chin against her hair. Her soft, shiny hair.

“I can tuck my legs up under me and I’ll be perfectly comfortable, Chase. You’ll see. Come on. Switch places with me.”

Switch places? Climb into the bed, still warm from her body? Put his head on the pillow, still fragrant with her scent? He shook his head and moved back, until the seat of the rocker dug into the backs of his legs.

“No.”

“Honestly, you’re such a chauvinist! This is hardly a time to worry about being a gentleman.”

He had to fight hard to keep from laughing. Or groaning. One or the other, or maybe both. Is that what she thought this was all about? Him trying to be a gentleman? He wondered what she’d think if she knew the real direction of his thoughts, that it was all he could do to keep from picking her up, tossing her onto the bed and tearing away that blanket so he could see if she was wearing anything under it.

“That’s it,” he said.

“What’s it?”

Chase cupped Annie’s shoulders, trying not to think about the feel of her under his hands, and moved her gently but firmly out of his way.

“Chase?” Her voice rang with bewilderment as he opened the door. “Where are you going?”

To hell in a handbasket, he thought.

“To heat up some coffee,” he said. “Go back to sleep, Annie. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He slipped out of the room, shut the door after him and leaned back against it.

The torture of the chair was one thing. A man could deal with that But the torture of being so close to Annie was something else.

Saints willingly martyred themselves, not men.

Annie stared at the door as it swung shut. Then she sighed and sank down on the edge of the bed.

“Stupid man,” she muttered. “Let him suffer, if he wants.”

It was ridiculous of him to have turned down her offer.

“Brrr,” she said, and burrowed under the covers.

Of course, he’d been uncomfortable in that chair. Chase was six foot two; he’d weighed 190 pounds for as long as she could remember, all of it muscle. Hard muscle.

There was no denying that he’d always been a handsome man.

Beautiful, she’d called him once, after they were first married. They’d been lying in each other’s arms after a long, lazy afternoon of love, and suddenly she’d risen up on her elbows, gazed down at him and smiled.

“What?” he’d said, and she’d said she’d never thought about it before, but he was beautiful.

“Goofball,” Chase had said, laughing. “Men can’t be ‘beautiful.’”

“Why can’t they?” she’d said, in a perfectly reasonable tone, and then, in that same tone, she’d gone on to list all his attributes, and to kiss them all, too. His nose. His mouth. His chin. His broad shoulders. His lightly furred chest. His flat abdomen and belly...

“Annie,” he’d said, in a choked whisper, and seconds later he’d hauled her up his body, into his arms and taken her into the star-shot darkness with him again.

“Dammit!”

Annie flung out her arms and stared up at the skylight, where the light rain danced gently against the glass. What was wrong with her tonight? First the dream that had left her aching and unfulfilled. And now this ridiculous, pointless memory.

“You’re being a ninny,” she said out loud.

She wasn’t in love with Chase; hadn’t she already admitted that? As for the sex... Okay. So sex with him had always been good.

Until he’d ruined it, by never coming home to her.

Until she’d ruined it, by treating him so coldly.

Annie threw her arm across her eyes.

All right. So she wasn’t as blameless as she liked to think. But Chase had hurt her so badly. Nothing had prepared her for the pain of watching him grow out of her life, or of finding him with his secretary...

Or for the pain of losing him.

The truth was that she’d never stopped wanting him. Her throat tightened. Never. Not then. Not all the years since. If he’d taken her in his arms again tonight, if he’d kissed her, stroked his hand over her skin...

The door banged open. Annie grabbed for the blanket and sat up, clutching it to her chin. Chase stood framed in the doorway. Light streamed down the hall, illuminating his face and body with shimmering rays of gold.