Modern Romance May 2016 Books 1-4. Julia James
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was drowning in physical sensation, losing any sense of who she was. Who he was.
‘Abby,’ he protested hoarsely, when she tore open two of his shirt buttons and pressed her lips against his chest.
Abby ignored him. She’d discovered that his skin was damp and salty and lightly spread with dark hair. It reminded her unmistakeably of the way it arrowed down below his navel, cradling the swollen pressure of his sex.
God knew, he was a temptation, and she was not immune to the memories that she’d denied for so long.
Memories of him all those years ago, kissing her in his car in the car park at the apartments where she’d lived with Harry. Memories of how nervous she’d been when she’d made that call. Memories of how he’d looked in the wine bar, when Harry had told him what a fool he’d been in trusting her...
And what was she doing now? Did she want him to think she was that easy? Because, truth to tell, she probably was where he was concerned.
His kiss hardened and deepened, and he dragged her closer against him, so she could feel every taut muscle behind his zip. One of his legs pushed between hers, forcing her nearer. And she could feel the wetness inside her panties and the ultra-sensitive pressure of her sex against his thigh.
Harley whined, and she was brought unwillingly to her senses. Evidently the retriever didn’t like being neglected, or perhaps he was trying to remind her of what had happened before.
She shouldn’t run away with the idea that because Luke wanted her, he didn’t still believe she had stayed with Harry because he could keep her in the luxurious manner to which she’d become accustomed. He still thought she’d been a rich bitch, looking for diversion.
If he only knew. If only he’d let her explain...
But she’d tried that once before without any success.
In addition to which, she mustn’t forget that he was also prepared to deprive her—and the other leaseholders—of their livelihoods. She shouldn’t expect any special favours from a man like him.
Catching her breath, she drew back and managed to put a little space between them. Then, swallowing, she said, ‘Can we talk?’
Luke’s brows drew together, and he raked back his tumbled hair with a slightly unsteady hand. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘I am.’
‘Abby, you do know what’s going on here?’ His own face was flushed, and there was impatience in his tone. ‘What in God’s name do you want to talk to me about right now?’
Abby stared at him. ‘I want to talk about Harry.’
‘You’re kidding!’ He stared at her disbelievingly. ‘I thought we dealt with that earlier.’
‘Well, you were wrong.’ She caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I was wrong. I have to tell you why I stayed with him when—’
‘Oh, not that again.’ Now Luke linked both hands at the back of his neck and stared at her with bitter eyes. ‘I know why you stayed with Laurence, Abby.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘I’m not a fool, Abby. The guy was a cash cow. You’re not the first woman to marry a man for his money.’
‘You couldn’t be more wrong.’
‘Couldn’t I?’ He paused. ‘Just don’t think I’m in the market for that kind of relationship. I was cured of that five years ago.’
Abby gasped. ‘You bastard!’
‘I’ve been called that before. I think it’s getting a little old?’
Abby stared at him. ‘So—you seriously expect I would be willing to be your mistress?’
‘Why not?’ He spoke succinctly, and she clenched her fists so tightly, her nails dug into her palms.
‘Just because I let you make love to me the last time you were here does not make me your whore!’ she retorted angrily, despising herself and him in equal measure.
‘Did I use that word?’ Luke regarded her narrowly, his eyes watching her intently.
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘Well, forgive me,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Only it’s hard to feel sympathy for a woman who’s cheated on her husband in the past.’
‘You know nothing about my marriage to Harry.’
‘And I don’t want to know,’ he retorted, reaching for his jacket. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should get out of here.’
‘Perhaps you should,’ said Abby, striving for indifference.
But before Luke could grab his jacket and leave, his strong fingers trailed down her sleeve and flipped beneath the hem of her shirt. She tried to back away from him, but the temptation of Luke’s touch was too much for her.
And when his hand spread against her bare midriff, warm and possessive against her soft flesh, every nerve in her body went on high alert. She wanted him to touch her, she admitted despairingly. Her limbs were melting in anticipation of his caress.
Without giving her a chance to break his hold, he pulled her down onto the sofa again and, pressing her back, covered her body with his.
Then, possessing her mouth, he whispered arrogantly, ‘What was it you were saying about not wanting to be my mistress?’
LUKE WAS IN a foul mood when he got back from Edinburgh.
The weather had been predictably bad and the conference he’d attended had been boring in the extreme. In addition to which, he’d spent much of the last three days fending off the advances of his host’s daughter, who seemed to think she was God’s gift to the opposite sex.
Fortunately, he’d had Felix drive him to the conference, so he hadn’t had to suffer the girl’s unsubtle attention on the flight back. She apparently worked in London, too, but he’d made sure she was never in a position to suggest he gave her a lift back to the capital.
Nevertheless, Luke found the return journey long and tedious. He’d worked on his laptop for a while, but, when he’d achieved as much as could be achieved without his files, he’d spent the remainder of the journey staring out of the window at the motorway.
Felix had done his best to entertain him, but he’d received monosyllabic replies at best. And, after a while, he’d asked Luke if he’d mind if he put on some music.
Luke had offered no objections, but he had raised the screen between the two halves of the car, which had been answer enough for Felix. The music had been turned off and silence had reigned until they got back to Eaton Close.
Back home, Luke took a shower and changed into casual clothes. His housekeeper, Mrs Webb, had prepared a delicious dinner for him, but, although he ate the smoked salmon, he only picked at the braised belly of pork, and didn’t touch the chocolate mousse.
She tutted her disapproval as she cleared the table in the morning room. The room overlooked the terraced garden at the back of the house, which at present was a riot of colour. A teak bench sat in the shade of hydrangeas and semi-tropical ferns that Luke’s gardener kept in immaculate order.
Mrs Webb knew better than to make any verbal complaint about his appetite, however, and asked if Luke would like coffee in the library.
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Luke, pushing away from the table. He forced a polite smile. ‘Sounds good.’
Even so, the word ‘coffee’ aroused disturbing connotations in his mind. It might be several weeks since that night in Ashford-St-James, when he’d gone to Abby’s apartment; but the memory was