His Defiant Desert Queen

But he wasn’t. It was a figment of her imagination. A dream.

She stretched her arm out across the empty bed, suddenly terribly homesick.

Day four, she told herself. Just four more days, and four more nights, and she’d be home.

The thought should have pleased her, reassured her, instead her heart fell, and her eyes burned. She missed Mikael. She shouldn’t miss him. She should hate him.

The wooden door to the en suite bath creaked. Jemma sat up, startled.

Mikael appeared in the doorway, wearing nothing but loose cotton pajama pants that hung deliciously low on his hip bones. He raked a hand through his dark hair, making muscles ripple in his arms and chest.

She stared at his lean flat abdomen, each muscle hard and distinct.

“You’re awake,” he said, walking toward her and giving her the most devastatingly wicked smile.

Her heart lurched. “Where did you come from?”

“The bathroom.”

Her heart did another funny little tumble. Just looking at him made her feel a pang. She didn’t understand why he did that to her. She frowned. “How?”

“I walked.”

She made a face, rolling her eyes. “Yes, but when?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

Her mouth dried. Her pulse was doing crazy, wild things. “But you weren’t here. I fell asleep waiting for you.”

“You might have fallen asleep before I arrived, but I did come to you last night. I slept with you last night. I promised you I’d be here, and I am.” He drew back the covers and slid in next to her. “You don’t remember last night?”

“No.” She frowned. “Did we...do...things?”

He reached across the bed for her, dragged her toward him, tangling her bare legs in the covers. “No. Regretfully not. I just held you. And spent the night with an endless hard-on.”

She laughed as he pulled her under him but her laughter died as he lowered his powerful body onto hers. He was hard now. His length pressed against her belly.

“It’s back,” she whispered breathlessly.

“That’s because it never went away.” He dipped his head and kissed the side of her neck.

She sighed and arched against him. His hips ground against hers. She pressed her hips up, rubbing against the tip of his thick shaft, wanting it, wanting him.

“You want me,” he said, his voice a rasp in her ear.

She nodded as his mouth covered hers, and she wrapped her legs around his hips. She did want him. All of him. And not just the things he did to her, but the things he made her feel. “Yes,” she said, because she needed this, needed to feel. It had been a year of so much sadness and confusion that she needed to feel something warm and good again.

Mikael was making her feel very warm and good.

“What shall I do to you?” he murmured, kissing her jaw, and then her chin, before brushing her mouth with his.

She reached up, and wound her arms around his neck, drawing his head down. “Everything.”

They kissed for hours, kissing until they were both panting and damp and tangled in sheets. Jemma wanted more, but she also loved this, the intense need, the desire, the fierce pleasure of just wanting and being wanted.

Her body ached and throbbed, even as her heart ached and throbbed. And as Mikael kissed her, touched her, his hands lighting her on fire and keeping the flames burning, glowing, she began to think that this might not just be lust anymore.

This wasn’t about sex, either. It was more than sex. More than desire. Something else was stirring to life but what it was, she didn’t know, and wasn’t ready to face. Wasn’t sure she could.

“I have news for you,” he murmured against her mouth, his hands tangled in her hair. He kissed her once more. “We should talk.”

Jemma went still. “What is it?”

“Your mother.” He shifted his weight and moved away from her, rolling onto his back. He grabbed a pillow and placed it under his head. “And she’s not sick, so you don’t need to look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Jemma demanded, sitting up, and tugging her sheer nightgown down, hoping she was adequately covered.

“Like something terrible has happened to her. Nothing terrible has happened. What’s happened is good.”

“What’s happened?”

“It isn’t good for your mother to have so much stress. A woman of her age needs to have her own home. I think she will do better if she has her own place again.”

“Of course she would. We would all like that for her. But it’s a dream at this point.”

“There’s a turn of the century shore colonial in Keofferam in Old Greenwich that I think would suit her. It has a big wraparound porch, and a small caretaker’s apartment over a detached garage for a housekeeper or nurse, should your mother one day require one. It’s recently been renovated so your mother wouldn’t have to do anything.”

“Yes, that all sounds very lovely, but you can’t buy property in that area for less than two million, and a home such as the one you describe would easily be upward of three million—”

“Almost four,” he agreed, “but it’s in pristine condition and has the high ceilings and elegant formal rooms she would enjoy.”

Jemma reached for a pillow and drew it to her chest. “You sound as if you know her.”

“I did meet her at your sister’s wedding, but you forget, your mother and mine were very similar in background. It’s not difficult to imagine the kind of home she would be comfortable in, so I can tell you now that the house is in escrow, and I’ve been assured it will close at the end of today, as the wired funds have already reached the bank. I had my Realtor purchase the house in your mother’s maiden name, which apparently is her legal name again. No one can take it from her.”

Jemma stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

“I think she’s suffered enough, don’t you?”

Jemma struggled to speak around the lump filling her throat. “But you hate the Copelands.”

“I hate your father, but your mother shouldn’t be punished for his crimes.” He hesitated. “Nor should you. So I did what I thought was best. It is my gift to you—”

“It’s too much. I can’t accept—”

“You don’t have to. The gift is in your mother’s name. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“She won’t accept it.”

“She has.”

“What?”

“I have been communicating with your brother, Branson. He has assisted me with a few financial details.”

“He would never do that!”

Mikael sat up, muscles tightening across his chest, rippling down the length of his bare, lean torso. “You don’t think a son wants his mother safe? Protected?”

“I know Branson. He wouldn’t allow you to do such a thing.”

“He would, if he understood we had done it together.”

Jemma grew still. “You told him about...us?”

“I told him you were here with me, and that I intended to make you my queen.”

“And he was okay with that?”

Mikael nodded and lay back down, arms folding behind his head. “Better than okay. He was very pleased for both of us and offered to throw us a party in London, as soon as we could visit. I told him we’d be there soon, probably before the end of the month.”

She squeezed the pillow tighter. “You sound so smug.”

“You should be happy I helped her, not angry.”

“You can’t do these things, though.”

“Why not? I am your husband. It’s my duty to provide for you and your family.”

“A family you hate.”

“Things have changed. You are my wife, and my family now, and I seek to honor you, and your family—”

“But what happens when I leave here in four days? What happens when you send me back? You promised you would, if I wasn’t happy—”

“Are you unhappy?”

Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Was she unhappy?

It was strange to be asked that question now, so bluntly, because no, she wasn’t unhappy. She was actually happier than she’d been in months, maybe even years.

“That’s not the point,” she said, sliding off the bed to pace the room.

“It’s not?”

“No.” She paced back toward him, confused, frustrated, no longer sure of anything.

“Then what is the point? Because I thought I had eight days to prove to you that I could make you happy, and I am making you happy, so what is the problem?”

She threw out her hands. “This!” she cried, gesturing at the purple walls with gold stencil. “This,” she added, plucking at the silk nightgown. “This,” she said, pointing to the bed, where he lay so supremely confident and comfortable, looking every bit a king. “None of this is real. None of this is my real life. It’s just a dream. It’s surreal. It’s not going to last!”