His Chosen Wife: Antonides' Forbidden Wife / The Ruthless Italian's Inexperienced Wife / The Millionaire's Chosen Bride. Susanne James
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wouldn’t mind the questions, PJ thought, tossing his jacket over the back of his chair, then going to stare out the window, provided he knew the answers.
But whatever she might ask about Ally—and he knew that all of Rosie’s questions would deal with Ally—PJ didn’t have any answers at all.
No, not true.
He had one: he still wanted her.
When he’d married her, PJ had expected nothing. And that was pretty much exactly what he’d got.
After the ceremony—if you could even call it that—where they’d said their vows at the courthouse, when they’d come back outside into the bright Honolulu sunlight, he’d suggested a celebratory dinner.
“After all,” he’d told her, grinning, “it’s not every day we get married.”
But the smile Ally returned had been tremulous at best. “I don’t think so. I just—well, I really need to tell my father I’m married.”
As that had been the point of the whole exercise, PJ hadn’t argued. “Okay. I’ll come with you. Moral support.”
He’d thought she’d jump at the chance. But she’d declined that, too, shaking her head and saying gravely, “Thanks, but you’d better not. I don’t think it would be a good idea. This is between him and me. It wouldn’t be fair to bring you into it.”
He was already in it. He’d married her, hadn’t he? How much more “in it” could he get? But he knew that hadn’t even occurred to her. He wasn’t sure that it ever would.
But he hadn’t argued. He’d married her for her sake.
To his way of thinking she deserved the same freedom to find herself that he’d got by moving away from his family. The fact that he didn’t have to marry anyone to achieve it was lucky for him. If she didn’t want it to be his business, well then, it wouldn’t be his business, he’d decided.
It wasn’t as if this was some love match. It was just the sort of thing one spur-of-the-moment impulsive friend would do for another.
“Okay. Suit yourself,” he’d said.
But for a long moment neither had moved. Their gazes had locked, and perhaps a faint notion of what they’d just done inside the courthouse occurred to Ally then.
If it had, though, she thrust it away, saying, “I probably won’t see you again. I’ll be leaving in the morning.”
He’d nodded. “Yeah, sure.” Then he’d cracked a grin. “Well, good luck. Have a good life.”
She’d smiled, too. And they’d both laughed a little awkwardly. She’d said something about he should feel free to get a divorce whenever. And then she’d stuck out her hand to say farewell.
He could still remember that. She’d married him—then shaken his hand. He remembered her touch. Her grasp had been soft and gentle. Just the slightest pressure. Her palm was cold and clammy even though the temperature had been hot that day. He’d wanted to warm it as he’d squeezed her fingers in his big rough callused hand.
He’d wanted to warm her. And so as soon as she moved to ease her fingers out of his grasp, he let them go, only to reach out an instant later and wrap his arms around her, draw her slender body against his and touched his lips to hers.
It wasn’t intended to be a moment of erotic passion.
It was supposed to comfort, encourage, sustain. And yet, the taste of her, the feel of her soft lips under the hard pressure of his awoke something wholly unintended.
“Warm” didn’t even begin to cover what he had felt. And which of them was more shaken when at last he broke it off, he could not have said.
Ally had stared at him, her eyes wide and astonished. She looked stunned, which was no more than he felt.
And then she said, “I have to go,” and turned and ran down the sidewalk as if all the demons in hell were after her.
And PJ had stood there wondering what had hit him.
He had still been wondering when he’d gone to bed that night—his wedding night.
The very notion seemed like some sort of perverse joke. He’d avoided going home for hours. He had gone surfing at dusk, then out drinking with a couple of buddies, doing his best to put it out of his mind.
But he’d still been thinking about it—about her—when he’d heard a light knock on the door.
His landlady, Mrs. Chang, was usually in bed before now. But sometimes she came to get him when she needed something on a high shelf or wanted him to open the lid on a jar.
He wasn’t much in the mood for Mrs. Chang tonight. He’d been “useful” already once today: he’d married Ally.
But when the knocking continued and grew even more persistent, he got up and opened the door, then stood stock-still and stared at Ally standing there looking at him with wide unreadable eyes.
“What’s wrong? Did your old man—”
She swallowed again and gave her head a little shake. “No. I just thought that, um, it’s our wedding night and—could you make love with me?”
You could have knocked him over with a breath. He stared at her in astonishment, knowing he should ask her to repeat it, but not wanting to have his dearest dream snatched away when she repeated whatever it was she’d actually said.
But then she went on, “I just … it’s a marriage, PJ—and I don’t know, it doesn’t seem like a marriage. But I thought it might if … I just want it to be real.”
A slow smile had dawned. He’d shaken his head, dazed and delighted, astonished at the strange turns of fate, and not about to question his good luck.
“It will be my pleasure,” he’d assured her.
And his responsibility. Loving Ally was no problem at all. Being responsible for making her first time—and he was sure it was her first time—good was something else. He was young. Eager. Not untried, of course. But definitely not the most skilled of lovers.
But this was Ally, and she was depending on him. She was trusting him. And he was determined to love her the way she deserved.
He did ask, “Are you sure, Al? Are you sure this is what you want?” because he didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding.
She’d nodded jerkily, gulping again, looking terrified. “It is,” she insisted. Then, at his look of skepticism, she’d said it again. “I mean it, PJ. I want to.”
And then, as if she were determined to convince him, she’d put her hands on his bare chest and leaned in to press a tentative kiss against his lips.
And he’d been lost.
PJ had made love with a few women in his life. It was enjoyable tactile exercise—and nothing felt better. But he learned very quickly that making love with Ally went far beyond that. It wasn’t just exercise. It didn’t just feel good.
It felt right.
As he unbuttoned her shirt, he found his own fingers trembling. And when he pressed kisses along her jawline and licked the edge of her ear, her tiny gasps sent his heart into overdrive. He almost couldn’t get her shirt off. They might have been tangled in it forever if she hadn’t finished unfastening the buttons and skimmed it away, then pressed closer to him.
Her skin was petal soft. And warm. Not cold and clammy as her hand had been when she’d offered it outside the courthouse. Now her skin was hot satin beneath his fingers. He stroked and kissed, nibbled and laved. Her small breasts were perfect in the scrap of rose-colored lace that was her bra. But they were even more enticing when he freed them.
And when she arched beneath the touch of his lips on first one nipple and then the other,