a nod, keeping his voice as controlled as possible.
He slid closer to her, reached over her and turned off her lamp, slipping the thermometer out of her hand to place it on the nightstand.
They’d made love hundreds, maybe thousands of times. They could do it now. Piece of cake.
He left his arm draped around her and burrowed his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. Once, twice, three times, giving them both a chance to get used to the idea of making love.
Her hair was soft against his cheek, and he ran his hand through it, letting his subconscious kick in and memories wash over him. Her scent was one of the first things he’d loved about her. He remembered dancing under the stars, on the cruise in the harbor, the warm June winds flowing over them as she swayed in his arms in that red dress.
Two minutes into the dance, he knew. He knew he was going to love her, knew he was going to marry her, knew he was going to spend the rest of his life taking care of this funny, gorgeous, intoxicating woman.
Now, he kissed the tender skin of her neck. He trailed his fingertips down the satin of her gown, pressing his warm palm against her abdomen. He kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, then moved to her earlobe, drawing the soft flesh between his lips.
He wanted to tell her he loved her, but things were too tenuous between them. He was building a fragile peace, a respite in the midst of the tough conversation that would have to take place in the next few days. He couldn’t hope for more than that.
He fluttered his fingertips along the curve of her waist, up her ribcage, skimming the side of her breast. Desire was slowly but surely thickening his blood. He could feel his breathing deepen and the stirrings of need work their way though his body.
He stroked her shoulder, slipping off the strap of her gown. Then he made his way down her arm, over her wrist, intending to twine their fingers together as one.
But he found a fist.
A tense, tightly clasped fist.
He jerked back to look at her face.
Her eyes were scrunched tight, her forehead creased and her jaw clenched shut.
“Son of a bitch!” He vaulted off the bed.
Her eyes few open, and he was horrified at the grit, determination and aversion in their depths.
He was not forcing himself on a martyr. No matter what the cause, no matter what the rationale.
“This is a marriage,” he choked out, “not some stud farm.”
He grabbed his bathrobe, striding for the guest bedroom.
Alone in the bed, Elizabeth had cried herself to sleep. She’d wanted to make love, wanted desperately to make a baby. But their argument had replayed over and over in her mind while Reed caressed her, until it had shrouded her love for him, and his touch had felt empty.
She knew it would go away. Intellectually, she knew that only minutes or hours would have to pass before she felt secure in his arms once again. But she’d needed some time before lovemaking.
She’d finally fallen asleep in the early morning hours. Then she woke to the sound of the vacuum, and she knew their housekeeper had arrived, and Reed had gone to work.
Part of her couldn’t believe he’d left without waking her to make love. But then she remembered his expression as he’d stormed out of the bedroom. She’d angered him. And maybe she’d hurt him. He had, after all, tried valiantly to put the fight behind them and make love.
She was the one who had failed.
She flipped off the covers, showered, dressed and took her car to the Wellington International office tower on Fifth Avenue.
She rode the elevator to the executive floor and paced through the marble foyer without giving herself a chance to hesitate. She’d apologize to Reed. Not for the fight, but for staying so emotional afterward. She was past it now, and she’d tell him so.
If worst came to worst, she’d flash the lacy black camisole she was wearing under her coat dress. She had thigh-high stockings to match, and she’d put on the skimpiest, sexiest pair of panties she could find in her drawer. She wasn’t above a little seduction. And there was a fine hotel right across the street.
“Elizabeth.” Reed’s secretary, Devon, rose from her chair. She shot a quick, uncertain glance at the window through to Reed’s corner office. “Is Reed expecting you?”
“It’s a surprise,” Elizabeth admitted. She hoped a good surprise.
Devon shot another glance at his office, and there was something strange in her expression. “Let me give him a call.”
Elizabeth glanced through the window and saw a woman’s profile. She had spiky black hair and wore a dark blazer.
“You wife is here,” Devon said into the phone.
There was a split second’s delay, and then the woman shot a guilty glance through the window at Elizabeth. She immediately came to her feet.
“Who’s that?” Elizabeth asked Devon.
“She’s a job applicant,” Devon replied, busying herself with some papers on top of her desk.
Something in the atmosphere made Elizabeth feel awkward. “I hope I’m not disturbing something.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” said Devon.
The door to Reed’s office opened, and the woman came out first. She was a strong, no-nonsense type, about five foot seven, with short cropped hair, classic clothes and a self-confident stride.
She nodded to Elizabeth as she passed, leaving a clean hint of a coconut shampoo in her wake.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” said Reed, and Elizabeth turned back to face her husband.
“Surprise,” said Elizabeth, with a smile for Devon’s benefit.
He gestured to the open office door, and she preceded him inside.
“Sorry to disturb you,” she offered as he latched the door.
“Not a problem.” He indicated a pair of leather chairs in one corner of the room, bracketing a low table.
“Who was she?” Elizabeth asked.
Reed waited for her to sit down. “Who?”
“The woman who just left. Devon said—”
“She’s a client,” Reed said hurriedly.
Elizabeth froze, a terrible feeling creeping into her empty stomach. He was lying. Why was he lying?
“What kind of a client?”
Reed waved a dismissive hand. “She owns a chain of furniture stores on the West Coast.”
Elizabeth nodded, depression settling on her shoulders.
