Читать книгу The Millionaire's Marriage - Catherine Spencer - Страница 8

IF THERE’D been any plausible alternative, he’d have spent the night anywhere but in the same room with her. Since he didn’t have that option, he gave her a good two hours’ head start before he went up to join her.

She was asleep—or pretending to be—perched so close to the far edge of the mattress, all it would have taken was a gust of air from the open window to topple her to the floor. Being scrupulously careful to leave enough space between them to accommodate a third body, he inched carefully between the sheets on his side of the bed.

Her breathing was light and regular, which made him think perhaps she really was out cold, and eventually he must have dozed off as well because the next thing he knew, it was four in the morning and somehow, while they slept, they’d gravitated toward each other. She lay spooned against him, with her back pressed to his front.

She was wearing a soft cotton nightshirt and it was either very short to begin with, or it had ridden a long way up from where it was supposed to be. He knew because his hand had found its way over her hip so that his fingers were splayed across the bare skin of her warm, taut little belly. A few inches higher and it would have been her breast he was fondling, a realization which put his nether regions onto instant and standing alert.

She stirred. Stretched a little, like a lean, pedigreed cat. Rolled over until she was half facing him. In the opaque light of predawn, he saw her eyes drift open. Then, as awareness chased away sleep, she grew very still and very, very wary.

For about half a second, they stared at one another, then simultaneously rolled away from each other. She retreated to her side of the bed again and he slunk off to the bathroom, telling himself his problem was that he had to pee.

It hadn’t been the problem then, and it wasn’t the problem three hours later when he found himself suffering the same physical reaction all over again at the sight of his wife—his estranged wife! he reminded himself for about the fiftieth time—presiding over the breakfast table and looking even more delicious than the food on his plate.

“Are you coming with me to the airport this afternoon?” she asked him, her tone suggesting she’d be hard-pressed to notice whether he did or not.

Regarding her over the top of the morning paper, Max had found himself wondering if there was something in the bottled drinking water she favored which allowed her to remain so cool and aloof, when it was all he could do not to break out in a sweat at the thought of the night just past.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he said, trying to match her nonchalance. “It’s been a while since your parents last saw you. I imagine they’d like to have you to themselves for a while.”

Nonchalant? What a laugh! He sounded as stilted as a rank amateur trying out for a spot on some third-rate TV commercial! Not that she noticed. She simply gave that impassive little shrug of hers, waved the coffeepot under his nose, and said, “May I give you refill?”

He didn’t know what time she’d slipped out of bed, but it must have been early. Not only had she ground fresh coffee beans and made fresh fruit syrup for his waffles, she’d also found time to repair her manicure. Her nails gleamed pale rose against the brushed steel of the carafe.

As for the rest of her…oh, brother! Sleek and elegant in a floor-length, blue-and-purple patterned thing which was neither bathrobe nor dress but something in between; with not a hair out of place and looking as fresh as the morning dew, she gave new meaning to the term “picture perfect.”

“No,” he said, slapping down the paper and shoving back from the table. “I have to get going.” Quickly, before his imagination ran riot feeding itself on memories of the night before and he made a further fool of himself!

“When do you expect to be back?”

“As late as possible. That way, there’ll be less risk of us screwing up the charade.”

Her eyes, pure turquoise in the morning light, pinned him in an unwavering stare. “But you will join us for dinner?”

“Of course. That’s part of our arrangement.”

“And you will remember it’s going to take more than just your putting in an appearance to carry all this off?”

“How much more?” he asked, more to annoy her than because he cared about her answer.

“As much as it takes,” she said.

The remark stayed with him all day, a major but not, he was surprised to discover, unpleasant distraction. By the time he let himself into the penthouse late that afternoon, his dread at what the next two weeks might bring had been diluted by a peculiar anticipation. Damned if he understood why, but having Gabriella underfoot again charged his energy like nothing else had in months!

Stopping by his office to drop off his briefcase, he stood a moment at the partially open sliding doors, unnoticed by the threesome seated a few yards away at the table on the roof garden. He didn’t need to understand the language to recognize a certain tension in the conversation taking place between his wife and his in-laws.

Still strikingly handsome despite failing health, Zoltan sat ramrod-straight in one of the cushioned chairs, his dark eyes watchful as Gabriella replied to something her mother had said. Maria Siklossy, a little heavier than she’d been two years ago, leaned forward, consternation written all over her face.

Gabriella, polished and perfect as ever in a dress which he’d have called washed-out green but which probably deserved a fancier description, traced her finger over the condensation beading her glass. From her stream of fluent Hungarian, only three words had meaning for Max: Tokyo, Rome, and Vancouver.

He didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure she was trying to justify keeping three addresses while her husband made do with one, and that neither Zoltan nor Maria was buying any of it. Loosening his tie and rolling back the cuffs of his shirt, Max waded in to do his bit toward easing the old couple’s concerns.

If the relief that washed over Gabriella’s face when she saw him was any indication, he’d timed his entrance perfectly. Springing up from her chair like a greyhound let loose on the racetrack, she exclaimed, “You’re home, Max! I didn’t expect you until later.”

“Missed you too much to stay away any longer, baby cakes,” he said, immersing himself in his appointed role with gleeful relish.

Her mouth fell open. “Baby cakes?”

The opportunity was too good to pass up. Sweeping her into his arms, he planted a lengthy kiss on those deliciously parted lips. She smelled of wood violets and tasted of wild cherries.

Her eyes, wide open and startled, stared into his. Briefly, she resisted his embrace, then sort of collapsed against him. Her small firm breasts pressed against his chest. Their tips grew hard. Her cheeks flushed pink.

Fleetingly, he considered wallowing in the moment, if only to enjoy her disconcertion. Why not? He hadn’t asked to be cast as the romantic hero in her little production, but since it had been thrust upon him anyway, he might as well get his kicks wherever he happened to find them.

At least, that’s how he tried rationalizing his actions. But, just like the night before and the morning after, another part of his anatomy had different ideas and showed itself ready to play its part with animated enthusiasm. So, reluctantly, before she realized the state she’d reduced him to, he backed off slightly but kept her anchored next to him as he turned to greet her parents.

“Good to see you again, Zoltan,” he said, shaking his father-in-law’s hand. “You, too, Maria. Welcome to Canada.”

He bent to kiss her cheek, peripherally aware of the tears in her eyes as she held his face between her palms and murmured approving little Hungarian noises, but most of his attention remained focused on Gabriella. Her waist, half spanned by his hand, felt shockingly frail. Though he didn’t test the theory there and then, he was pretty sure he could have counted every rib through her clothes.

Pasting on his most affable expression to disguise his concern, he said, “So, what’s everyone drinking?”

“Iced tea,” Gabriella murmured faintly. “Would you like some?”

He smiled into her eyes which had a sort of glazed look to them. “We can celebrate your parents’ arrival with something more exciting than that, surely? How about champagne—unless you’d prefer something stronger, Zoltan?”

“A glass of wine would be pleasant.”

He might have temporarily quieted Maria’s suspicions, but he had a long way to go with the old man, Max realized. Zoltan was watching him like a hawk about to dine on a very fat mouse.

“Fine. I’ll go do the honors.” Suddenly feeling about as uncomfortable as he had the night he’d been discovered almost stark naked in the Siklossy palace, Max took off around the southeast corner of the terrace to the kitchen entrance, and left Gabriella to clear the iced tea paraphernalia off the table.

She followed soon after and plunked the tray of glasses on the kitchen counter with a clatter. “What was that all about?” she demanded, her color still high.

“Being a good host,” he said, knowing damn well she wasn’t referring to his suggesting champagne, but deciding to play dumb anyway. “What are you serving for dinner?”

“Broiled salmon. But another stunt like the one you just pulled, and you might find yourself being the one shoved in the oven!”

“Your English gets better all the time, Gabriella,” he remarked, hauling a nineteen ninety-seven Pol Roger out of the refrigerator and inspecting the label. “Very idiomatic indeed. I’m impressed.”

“Well, I’m not! Who did you think you were fooling just now with that ridiculous exhibition?”

“Your mother, certainly. And if your father still has any doubts about us, I’ll make short work of them, as well.”

“Not with a repeat performance like the one you just put on, I assure you.”

“Are you saying you didn’t enjoy our little exchange?”

“Certainly not!” But she blushed an even deeper shade of pink.

“Keep telling fibs like this, Gabriella,” he informed her genially, “and your nose will grow so long, you’ll never model again. Come on, admit it. You practically fainted with pleasure when I kissed you.”

“That wasn’t pleasure, it was shock.”