Reclaiming His Wife. Susan Fox P.

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      ‘You and—’ She couldn’t look at him sitting there with the book, still open, but transferred to his lap now. His left arm was stretched across the back of the settee. ‘What are you saying? That we’re that much of a mismatch? Out of harmony with one another? Incompatible?’ When she didn’t answer, but just went on sipping her champagne, he said, ‘There is one way, my love, where you and I certainly aren’t incompatible, and if you’re determined to make that sort of rash remark then I’ll just have to—’

      She was both relieved—and surprised—when the phone on the little round table beside the settee started to ring. Just how they got on in bed was something of which she certainly didn’t need reminding!

      It was a business call, she deduced almost immediately, discarding her glass on the other low table she just managed to reach behind her, before lying back and listening to the deep sensuality of his voice.

      ‘No, it’s switched off,’ he was saying, obviously referring to his mobile phone. ‘No, I shan’t be dealing with it. I’ve left Steve Shaunessy in charge.’

      His second in command. A big Irishman, Taylor remembered from the days when she had played hostess to Jared’s business colleagues and their wives. Steve was clever, astute. Trustworthy. She hadn’t forgotten, either, the sympathy she had seen in the man’s eyes when he had looked at her sometimes, and had been sure that he was thinking what she had guessed they must all have been thinking—everyone who knew, that was—that she was only a young and callow substitute who Jared had married in place of someone else.

      ‘Get Steve to deal with it,’ he went on, with no mention that he was on leave, with whom, or how long he intended to be away, which only emphasised that, as head of a thriving company, he was answerable to no one.

      He was speaking to a woman—probably his secretary— Taylor decided, simply from that certain tone he always used with the opposite sex. Just like everything else about him, his voice had the most profound effect on women. And Taylor Adams was no exception, she thought, resenting the way that, even now, when her spirits had plummeted just from remembering how she had felt during their marriage, when she had felt betrayed and second best, those deep tones were arousing her, grazing over her senses the way his shirt would graze her naked body, or his chest hair rasp against the sudden aching tightness of her breasts…

      ‘No. Don’t call me here again.’

      Catching that impatient, dismissive note in his voice, mentally she shook herself out of her dangerous reverie before the phone clattered back onto its rest.

      ‘Enjoying yourself?’

      She tensed, hearing his book snap closed.

      ‘It’s heaven,’ she lied, staring up at the rather jaded emulsion of the ceiling, trying not to sound as though something had been wrenched out of her gut just from imagining him with another woman, pretending to herself that she didn’t care, so that with even more feigned brightness she was adding, ‘The Victorians certainly had some things right.’

      He made a cynical sound down his nostrils. ‘Yes—if you had servants to lug in all the water—fill the darn thing for you.’

      He had a point there, she thought, silently sympathising with their plight.

      A light movement of her shoulder disturbed the water, revealing the proud taut curvature of her breasts. ‘I could go along with that.’

      He gave a soft, almost humourless chuckle. ‘As a Victorian? I don’t think so. Times were pretty harsh—especially for a woman. I’m afraid your talents as a make-up artist, dearest, would probably never have seen the light of day. In fact your hopes of any sort of a career would almost certainly have had to be shelved in favour of housekeeping. And you would have had all my children, Taylor, and liked it, with very little say in the matter.’

      Damp tendrils framed her face as she studied him through the dark fringes of her lashes. Was he deliberately trying to provoke her into a response?

      ‘There was always abstinence,’ she reminded him pointedly, just in case he was, and saw one thick eyebrow arch in silent scepticism. ‘Or would you,’ she challenged, feeling antagonistic without any substantial reason, ‘have exercised your legal right and beaten me if I’d said no?’

      He seemed to consider this with some amusement for a moment. ‘That would have been my prerogative.’ His gaze, sliding over the caramel silk of her hair was suddenly burning with a dark intensity, conveying an overtly sensual message that matched the fevered heat beneath her skin. With slow and candid appreciation those febrile eyes roamed over the defiant tilt of her pointed chin, touching on her wet shoulders before coming to rest on her small and gleaming breasts. ‘I don’t think though,’ he breathed, his voice suddenly low and husky, ‘that any flaying of that tender flesh would ever have been necessary. I don’t think there ever was or will be a time when either of us could have said—or could say—no. Which is why you’re a fool if you imagine you can deny either of us, Taylor. Nature has a way of mocking us—and all the more for our efforts to contradict her, darling.’

      As it had when she had got pregnant?

      Unwillingly her mind skittered back to that time. Usually she would have been horrified at the thought of conceiving an unwanted child, at using no protection, but she had let him that night, too ensnared by the bitter-sweet aftermath of their quarrel to retain any measure of common sense. Getting pregnant was the last thing she had wanted, but Nature had had other ideas, opening her womb to his seed and forcing her—despite her worries, her resistance and the threat of breaking up—or perhaps, as he had suggested, because of all of those things—to accept that her body had selected this man as its mate and master, and that her genes would be melded with his, no matter what the cost.

      Hurting, angry with herself, with him, and with the forces of nature—or whatever had destined that she should be marooned here with him—she pushed herself up out of the water and grabbed the big fluffy towel from the arm of the chair just within her reach, foam cascading down over her glistening nakedness.

      Keeping her back to him, quickly she proceeded to dry herself, her slim shoulders tense from the uncomfortable knowledge that he was watching her. She could sense his dark, almost tangible gaze travelling down over each vertebrae of her slender back to her tapering waist and tight neat bottom.

      ‘My robe?’ Unable to see it anywhere as she finished drying herself, she thrust her feet into a pair of open-toed mules and, with the damp towel draped around her, made a move towards the door, realising she must have left it upstairs.

      ‘No you don’t.’ Jared’s hard command stalled her. He was already getting to his feet. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold.’

      He was back within a couple of minutes, striding over to warm the garment in front of the fire.

      ‘Here.’

      Discarding the towel, wishing he wasn’t so close, Taylor slipped her arms into the robe he was holding out for her. The sleeves were still cold, but the body of it was nicely warm and she gave a delicious little shudder as she pulled it around her. However, on reaching for the belt, her fingers almost entwined with his and quickly she withdrew them, standing stock-still as his arms looped under hers so that he could tie the sash around her tiny waist.

      He was looking over her shoulder, concentrating on what he was doing, while Taylor could hardly trust herself to breathe. She could hear his slow and steady breathing, feel its warmth against her hair, СКАЧАТЬ