last night happened. You were right—I shouldn’t have taken the louse so seriously.’ The pressure of his fingers increased just fractionally. ‘I won’t pretend I understand why you’re apparently reluctant to slap the guy down in public, why you don’t want to fight—but I promise you I’m trying.’
Olivia gritted her teeth, dropping her eyes. This was difficult. He was as good as accusing her of being a wimp, of having no fight in her. It was miles away from the truth. She’d been fighting all her life and wasn’t about to lie down and let things happen to her now.
But, in spite of what he’d said last night, he couldn’t read her mind, so he wasn’t to know how hard she was fighting, fighting to keep her secret guilt away from him, keep it safely shut up inside herself where it could be ignored.
There was no answer to give to that statement, no answer she wanted to give, except, ‘What’s to forget? I don’t remember a thing!’ Her violet eyes sparkled as she drew their twined hands towards her so that the back of his fingers grazed her breasts, heard the sharp hiss of his indrawn breath as she invited rawly, ‘Kiss me.’
The flash of desire deep in his eyes was unmissable and her lush mouth softened, the core of her body aching with heat, needing his lovemaking to blot out the ugly scenes of the night before, but he took a deep breath, his impressive shoulders straightening as he stood upright, releasing her clinging hands.
‘Normally that’s an invitation I’d find impossible to refuse,’ he said. He turned, reaching for his robe, thrusting his long arms into the sleeves, tying the belt round his taut waist. ‘But we both know what it would lead to, don’t we? We wouldn’t leave the bedroom for the rest of the day, and I already phoned Rye House before I showered. We’re spending the weekend there; my parents are looking forward to seeing us.’
He was already pulling casual jeans and shirts from the dressing chest, tossing them, man-like, any old how over the back of a chair. ‘We both need some breathing space and at least we won’t fight in front of an audience. So pack our gear after you’ve showered, would you? I’ll make breakfast.’
Hauling herself out of bed, Olivia felt as if her heart had been dumped about six inches beneath her feet, hating the edge she’d detected in his voice.
Not that she didn’t want to visit his parents; she had taken to them immediately, relieved by their warm welcome because she’d been worried that they might think a widow, from a very ordinary background, was no great catch for their brilliant only son.
And she’d only met them twice before. The first time when Nathan had whisked her to Bedfordshire to announce their almost immediate wedding plans to his commendably phlegmatic parents and the second time at the marriage ceremony itself. So it made perfect sense that, after a week back in England, Nathan would want to visit them. Despite his nomadic life-style he and his parents were very close. She might have envied him that, had not Angela and Edward welcomed her as part of the family.
But she couldn’t help feeling that she and Nathan should have taken the opportunity this weekend to talk over the events of last night, get them in perspective and then, and only then, put them behind them.
But, strangely, Nathan seemed intent on sweeping it all under the carpet, forgetting everything, at least for the moment. Why? He was the most direct person she had ever encountered. Was it because he couldn’t bring himself to even think about the accusations Hugh had made in case he found himself believing them?
Her eyes were clouded, her whole body tense as she towelled herself dry after her shower and walked through to the bedroom to dress and pack. Then the appetising aromas of grilling bacon and fresh, strong coffee wafted up the stairs, making her nose twitch.
It had always astounded her that a man as wealthy as Nathan Monroe, a man who could press buttons and have servants coming out of the woodwork to attend to his every need if he so wished, should know his way around a kitchen like a veteran.
Relaxing a little, she pulled on a pair of soft, well-worn white jeans, topping them with a pansy-purple T-shirt that reflected the colour of her eyes, and told herself she couldn’t spend the entire weekend worrying about his motives.
Besides, Rye House was quite wonderful. Set in acres of rolling, wooded countryside, it had been in the Monroe family since the year dot. She would, she vowed, enjoy the weekend.
And so she did. As they were changing for dinner that evening in the luxurious guest suite, decorated in shades of soft old rose and misty grey, the perfect foil for the handsome antiques that had been handed down from generation to generation, Nathan asked, ‘Glad we came?’ He was standing at the foot of the four-poster bed, watching her mirror-image as she brushed her long black hair. Her answering smile was warm and genuine.
‘Very.’ She put her brush down, wondering if he had any idea how sensational he looked; his soft dark hair falling over his brow, his hands casually thrust into the pockets of the black trousers that clipped his long legs and sexily narrow hips, the stark white shirt making his tan fantastic.
She lowered her eyes. Now was not the time to entertain lustful thoughts about her husband! There was dinner to get through and—
God, would she ever get used to the way he made her feel? She hoped not! Getting her mind back on track, she asked, ‘Where were you all afternoon? I missed you.’
He and Edward, his father, had disappeared directly after lunch while she and his mother had been clearing up, because Hilda, their daily, didn’t work at weekends. And she had missed him, fretted over whether he was deliberately avoiding her, giving himself a slice of the space he’d said they both needed.
‘Sorry about that.’ She caught his cool glance in the mirror. ‘The old man’s building a kit-car in the empty stables. I told him he was in his second childhood, but when he showed me what he was doing I was hooked. A Cobra replica body married to the Rover V8 engine. It’s going to be really something when it’s finished.’
‘Toys for the boys!’ She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. ‘Why do men never grow up?’
She was trying to make a joke of it, lighten the atmosphere, nudge them towards the old, wonderful closeness, but he simply shrugged, walking slowly over the polished oak boards to stand behind her.
‘I can think of a few grown-up things I’d like to do right now.’ His voice was heavy as his eyes made a slow and sultry assessment of her mirror-image, stripping away the soft, garnet-coloured silk of her discreetly styled, sleeveless dress.
‘You are unforgivably beautiful,’ he said rawly. ‘I can’t look at you without wanting to take you to bed. But you know me.’ His mouth curved without humour. ‘I like to get my priorities right. Is it too much to hope that you spent the afternoon mentally composing your letter of resignation?’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ she answered tightly, meeting his cool eyes in the mirror, refusing to let him stare her down. ‘I won’t be forced into a snap decision.’ Max had always tried to do that to her, tried to make her fall in with his plans, using the threat of violence if she didn’t. But she had stood her ground then, and would do so now. ‘We need to have a proper discussion. All we’ve done so far is snipe at each other.’
‘I see.’ He sounded almost bored and turned, strolling to one of the mullioned windows to look out. ‘So what’s to discuss?’
Ohvia bit her lip, tension making her shiver. Because her love for him was so deep it would be too easy
