less than twenty-four hours ago! Why come here to persecute her?
‘Interesting set-up,’ he said, ignoring her question and continuing his inspection of her pinboard. ‘What’s the business?’
‘Mine,’ she said, not willing to share even the nature of her business with him, never mind the intimate details he’d try and winkle out of her. ‘It’s mine, and it’s private. I repeat, what are you doing here, Rob?’
His eyes met hers, red rimmed with exhaustion but determined, the blue of his irises touched with flint. ‘I would have thought it was obvious what I was doing here. I’ve come to take you home,’ he said softly, and her traitorous heart kicked against her ribs.
She snorted. ‘Not a chance. I told you, I want to think.’
‘You can think at home.’
‘No, I can’t. I just want this time to myself. You should have rung, you’ve had a wasted journey. I’ve got nothing to say to you at the moment, and I want you out of here. This is my house, my office, my life.’
‘And you’re my wife.’
‘Am I?’ she asked bluntly, and he recoiled a fraction, as if she’d struck a painful blow. Good, she thought, ruthlessly crushing her guilt. She was fed up with him taking her for granted. She stood up, gathering the cups together and standing waiting by the top of the stairs. She gestured for him to go down, but he just smiled and took her chair at the desk, turning on the monitor and tapping keys on her computer and opening files, flicking through her personal business with ridiculous ease and a casual disregard for her privacy.
‘Leave it alone! That’s nothing to do with you,’ she fumed, ready to dump the dregs of the cups on his head, and he spun round in the chair and fixed her with those piercing eyes.
‘You’re a web designer,’ he said slowly.
‘Ten out of ten. Out.’
He unfolded himself from the desk and stepped closer, looking down into her face searchingly. ‘There was no need for you to leave. You could have told me you wanted to do it,’ he said, his voice seductive, almost convincing.
‘I wanted it to be mine,’ she said, and he gave a tiny huff of laughter.
‘Mine again. You seem to be using that word a lot. Whatever happened to ours?’
‘Yours, you mean.’
His eyes narrowed and he searched her face, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know what’s eating you, Laurie, but we’ll talk about it when you come home.’
‘I’m not coming home,’ she repeated emphatically, but he just smiled.
‘Oh, I think you are.’
That was it. She lost it. Without another thought, she dumped the contents of the mugs on his head and stomped off down the stairs, leaving him swearing under his breath and brushing ineffectually at his clothes. A smile tugged at her mouth, but she suppressed it. It was a childish thing to have done, but he’d provoked her beyond endurance, and she wasn’t going to laugh it off. God forbid he should think she wasn’t serious about this. She was done being dictated to.
He was right behind her, his temper barely under control, and she felt a tiny frisson of anticipation. She hadn’t seen him really angry for ages, but she knew she could trust him not to hurt her, and right then she was spoiling for a fight.
She marched over to the cottage, just half a stride ahead of him, and he was through the door behind her before she had time to slam it in his face.
‘It won’t work, Laurie,’ he said grimly, following her into the kitchen with the dog at his heels. ‘I’m not going without you.’
‘Well, I’m not going, and you’re not staying, so it’s going to be a bit tricky, really, isn’t it?’
‘I mean it,’ he said, his voice taut with determination, all that earlier gentle coaxing gone, banished no doubt by the coffee dregs in his hair and the cold bite of the wind and her failure to succumb to his authority. ‘I’m not just walking away from this,’ he went on. ‘You’re my wife, and if you think you can just run off like this without talking about it, you’re mistaken.’
‘I hardly ran off.’
‘No? Then why didn’t you tell me where you were going, and what you were doing? And what the hell is this business you’ve been running in the attic of my house without telling me? How long’s it been going on?’
‘Our house, I think, and don’t you mean asking your permission?’ she snapped, whirling on him, her temper finally frayed beyond endurance. ‘Don’t you mean what the hell was I doing sneaking around behind your back daring to have a life?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he retorted. ‘Of course you can have a life.’
‘Just so long as it includes playing hostess to your incredibly boring business acquaintances with monotonous regularity, and dressing up in pretty clothes to be the elegant little social butterfly I’m expected to be. God forbid I should wear jeans.’
‘You can wear jeans.’
‘Versace jeans,’ she snorted, whirling away again to dump the mugs in the sink before she hurled them at him. ‘Not ordinary jeans from the discount shop on the corner.’
‘You’ve never worn jeans like that! You don’t even like jeans,’ he protested, and she felt a pang of guilt. He was quite right, she hadn’t ever bought cheap jeans, or any cheap clothes in fact, and she wouldn’t want to. She just wanted the right to, that was all.
She turned back to the sink, washing the mugs for something to do that didn’t involve screaming with frustration.
He signed, a harsh exhalation filled with the same frustration and irritation that she was feeling. I must be getting to him, she thought in satisfaction. There’s a miracle.
She turned round, just as he hooked out a chair from the table and dropped wearily into it. His eyes were tired and red-rimmed, his face was drawn, and she remembered he’d been travelling now for over twenty-four hours.
He didn’t have to come up here after me, she reminded herself. It was his choice. Then a little dribble of stale coffee trickled off his hair and down his temple and dripped onto his coat, and she felt a twinge of guilt. It was a lovely navy cashmere coat, only a few weeks old and hideously expensive, and the splash of coffee over one shoulder and down the front did nothing to enhance it. Her guilt prompted a partial climb-down.
‘I’ll make you tea, then you can go,’ she conceded.
She waited for a second, but instead of repeating his intention to stay he merely settled back, folded his arms across his chest and smiled.
Rats. He looked so sexy when he did that, sexy enough to distract her—but only for a moment. She reminded herself of all the reasons why she was here—his autocratic behaviour, his expectations of her, the time he spent away from home when she was left holding the fort.
Holding the baby? She shuddered to think what would have happened if she’d conceived. Would he have come home at all,
