Читать книгу Taken by the Millionaire: Hotly Bedded, Conveniently Wedded - Kate Hardy - Страница 8

ALEX schooled his features into neutral. ‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s wrong to get married without loving each other.’

He flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Of course I love you, Bel.’

‘But not in that way, Alex. And I’m not putting myself through that again.’

Alex stared at her. ‘Hang on. Are you telling me Gary didn’t love you? That he was unfaithful to you?’

She shook her head. ‘He didn’t break his marriage vows, no. Let’s just leave it that our marriage turned into a mess.’

She looked uncomfortable, and Alex knew Isobel wasn’t telling him the whole story—but he also knew not to push her. She’d talk to him when she was ready. She always had.

‘Though it didn’t take him very long to find someone else.’ Isobel dragged in a breath. ‘His new partner’s just had their first baby.’

That had clearly hurt her. He’d never asked Isobel why she’d split up with Gary—because it wasn’t any of his business and he didn’t want to rake open any painful wounds—but he’d always supposed that Gary had wanted a baby and she hadn’t been prepared to make any compromises with the career she loved.

So had his guess been completely wrong? Was Isobel the one who’d wanted children?

No, of course not. She adored Saskia’s daughter, Flora—her god-daughter and Alex’s niece—but Alex had always assumed that it went with the territory of being Saskia’s best friend. Isobel liked children, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to do her job—but she really, really loved what she did. A museum interpreter who worked with hands-on exhibits, dressing up as a Roman matron during school holidays or at weekends and giving cookery demonstrations and showing people what everyday life was like in Roman Britain, as well as working behind the scenes as a curator on the exhibitions that toured other museums.

So if it wasn’t the baby, maybe she was upset because the baby signalled that things were well and truly over between her and Gary. That they could never go back to how things were.

According to his sister, Isobel had rarely dated since her marriage ended two years ago, so maybe she was still in love with Gary. Alex had never thought Gary was good enough for her—for starters, the man had a feeble handshake and no imagination—but he also didn’t like seeing Isobel hurt and miserable. ‘Come here.’ He slid his arms round her and held her close. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘That it didn’t work out for you. That he let you down.’ He stroked her hair. ‘I know it’s probably not what you want to hear, but he was never good enough for you.’

‘But he didn’t ask me to marry him just because I’m staid and sensible.’

Alex pulled back slightly and looked her in the eye. ‘I asked you because I want this job and being a married man is going to give me the edge I need.’

‘Rubbish. You can talk your way into anything.’

‘Apart from getting you to marry me, you mean,’ he parried. ‘And you didn’t let me finish. Whatever I said about you being sensible—which you are—the main reason I asked you is because you’re my friend. I’ve known you for years and years. I enjoy your company and I trust you. And that’s a much, much stronger basis for a marriage than being “in love” with someone.’ Thinking of Dorinda, Alex curled his lip. She’d been his biggest mistake ever. And she’d taught him all about the misery of love. A lesson that meant he wasn’t going to repeat that mistake. ‘Being “in love” is just temporary. It’s hormonal. Whereas what we’ve got has a much more solid foundation and it’s not going to change.’

‘Isn’t it? Because that’s what worries me, Alex.’ She bit her lip. ‘I don’t want to lose your friendship when it all goes pear-shaped.’

He sighed. ‘Apart from the fact that it’s not going to go pear-shaped, things aren’t going to change between us.’

‘How do you know? Unless you’re talking about a marriage in name only—and as you said you weren’t planning to have a string of girlfriends, I have to assume you’re …’ Her voice tailed off and she actually blushed.

He’d never seen her colour like that before.

And even though he knew he wasn’t playing fair, he couldn’t resist teasing her. ‘Assume what, Bel?’

‘That getting married means having sex with each other.’ Her flush deepened.

Alex felt as if his skin were suddenly burning, too. Sex with Isobel. Right now, he was holding her. Loosely, admittedly, but he was still holding her. All he had to do was move forward a fraction, dip his head, and he could kiss her.

His mouth went dry.

He could remember the last time he’d kissed her, other than the usual peck on the cheeks that accompanied their welcoming hugs when they hadn’t seen each other for a while. The night she’d come round to their house, crying her eyes out because her boyfriend had dumped her for someone more glamorous and less studious, and he’d answered the door. Saskia had been out, so he’d taken Isobel into the summer house in their garden for a heart-to-heart. He’d told her that the boyfriend was an idiot and it didn’t matter because there was a whole world out there just waiting for her to conquer it.

And he’d kissed her.

Just once.

Before remembering that Isobel was eighteen to his twenty-three, much less worldly-wise, and he really shouldn’t be kissing her like that.

Now he wondered what would’ve happened if he’d kissed her a second time. Would they have ended up making love in the summer house? Would he have been the one to introduce her to the pleasures of love-making?

And what shocked him even more was that his body was reacting even now at the thought of it.

Making love with Isobel.

He became aware that she was speaking.

‘And besides, I’m not your type.’

‘I don’t have a type,’ Alex protested.

‘Yes, you do. You always go for tall, skinny brunettes with legs up to their armpits.’

‘You have dark hair.’ The colour of a chestnut that had just slipped out of its prickly case, it was soft and silky when he ran his fingers through it. ‘And you’re not short.’ She was curvy rather than skinny, though with three younger sisters he knew much better than to discuss a woman’s weight or body shape.

‘I’m five feet four. That makes me slightly shorter than the average woman.’

He smiled at her. ‘It also makes you two inches taller than the average Roman woman in the fourth century.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Trust you to know that.’

He laughed. ‘Actually, you were the one who told me. When you were researching your first talk about Roman women.’

She stared at him in obvious surprise. ‘You remember that?’

‘Course I do. We must have sat up half the night talking about it. Well, after I’d bored the pants off you with all those photographs of the dig I’d just come back from.’

‘I wasn’t bored.’

‘See? We have things in common. Lots of things. And we like each other. Getting married would work, Bel.’

The colour was back in her cheeks, even deeper this time. ‘Supposing we’re not, um, compatible?’

‘Compatible?’

‘In bed,’ she muttered. ‘What if I’m rubbish at sex?’

‘If that’s what Gary said, he clearly wasn’t doing it right—and his ego made him blame you.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Look at me, Bel,’ he said softly. She had huge brown eyes that had topaz glints when she laughed, and a perfect rosebud mouth. Why had he never really noticed that before? ‘I think we’d be …’ he paused as his heart gave an unexpected kick ‘… compatible.’

‘I can’t believe we’re even discussing this!’ She pulled back from him. ‘So why didn’t you ever get married, Alex?’

He let her go. ‘Because my job meant a lot of travelling—and that meant either living apart from my wife most of the time, or dragging her around the world with me. Neither option’s a fair one.’

‘And you never met anyone who made you want to stay in one place?’

Once, but that had been a long time ago. In the days when he’d still worn rose-coloured glasses. Before he’d discovered that Dorinda was a liar and a cheat and had played everyone for a fool, including him. Since then, he’d never quite been able to trust anyone. He’d held back in his relationships, unwilling to risk his heart again and have it ground beneath a stiletto heel. Keeping things light and fun had worked for him, until now. ‘I told you, I don’t believe in love. But I do believe in friendship. In honesty. And if you marry me, Bel, I’ll be a good husband to you.’ A much better one than Gary had been.

‘I can’t get married. Ask someone else.’

There wasn’t anyone else he’d trust enough to marry. He shrugged. ‘Look, forget I asked. Come on, I’m taking you out to dinner.’

‘Why?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not an ulterior motive. You’ve said no and I’m not going to bully you into saying yes. Bel, you’re putting me up for a few days, so taking you out for dinner to say thank you is the least I can do.’

‘Alex, you don’t need to do that. You know I never mind you staying here.’

He smiled. ‘I know. But I like having dinner out with you. I like talking history and arguing over interpretations and laughing too much and eating half your pudding—because I’m greedy and you’re always nice to me.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘You’re impossible.’

‘Uh-huh.’ But to his relief she was smiling and relaxed with him again. ‘Is that Moroccan place we went to last time still open?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good. Let’s go.’

It always surprised Isobel slightly that Alex liked taking the tube rather than a taxi. Then again, on the tube people were careful not to catch anyone’s eye, so although he’d probably be recognised it was unlikely that someone would ask for an autograph or a photograph with him taken with the camera on their mobile phone. Besides, without the hat, people were more likely to think he was a guy who just happened to look like the archaeologist from the show, rather than being the man himself.

It was practically impossible to talk on the tube; there were just too many people squashed onto the train. During late spring and summer, rush hour seemed to last a lot longer; the office workers crushing onto the train were quickly replaced by tourists.

Isobel wasn’t sure whether it made her more relieved or uptight—or both at the same time. Relieved, because she didn’t have to make eye contact or conversation with Alex. And uptight, because it gave her time to think about what he’d said.

Getting married—to Alex.

Having sex—with Alex.

Oh, Lord.

She’d enjoyed her friendship with Alex. She always had.

And she’d married Gary because she’d loved him.

But a little bit of her had always wondered: what if Alex hadn’t had his string of glamorous girlfriends? What if he’d repeated that kiss when she was twenty-one? What if she’d ended up with Alex instead of Gary?

Panic skittered through her. She had to be insane even to be considering this. Marriage wouldn’t work. She’d had one serious relationship before Gary, so she was hardly experienced—whereas Alex had practically had a girlfriend at every dig, not to mention the ones in between. She’d never be able to live up to his expectations.

His words echoed in her head. I enjoy your company and I trust you. And that’s a much, much stronger basis for a marriage than being ‘in love’ with someone.

Was he right? Were friendship and trust a better basis for a marriage than love and desire? Should she have said yes?

A note appeared in front of her eyes. In Alex’s spiky, confident handwriting.

‘Stop brooding. “Dinner” means dinner.’

The last word was in capitals and underlined three times.

She faced him. Sorry, she mouthed.

He smiled, and it gave her a weird sensation—as if her heart had just done a somersault. Which was anatomically impossible and completely ridiculous. Especially as, at the age of thirty, she was way, way past the teenage heartthrob stage.

And then it was their stop.

The crowds of people swirling round them meant it was still impossible to talk. But she was aware that Alex was behind her on the escalator. So close she could have leaned back against him.

What would it be like to feel Alex’s arms round her?

What would it be like to feel his hands against her bare skin?

What would it be like to feel his mouth touching her body intimately?

‘OK?’ he asked when they were through the ticket barrier and standing outside on the street.

‘Fine.’

‘Liar.’ He caught her hand and squeezed it briefly.

The lightest contact … and it sent a shiver all the way through her. Woke nerve-endings she’d forgotten she had.

No.

It wasn’t possible for her to feel like this about Alex. And even thinking about it meant she was storing up trouble for herself. She’d loved Gary. Deeply. But it hadn’t stopped everything going wrong. So she had to keep some kind of distance between herself and Alex, not let her heart get involved.

Or her libido.

‘I’m not lying,’ she mumbled, but she didn’t look him in the eye until they got to the Moroccan restaurant.

Alex insisted on holding the door open for her. ‘I don’t care if it offends your feminist nature. It’s good manners and it’s how I was brought up,’ he informed her.

It was how she’d been brought up, too. ‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it.

Stepping inside the restaurant was like stepping out of London and into a souk. The air smelled of cinnamon and cardamom, and the décor was as beautiful as she remembered it; the walls were painted shades of saffron and terracotta and deep red, there were rich silks everywhere, the wrought iron chairs were covered with bright silk cushions toning with the walls, and the silk hanging from the ceiling gave the place the effect of being in some rich prince’s tent. Tea-light candles flickered on the glass tabletops, and rose petals were scattered everywhere.

The waiter ushered them to the table and handed them each a menu.

‘Red wine OK with you?’ Alex asked, glancing down the menu.

‘Fine.’

‘Good. Meze to start, I think. Anything in particular you fancy?’

‘I’ll let you choose.’ Not that she wasn’t capable of choosing her own meal, but she knew how much Alex enjoyed it. And, as he’d said, his tastes were very similar to her own, so she knew she’d like whatever he chose.

‘What do you want for your main course?’

‘Chicken tagine. The one with preserved lemons.’

‘I think I’ll have the same. We’ll choose pudding later,’ Alex decided.

And after pudding … he’d go home with her.

And if she’d said yes to his proposal, he would have taken her to bed. Proved how compatible they were.

Her concentration went completely, and she was reduced to saying, ‘Mmm,’ and nodding in the right places as Alex talked to her about the dig he’d been on in Turkey before his return to London. And it was even worse when the meze arrived—a selection of dishes to share. Traditionally, Moroccan food was eaten with fingers and pitta bread was used to scoop up the dips, and every time she reached for one of the stuffed vine leaves or the aubergine and cumin dip or the felafel, her fingers brushed against Alex’s. In the past, it wouldn’t have bothered her, but tonight the lightest contact made her tingle. A sensual awareness that spread through every part of her body and made her wish that she’d been wearing a thick concealing sweater rather than a thin T-shirt that revealed her body’s reaction to his touch.

If Alex said one word about being able to see her nipples, she’d kill him.

She ate her chicken tagine in silence.

And then Alex sighed.

‘Would it really be so bad?’

‘What?’

‘Going to bed with me.’

She felt the colour shoot into her face. ‘Alex!’

‘You’ve been quiet ever since I suggested getting married.’

And having sex. ‘It’s just … I never thought about you in that way before.’ It wasn’t the strict truth, but she didn’t want him thinking that she’d been secretly lusting after him. Their friendship had been genuine.

‘Not ever? Not even when you were … I dunno … eighteen?’

When she was eighteen? The only time she remembered him kissing her on the mouth. ‘No.’ She looked curiously at him. Did he remember that, too? And was he saying that, all those years ago, he had seen her as more than just the girl next door? ‘Did you?’

‘Not when I was eighteen—of course not.’ He flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Bel, you were still a child when I was eighteen. And when you were eighteen and I was twenty-three, there was still a huge gap between us.’ He paused. ‘But now you’re thirty and I’m thirty-five. The gap’s not there any more.’

She knew she was going to regret asking, but she couldn’t help the question. ‘And?’

‘And …’ he paused ‘… I’m thinking about you in that way right now.’

There was a gleam in his eyes she’d never seen before. A purely masculine gleam that told her he was interested in her. As a woman, not as a friend.

Her breath hitched. ‘Oh.’

‘You’re thinking about it, too, aren’t you?’ he asked, his voice sounding husky.

‘Yes,’ she admitted, before she could stop herself.

‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘Hold on to that thought.’

It still seemed like some weird parallel universe. The idea of becoming Alex’s lover. Yesterday it would’ve been unthinkable. Today … the possibilities sent heat all the way down her spine.

She found it hard to concentrate when the waiter offered them the dessert menu, and eventually went for the safe option: bagrir, a light pancake served with honey and ice cream and nuts. Alex, just as she could have predicted, went for the selection of chocolate and cardamom ice cream.

‘Oh, yes. Best ever,’ Alex said when he tasted it. ‘Open your mouth.’

Oh, Lord. The pictures that put in her mind.

It must have shown in her expression, because she saw colour bloom along his cheekbones. ‘I meant, you have to try this. And it’s the cardamom one—I know you loathe chocolate ice cream.’

So he wanted her to lean forward and accept a morsel from his spoon? But her T-shirt was V-necked. Leaning across the table would give Alex a full-on view of her cleavage.

The thought made her nipples tighten even more.

‘Bel, it’s melting. Hurry up.’ He held the spoon out towards her.

She leaned across the table. Opened her mouth. Let him brush the cold, cold spoon against her lower lip before she ate the morsel of ice cream.

‘Good?’ he asked.

She had a feeling he didn’t mean just the ice cream.

‘Good,’ she whispered.

He smiled—a warm, sensual smile that made her catch her breath.

‘My turn,’ he said.

They’d done this so many times before—shared a pudding, tasted each other’s meals, filched buttered toast from each other’s plates or a swig from each other’s mug of coffee with an ease born of long familiarity.

But tonight it was different.

Tonight they were feeding each other like lovers.

And when he ate the proffered piece of her bagrir, she could see that he looked as distracted as she felt.

She had no idea how they got through the rest of their dessert, or the mint tea afterwards. Or when Alex had ordered a taxi, because one was waiting for them outside practically as soon as he’d paid the bill.

He didn’t say anything on the way back to her flat; he simply curled his fingers round her own—reassuring and yet incredibly exciting at the same time.

Holding hands with Alex was something she’d never really done. She was used to him giving her a friendly hug—almost a brotherly hug. But there was nothing remotely fraternal in the way he was holding her hand right at that moment. His touch was gentle—and yet firm enough so that she could feel the blood beating through his veins, in perfect time with her own.

When the taxi pulled up outside her building, Alex paid the driver and opened the car door for her. Isobel’s hands were shaking slightly and she fumbled the entry code for the security system; it took her three goes to press the right buttons in the right order. By the time she unlocked her front door, she was a nervous wreck.

Alex paused, leaning against the doorway. ‘Bel, let me reassure you that I’m planning to sleep on your sofa tonight. I’m not going to push you into anything you don’t want to do.’

That was what worried her most: what she wanted to do. The more she thought about sex with Alex, the more she was tempted to do it.

Except she didn’t want to risk ruining their friendship.

And she definitely didn’t want to tell him her deepest, darkest secret—the thing she’d only told Saskia after extracting a promise from her best friend that Saskia wouldn’t tell anyone else and wouldn’t ever talk about it again.

She couldn’t possibly marry Alex. Even though she was pretty sure he didn’t want children, what if he changed his mind? If anyone had asked her before today, she would’ve said straight out that Alex would never get married. And yet today he’d asked her to marry him. Tomorrow he might want to start a family. Something she wasn’t sure she could do.

Her worries must have shown on her face, because he said softly, ‘Have I ever let you down before?’

‘No.’

‘That’s not going to change.’

Maybe. But if she married him, she’d be letting him down. Taking a choice away without telling him. Which was morally wrong.

Even though she knew she was being a coward, she muttered, ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache. I need an early night.’

‘I’ll make sure I don’t disturb you. Do you want me to bring you a glass of water and some paracetamol?’

‘Thanks, but I’ll manage. I’d better sort the sofa bed out for you.’

‘I’ll do it.’ He reached out to stroke her cheek. ‘See you in the morning, Bel. Hope you get some sleep.’