The Price of a Wife

'Cower away from me as though I'm some sort of wild animal,' he growled furiously. 'Damn it all, Josie, I've worn kid gloves for the last few weeks and still it's not enough. What the hell do you want from me anyway?'

'Nothing.' Everything, her mind screamed desperately.

'Nothing.' He nodded slowly. 'Boy, you sure know how to make a man feel good about himself, don't you?' he said with an acidic cynicism that cut into her heart like a knife. 'But I don't think 'nothing' is quite true, is it, sweetheart?' There was cruelty in both his voice and his face now, cruelty and something else that turned the dark male skin white under its tan. 'We both know what happens when I touch you; Josie. You might not like it, and I sure as hell know you're fighting it, but nevertheless you want me. Why can't you be satisfied with that as a beginning and we'll see how it goes—?'

'You mean sex,' she cut in painfully, her heart breaking. 'You want me for sex, mating—call it what you will. But anyone would do for that, as long as they've got the physical requirements—'

'Don't! Don't you dare relegate it to that!'

She turned away quickly, frightened by the darkness in his face, but he caught her wrist before she could take more than one step, spinning her round with a violence that spoke of his anger more adequately than words.

'Can't you see—?' He stopped abruptly, biting back what he had been about to say and taking a deep, calming breath before he spoke again, his hold on her wrist iron-hard. 'I'm a thirty-five-year-old man, Josie, not some schoolboy wet behind the ears and governed purely by what's between his legs. Do you understand me?' She stiffened at the crudity but he shook her slightly, his eyes glittering. 'Do you understand me?' he ground out tightly.

'Yes.' She tried to jerk herself free but his grip didn't lessen. 'Yes, yes, yes! Now let me go—'

'I know you don't like me pointing out that you want me physically, but it's a fact. Now, whether you've got some sort of twisted loyalty to some bozo who's let you down, or whether you've convinced yourself the only way to get to the top of the career tree is to be alone, I don't know. What I do know is that you aren't happy and I could fix that. I could make you live again.'

'I am living.' She had ceased trying to struggle; he wasn't giving an inch.

'The hell you are.' He was breathing hard, his powerful chest rising and falling as he towered over her like an avenging angel, and despite the danger he represented she couldn't hide what his near-naked body was doing to hers; her body was ripening and responding to this man she loved. 'The hell you are…'

His mouth was both fierce and tender, and the combination was wickedly sensual, as he had intended it should be, sweeping her into another dimension of touch and taste and smell. He kept up the assault until she was aware of nothing but him, little moans of pleasure trembling on her lips as he explored her throat and breasts, the silk of the sarong pushed aside by his searching mouth.

He was bent right over her as he curved her softness into his hard frame, his hands moving in slow, lingering caresses that fed the fever which had taken hold of every part of her until she was one mass of burning, aching desire, without mind or reason. He was hugely aroused, the brief black trunks he wore accentuating rather than concealing his ardour, but despite her innocence the thrust of his body was thrilling—frighteningly, unbelievably thrilling.

'You want me…' It was a hoarse statement against the warm softness of her skin. 'Say it. Say you want me.'

She heard herself say the words with a feeling of disbelief, but they came from her heart, born of her love. 'I want you…'

When he put her from him she didn't understand, not at first, not until she opened dazed eyes to look into his face. 'That's living,' he said thickly, a muscle jumping in his hard, square jaw as he took a step back from her. 'That and much, much more. But I don't want just your body, Josie; I want all of you. And I won't take you until I know I've got it all. You understand me?' he added with magnificent arrogance, his face dark and proud.

She couldn't answer him; she could barely stand, let alone talk. She just

stared at him out of huge, bruised golden eyes and he swore softly under his breath when she didn't move or speak.

The walk back to the chateau through the beautiful grounds bathed in soft evening sunlight was conducted in a silence that was spiky and taut, and the only way Josie could cover the distance was by retreating into the stoical reserve she had developed over long, lonely years.

Was she wrong? She found she was doubting herself badly. Should she start a relationship with Luke? Do what her heart longed, craved to do, and let the future, whatever it might be, take care of itself?

He could have taken her then, down in the sheltered hideaway by the pool, with the blue sky above and the scent of summer all around. He knew it and she knew it. But he hadn't. He had stopped. Stopped after proving what they both knew—that she was his for the asking. So why, in the final analysis, hadn't he asked? Because he was interested in more than just a physical relationship? Her heart gave an enormous bound and lurched up into her throat. But that would make things worse, not better… wouldn't it?

'Ah, monsieur…' As they entered the massive hall Madame Marat had obviously just picked up the phone, and she held it out to Luke with a smile. 'It is Catherine, monsieur.'

'Thank you.' Whether he heard Josie's sudden intake of breath she didn't know, but he turned to her at the same moment that he grasped the telephone. 'She's phoning from England—you remember you met her?'

'Yes, I know who Catherine is.' She couldn't believe how calm and cool she sounded when she was dying inside.

'You do?' His eyes narrowed for a moment, but she kept her face quite expressionless with a will she'd never known she possessed. 'Oh, right.' Her calmness seemed to reassure him. 'Those wagging tongues again?' He didn't even seem concerned.

She had turned before he had even finished speaking, walking towards the stairs with careful measured steps on legs that threatened to let her down at any moment. He could kiss her like that, make love to her with such passion and tenderness, and then dismiss his girlfriend's calling with a casual phrase like 'those wagging tongues'? It was the answer to all her sudden doubts. His world could never be her world; it was as simple as that.

Dinner was an endurance test that she got through with gritted teeth and a good deal of precarious dignity, excusing herself immediately afterwards by pleading a headache, and escaping to her room, where she stayed for the rest of the evening. She half expected Luke to come and find her, and the tension of waiting, of both hoping and fearing that he would come, had made the headache a reality by the time she crawled into bed just after midnight, only to lie awake most of the night, tossing and turning in an agony of grief and anguish for the loss of something she had never had.

Breakfast was a cool affair, with Luke aloof and unapproachable behind his newspaper after a cursory good morning and a sharp, penetrating glance at her white face and shadowed eyes.

The journey to the airport, the flight to England, the car ride through London to her flat—all were conducted in the same distant, remote silence, broken only by the necessities of communication that such travel warranted.

When they drew up outside the house Luke gestured to his chauffeur, who had been waiting at the airport, to remain in the car, and carried her suitcase himself, despite her insistence that she could manage.