Alien Wife. Anne Mather

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      ‘I think we ought to go back,’ she ventured, and he cast a scathing look in her direction.

      ‘You think!’ he echoed. ‘We’re going back, Abby. Whatever you think!’

      She regarded him anxiously. ‘Why are you so angry?’

      ‘For God’s sake!’ He started the engine savagely. ‘After what you just did, how the hell do you expect me to be?’

      ‘What—what did I do?’

      ‘Oh, God!’ He swore as in trying to turn on the narrow road, his tyres spun uselessly over the rim of a ditch. ‘I don’t believe even you are that naïve!’

      Abby’s lips trembled. ‘You—wanted to make love to me?’

      He glared at her. ‘Yes,’ he said aggressively, nodding his head. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

      Abby’s tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. ‘I—well, I didn’t—stop you …’

      ‘No,’ he agreed grimly, grinding his gears as he sought to bring the wheels back on to the track. ‘You didn’t do that.’

      ‘Then why are you angry with me?’

      ‘Abby, if I were your uncle, I’d put you across my knee and administer the thrashing you so justly deserve!’

      ‘Why?’ She couldn’t understand his attitude. He had wanted to kiss her, to fondle her—and she had not objected. So where had she gone wrong? What would Ella have done that she had not? Had her inexperience, her lack of sophistication been so obvious after all? ‘I—I thought you liked—touching me,’ she whispered.

      Luke succeeded in bringing the Lamborghini round in a half circle, as much by skidding dangerously on the slippery surface as by any expertise at driving, and then he turned to face her, his expression forbidding.

      ‘Abby, did no one ever tell you, you don’t go around letting strange men—take advantage of you?’