An Heir Made In The Marriage Bed. Anne Mather
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sighed. ‘Believe it or not, but I’d gathered that. Don’t you think we should take a little time to talk about this?’
‘What is there to talk about?’ asked Joanna tightly. ‘I want a divorce. It’s as simple as that.’
‘What a pity.’ Matt spoke neutrally. ‘And here was I, hoping you might stay for a couple of days.’
Joanna stared at him. ‘You are joking!’
‘No.’ Matt was annoyingly composed.
Joanna’s lips tightened. ‘You can’t possibly expect me to stay here when—when your mother obviously hates my guts!’
Matt shrugged. ‘And is that the only reason you’re declining my invitation?’
‘Of course not.’ Joanna was frustrated. ‘I just don’t think there’s any point in dragging this out.’
Matt was silent for a moment, and then he added tersely, ‘You know, I could do without your animosity. These past few weeks, recovering from that blasted bug, have been hell on earth, believe me.’
‘I’m sure they have, Matt, but—’
‘But you’re not interested.’ Matt’s tone had roughened with emotion, and, closing the short distance between them, his hands gripped the tops of her bare arms and he drew her towards him. ‘This isn’t over, Jo,’ he said. ‘Not nearly.’ And before she could do more than draw a startled breath, he bent his head and kissed her mouth.
‘Matt!’
The word was muffled and her glass was in serious danger of spilling its contents over the Indian rug. She endeavoured to take a step back, but he was too strong for her. His tongue brushed her lips, and when she resisted his efforts to enter her mouth, he growled his frustration.
‘I still want you,’ he said, staring down at her, and, God help her, Joanna felt her knees go weak.
‘Don’t,’ she said, hearing the huskiness in her voice, but unable to do anything about it. ‘This is not why I made this trip.’
‘I know.’ Matt released her abruptly and turned away, and she staggered a little as she tried to save her wine. ‘I just don’t believe our marriage is over.’
Joanna caught her breath. She was annoyingly aware that she’d bitten her tongue in her efforts to calm herself. ‘We’ve lived apart for almost a year, Matt.’
‘What does that prove?’ Matt snorted. ‘We’ve been living on different continents, sure, but the connection between us never relied on distance, did it?’
‘Matt, please. This is getting us nowhere.’
Forced to look away, she touched the tip of her tongue with an exploring finger, feeling for the blood she was sure she could taste. She was totally unaware of how provocative her action was until she saw Matt watching her, following her probing finger with his eyes.
Oh, Lord!
Pulling her hand away from her mouth, she noticed, belatedly, that he didn’t have a glass. And, in an effort to change the subject, she said shortly, ‘Aren’t you joining me?’
‘Alcohol and drugs don’t mix,’ he replied flatly. ‘Now, do you want to tell me why you want a divorce?’
Taking another swallow of wine, she added tensely, ‘Let’s not do this, Matt.’
Matt’s lips twisted. ‘I’m sure you’re aware that divorces in this country are ten a penny.’ He paused. ‘Provided they are uncontested.’
‘I do know that, yes.’
‘So, you expect me to roll over, right? Isn’t that what you said in your emails?’ His eyes swept insolently over her, and she was supremely conscious of the flimsy fabric of the tunic and her bare legs beneath. ‘I have to say, you don’t waste words.’
Joanna sighed, guessing Adrienne had shown him one of the later messages she’d sent when impatience had made her less tactful than before. ‘I don’t believe I said I expected you to roll over,’ she responded defensively. ‘I thought you were deliberately ignoring me.’
‘As you would.’ Matt was sardonic. ‘But you’re my wife, Joanna, and if I have my way, you will remain so.’
‘You can’t make me,’ she said, and then could have bitten her tongue—metaphorically this time—at the childishness of her words.
She attempted to take another gulp of her wine and was dismayed to find the glass was empty. She took a steadying breath. She was allowing him to get the upper hand, and she’d only had one glass.
Matt hesitated, and just when she was afraid he was going to touch her again, he lifted his hands in a defeated gesture and crossed the room to seat himself at the piano.
With his fingers running idly over the keys, he said, ‘Tell me, why didn’t you touch any of the funds I deposited to your bank account in London?’ He paused. ‘You didn’t have to go back to work at Bellamy’s gallery.’
‘I wanted to.’ Joanna found herself approaching the drinks cabinet and lifting the bottle of Chardonnay. ‘I don’t need your money, Matt,’ she assured him, filling her glass. ‘I told you that when—when—’
‘When you stormed out of our apartment in London?’ Matt suggested mildly, the strains of an old George Michael song emerging from the keys. ‘I know what you said, Jo. Your words are imprinted on my soul.’
Joanna shivered in spite of the warmth of the evening. ‘Do you have a soul, Matt?’ she queried, trying to be flippant, and then gasped in dismay when he slammed the lid of the piano and got to his feet.
‘You’d better believe it,’ he snapped, covering the space between them so quickly that Joanna, who had been drifting unknowingly towards the music, suddenly found him only inches away. ‘I am not the devil incarnate, Jo, no matter what lies your father told you.’
‘Don’t bring Daddy into this.’
‘Why not? He’s the real villain here, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Joanna defensively. ‘You can’t blame a dead man for your mistakes.’
‘My mistakes?’ Matt was angry. ‘You are such a cliché, do you know that? You keep bringing up trivial things that have no bearing on this conversation. In an effort to try and justify what Angus did.’
‘He didn’t do anything wrong!’
‘Oh, I know that’s what you think. I heard the eulogies at his funeral.’ Matt was bitter. ‘I was there at the funeral, Jo. You didn’t know that, did you? I was tactful enough to guess you wouldn’t want to see me. But I saw you, Joanna, with Bellamy.’
‘David’s a good friend,’ Joanna protested, but Matt ignored her words.
Joanna had always denied that the gallery owner had any feelings for her, but it was Bellamy she’d turned to when Angus Carlyle had died; Bellamy who’d re-employed her and probably found her somewhere else to live.
She’d moved out of their London apartment, probably afraid he might turn up and demand his rights as her husband. As if he’d ever done anything but protect her interests.
Anger gave way to frustration, and, to Joanna’s alarm, his hand came to cup her face. His thumb brushed the high colour nesting on her cheekbones and then found the startled contours of her mouth.
He’d barely touched her, but Joanna felt as if he were branding her. Almost without her volition, her lips parted, and she tasted him on her tongue. The heat spreading from his fingers seared her throat and breasts, breasts that were suddenly swollen and taut with need.
There was a tingling sensation in the pit of her stomach, too, as nervous tension gripped her abdomen. She felt her muscles