‘I’ll be back in a minute, when the bath’s ready.’ She was out of the door and halfway along the landing before he had time to argue.
She made the bath as hot as human flesh could stand, and once it was full and steaming went back and knocked on the flat door.
When Zeke opened it she willed herself not to laugh, but her voice had a faint gurgle to it when she said, ‘The bath’s ready and I’d soak for at least half an hour if I was you.’
He surveyed her from under black beetling brows, his limbs sticking out from the heavy towelling outlandishly, and the material straining across his chest and broad shoulders as it stretched at the seams. She had never, in all her life, thought to see the autocratic, imperious Zeke Buchanan in such an incongruous situation, but her amusement was tempered by his grey colour and the way the skin was pulled tight across the chiselled cheekbones.
‘You’ll need a towel.’ As she squeezed past him in the doorway all amusement fled as the powerful hardness of his male body beneath the soft towelling made itself known, and the scent of him—a mixture of many things, but undeniably his—teased her nostrils briefly.
‘Thanks.’ He took the towel from her as she handed it across with downcast eyes and he was already walking towards the bathroom when she raised her gaze. His big-boned frame, the massive width of his shoulders and the hard line of his back caught at her senses and desire flared, hot and strong, taking her completely unawares.
She bit hard on her lip as she closed the door, her eyes cloudy with unease. As soon as Zeke was anywhere near, all rationale had a habit of flying out of the window, she admitted unhappily. It was that which had kept her beguiled for two years and she had to be on her guard against his magnetic pull now.
Zeke was a devastating strategist and a ruthless opponent, she had seen him persuade people black was white without batting an eyelid, and when those attributes were added to the rest of his fascinating persona… Yes, she had to be very, very careful.
Marianne hadn’t expected Zeke to take any notice of her instructions, but it was exactly half an hour to the minute when his knock sounded at the door.
She had boiled some water in the meantime, stripping off her clothes and having a hasty wash in the sink before getting dressed properly and doing her hair and make-up. She could have a good soak tonight, she’d told herself feverishly. For now it was of supreme importance to be in control of the situation, and for that she needed every weapon at her disposal. She had to present a cool, calm front—she wasn’t, she very definitely wasn’t, going to fall into his arms.
That resolve was severely tested when she opened the door to him. In spite of the chill on the landing he hadn’t put the robe on again, merely draping the towel around his lean hips with a sight too casual a regard for safety. He was lithe and tanned and thickly muscled, and the tight black curls on his chest and the power in his hard, male thighs made her breathing quick and shallow as she said squeakily, ‘Come in, come in,’ before moving flusteredly back towards the kitchen area.
‘I’m making a hot drink,’ she said jerkily over her shoulder, without turning to look his way again. ‘It’s a pity I haven’t got any brandy or whisky to add to it to combat the cold.’
‘I’m not cold now.’
Neither was she! For an awful minute Marianne thought she had spoken out loud, but the response had only been in her mind.
‘That’s good,’ she managed brightly, hoping Zeke couldn’t see the way her hands were shaking. ‘But I’m afraid your clothes aren’t even remotely dry yet. Don’t…don’t you want to put my robe on again?’ she added, trying to keep the desperate plea from sounding in her voice.
‘No, thanks,’ he returned drily.
She turned then—she had to; she couldn’t very well continue to fiddle with the teapot and tray for ever, and the hot tide of sensation which had just begun to diminish slightly washed over her again as she met the smoky grey gaze.
The jet-black hair, the hard male jaw, the piercing intentness of his heavily lashed eyes—he was gorgeous! Just too darn gorgeous to be true, she told herself with silent desperation.
‘You…you shouldn’t risk getting cold again.’ His clothes were gently steaming on the back of the sofa, which she’d pulled close to the warmth of the fire, and now Marianne indicated her neatly folded duvet as she said, ‘If you don’t want the dressing gown, wrap that round you.’
‘Marianne, there’s things I have to say,’ he said huskily.
Fine, but at the moment all she could concentrate on was the way the hair on his chest narrowed to a thin line bisecting his flat, taut belly, and it wasn’t doing her equilibrium any good.
She nodded in what she hoped was a brisk fashion, wondering how she could feel so incredibly shy with her own husband, and turned back to the tray of tea. ‘Okay, but breakfast first,’ she said weakly, adding an extra spoonful of sugar to her mug for much-needed strength. ‘Bacon sandwiches all right?’
‘Bacon sandwiches sound wonderful.’
His deep, throaty voice made her shiver—he’d always had the sort of voice that would have been pure dynamite on the silver screen—but at least by the time she had set several rashers of bacon sizzling in the pan on the stove and poured the tea, he had draped the duvet round his shoulders.
It helped, a bit, as she passed him his mug of tea and took a nervous sip of her own, but the atmosphere was still so tense and taut that she found it difficult to persuade her throat to swallow.
She risked a glance from under her eyelashes after a few moments of silence, and saw he was looking towards the window, where the snow was still thickly falling, his profile grim. And then he turned his head suddenly, meeting her eyes, and said in a low voice, ‘You were right about the separation, Marianne, we both need to think about the future. But I don’t want you living here. I want you to have an allowance, okay? Get something decent.’
She wanted to say something, anything, but the shock of his words had robbed her of all coherent thought. He didn’t want her any more. Here she’d been thinking she would have to repel his advances or something similar, and all the time he had been going to say he wanted the separation. She didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry, but as she couldn’t very well do either she called on every scrap of strength she had left and said quietly, ‘I like it here, and I don’t want your money, Zeke.’
‘It’s not my money,’ he bit out harshly, and then, as her face whitened still more, he said more g
ently, ‘It’s not my money, Marianne. You are my wife; you have certain entitlements.’
Entitlements? She couldn’t trust herself to speak. She didn’t care about entitlements; she only cared about him, she cried silently. Couldn’t he see that? Didn’t he understand? She couldn’t believe they had come to this.