Wife By Agreement. KIM LAWRENCE
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He flinched as the accuracy of her husky accusation hit him. ‘Well, I’d hardly call your antics over the last twenty-four hours low maintenance.’ The unvarnished truth sliced uncomfortably through his rationalisations, and, not unnaturally, made him as mad as hell.
Ethan had managed to convince himself that his motives in marrying Hannah, whilst not being totally altruistic, hadn’t been completely selfish. She’d had so little and he’d been offering her a standard of living that she could never have aspired to. It was a sound business arrangement. She’d always given the impression of being content. Her affection for the children was indisputable, as was theirs for her.
Until he’d been faced with the prospect of losing her, he hadn’t realised how much this quiet girl had become part of the household. The part that had given it the first breath of normality and stability in a long time. It was incredible how someone so unobtrusive could make such a difference. Unobtrusive? Looking at the angry belligerence that tightened the soft contours of her face, he decided the label seemed singularly inappropriate.
‘If I’d had my way you wouldn’t have known at all about last night. It’s your fault for being an insomniac!’
‘Wouldn’t have known!’ He seized on the words as if they were a guilty admission. ‘I thought as much—how many other secrets do you keep from me?’
‘Secrets, me?’ The idea was laughable. ‘If I told you everything I do in a day I’d bore your socks off.’ Not like the lovely Miranda, she thought. I bet he hangs on her every syllable.
The guilt he felt at the most unexpected moments came rushing in and his voice was harsh. ‘So your life’s drudgery, is it?’
‘Luxurious drudgery,’ she corrected sarcastically, her outstretched arms encompassing the elegant surroundings of the period-furnished drawing room. A room that was a tribute to the good taste of her predecessor. ‘What more could a girl ask for? And you accuse me of being touchy!’ she snorted.
He regarded her delicately flushed face, flashing eyes and mutinously set mouth with an odd expression. His stillness made Hannah lick her lips nervously.
Unexpectedly, he caught her chin in one hand. ‘What’s happened to you? You’re not the same person.’ Everything had been going so well. Why the hell did she have to start acting like a woman all of a sudden? And, even worse, why was he thinking of her as a woman?
‘Perhaps you’ve confused silence with lack of feelings, Ethan. I do feel.’
‘And what feelings arouse your passions?’ he wondered out loud. His eyes dropped to the rapid rise and fall of her small, high breasts, and a look she’d never seen before slid into his eyes.
‘Things,’ she replied huskily.
‘Like French classes.’ A trace of discontent had entered his voice.
‘Like French classes,’ she agreed.
‘Perhaps it would be safer for you to look closer to home to satisfy your passions.’ His thumb moved in a circular motion over the small, rounded chin.
‘Do you speak French, Ethan?’
‘It wasn’t the search for intellectual stimulation that made you do a dangerous thing like get in that car last night. The man turned out to be an idiot, but what if he’d had a more subtle approach? Would a furtive kiss in the dark have been so unacceptable to you, Hannah? Isn’t that what you secretly wanted?’
She tore her face from his grip. ‘The only person I’d like less to be touched by than Craig…is you!’ The insulting picture of herself as some sexually frustrated female desperate for male attention made her blood boil. Ironically, the only male attention she craved was his. At least he couldn’t taunt her with the truth.
‘Brave words.’
A logical assessment later would tell her she’d backed his male ego into a corner and the outcome had been a foregone conclusion. Logic didn’t come to her assistance at the time.
It was nothing like her imaginary kisses. Imagination didn’t have texture and warmth and taste. ‘Melting’ had been a word before; now it was a reality as her body dissolved in a rush of mind-numbing sensual delight. Her lips automatically parted under the imprint of his mouth. The taste of him glutted her senses.
When it stopped her disorientation was total. She felt numb and strangely dizzy. She touched the back of her hand to her parted, slightly swollen lips. The eyes she raised to his face were still clouded with a misty languor. It afforded Hannah a tiny measure of satisfaction that Ethan looked to be equally stunned by his actions.
Over the years Hannah had formulated a vague theory that for women it was easy to stop kissing—it was only men who were driven beyond sense and reason by such an essentially innocent pastime.
Innocent! Oh, dear, it looked as if she’d have to reevaluate her hypothesis. Limited research was obviously to blame for her inaccurate conclusions.
‘That was childish of me.’ He was slipping back into his cool professional persona with insulting ease. An adjustment to his gold cufflinks, a judicious twitch of the tasteful tie.
‘Childish isn’t the first word that springs to my mind,’ she returned huskily. The destructive friction of his skilful lips and wicked tongue had filled her with an entirely adult ache. It began low in the pit of her belly, but spread just about everywhere.
‘I suppose you expect me to apologise.’ From the stubborn, closed expression on his face, she concluded this was unlikely.
‘Why? I liked it.’
‘Dear God!’ he grated, his stance growing more rigid as he discovered she was examining his lips with dreamy curiosity.
The sharp exclamation brought Hannah belatedly to her senses. She bit hard on her criminally indiscreet tongue and felt the hot colour wash up her neck until her face was aflame.
‘I mean, a kiss is just…’
‘A kiss?’ he suggested.
‘Exactly,’ she said, relief making her go a bit overboard on the enthusiasm. ‘I don’t think we should mention…’
‘You liked it.’
Hannah frowned, not trusting his suddenly innocent expression. ‘Your loss of control.’
‘That’s very generous of you.’ Perversely, he found himself vaguely dissatisfied that she was suggesting what he had wanted only seconds before.
When the doorbell rang later that afternoon Hannah squared her shoulders and steeled herself for a dose of Alexa. She glanced at the clock on the mantel and frowned—she was early. Hannah was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, playing with Tom, and she smiled wryly as she pulled the child onto her lap, aware she was using him almost as a shield against the battery of criticism she knew was about to be lobbed at her head.
‘Mrs Kemp, it’s a Mr Dubois.’
‘Jean-Paul!’ Hannah exclaimed in pleasure as the figure behind Mrs Turner stepped forward.
‘Hannah, forgive the intrusion.’
‘It’s no intrusion—come in. Would you like tea, coffee?’
‘Coffee would be nice.’
‘Would you mind, Mrs Turner?’ She smiled at the housekeeper. ‘Sit down, please.’ She couldn’t understand what her night-class tutor was doing here, but, having stealed herself to face the dreaded Alexa, it was marvellous to see a friendly face. You’re a coward, Hannah, she told herself angrily. Show a bit more backbone!
Jean-Paul Dubois settled himself in an armchair and looked admiringly around the room. Hannah saw his glance dwell on a framed picture of Ethan with Catherine: two beautiful people, the perfect couple. He was too polite to comment.
‘You have a lovely home.’ He pushed his wire-framed