A Husband's Revenge. Lee Wilkinson
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Her. Every instinct warned her that Jos was dangerous, that he wanted to hurt her, would enjoy hurting her.
‘Why do you want to hurt me?’ The question was out before she could prevent it.
‘Why should I want to hurt you?’
Glancing quickly at him, she saw his dark face was cool and shuttered. It would only reveal what he wanted it to reveal. He would only tell her what he wanted her to know.
‘What makes you imagine I want to hurt you?’ he persisted.
She made a helpless gesture with her hands. ‘I don’t know. I just get the feeling you don’t like me very much.’
He moved towards her.
Instinctively she backed away.
Reaching out, he caught her wrist and pulled her against him. One arm held her while his free hand came up to encircle her throat lightly.
Something about his stillness, the tension in his muscles, warned her that he was waiting for her to struggle.
When she stood as if frozen, he bent his dark head and let his lips wander over her cheek and jaw. She caught her breath, aware of the faint scent of his skin, the slight roughness of stubble.
His lips brushed her ear, making her shiver, as he said, ‘Liking is such a bloodless, insipid emotion. It has nothing to do with what I feel for you.’
Recognising something fundamental in his words, knowing she was close to an important truth, she felt her heart begin to race with suffocating speed. ‘What do you feel for me?’
The sudden flare of anger in his eyes made her blood run cold. Before she could do or say anything he covered her mouth with his own.
While he deepened the kiss, ravaging her mouth with a savage, punitive expertise, she lay against him, lost and dazed, knowing only that if he released his grip she would fall.
When he finally lifted his head she was trembling in every limb, her breath coming in harsh gasps.
He looked down at her, studying the violet eyes that looked too big for her heart-shaped face, the swollen lips, the fine dew of perspiration on her forehead, and said tightly, ‘You should know better than to try to provoke me.’
‘I wasn’t trying to provoke you,’ she denied in a husky whisper.
With a muttered oath he let her go so suddenly that she staggered a little, and the beautiful room whirled sickeningly around her head.
A moment later he had swept her up in his arms and was carrying her into what was obviously the master bedroom.
‘What are you doing?’ she croaked.
‘Taking you to bed.’
‘No!’ Every trace of colour drained from her face, leaving it ashen.
Setting her on her feet, he said coldly, ‘Credit me with some sensitivity. I can see you’ve had about as much stress as you can handle, so for tonight at least I’ll sleep in the guest room.’
She gave the kind of shuddering sigh a child might give.
The impatience dying out of his face, he opened one of the drawers and tossed her an ivory satin nightgown with shoestring straps and a matching negligee. ‘Do you need any help?’
‘No!’ she snapped, then added more moderately, ‘No, thank you.’
‘You’ll find your toilet things in the bathroom. I’ll give you ten minutes.’
In the big, luxurious bathroom, hurrying as much as her debilitating weakness would allow, she pulled off her clothes and dropped them into the dirty linen basket, showered, cleaned her teeth and dragged a brush through her damp hair.
She was safely in bed, leaning against the pillows, the lightweight duvet pulled chest-high, when he returned.
Sitting on the edge of the king-sized divan, he handed her a beaker of hot chocolate. ‘Drink that before I tuck you in.’
The smell made her wrinkle her nose. ‘I don’t like hot chocolate.’
‘Drink it all the same. It’ll help you sleep soundly.’
Sipping obediently, she avoided his eyes.
As soon as the beaker was empty he put it on the bedside cabinet and then, rising to his feet, reached to flatten her pillows.
As she slid down his hand brushed her breast and she flinched away.
His chiselled mouth tightened. ‘There’s no need to look quite so alarmed. I am your husband, you know.’
But that was just it, she thought as the door closed behind him, she didn’t know. As far as she was concerned he was a stranger.
But a stranger who had a devastating effect on her.
Earlier, when he’d kissed her, desire, terrifying in its intensity, had overwhelmed her. And, though his intention had clearly been to punish her, she’d sensed a fierce reciprocal hunger in him, which even such a cold, self-controlled man as he couldn’t totally hide.
Their relationship, whatever other dark threads were woven into it, was undoubtedly a passionate one.
Suddenly she was even more afraid of what the future held than she had been when she’d left the hospital.
CHAPTER TWO
CLARE’S brain stirred into life slowly, unwillingly. Lying stretched on her back, eyes closed, she was aware of softness and warmth, of a physical comfort that went hand in hand with a kind of bleak mental anguish.
Bodily she was at ease, but her mind was a teeming mass of disturbing, shadowy thoughts. When she tried to hold onto them, to coax them into the light, they vanished like wraiths, leaving only a set of hard, handsome features indelibly printed there.
Jos. Her husband.
Her heart began to beat at a fast, suffocating speed. She recalled him coming to the hospital. Bringing her home. Kissing her. Innocuous enough memories except for the powerful black undercurrents which, like some deadly whirlpool, threatened to drag her down and drown her.
Undercurrents which, if she could only remember, would almost certainly explain why she had taken off her rings and walked out in the first place.
But had she just stormed off in a temper, as he’d tried to imply? Or had she meant to go for good?
If she had meant to leave him, surely she would have taken a case? Certainly she would have had a handbag. Some money...
Eyelids still closed, to help her concentration, she tried to think, but her memory would go back no further than awakening in the hospital.
Sighing, she opened her eyes to semi-gloom. Abruptly the sigh turned into a gasp. The sight of Jos lounging in a chair by the bed, his eyes fixed on her face, made her jerk upright.
His mere presence brought a surge of dismay and excitement that took her breath and made her heart start to race again.
As though he’d run restless fingers through it, his hair, peat-dark, not quite black, was slightly rumpled, his jaw was smooth, clean-shaven, his lean face, with its fascinating planes and angles, heart-stoppingly attractive.
He was casually dressed in light trousers and a dark green cotton-knit shirt open at the neck, exposing his tanned throat, and with the sleeves pushed up his muscular hair-sprinkled forearms.
Pulling the duvet high, though her nightgown was perfectly modest, she demanded hoarsely, ‘How long have you been there?’
His clearly delineated mouth curved slightly. ‘Most of the afternoon.’
The idea of him sitting watching her sleep was disturbing, to say the least. Slowly, with an effort, she smoothed her face into a careful, unrevealing mask, before asking, ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’