Читать книгу Michelle Reid Collection - Michelle Reid - Страница 52

IT WAS a retreat that had in fact taken him right out of the firing line, Claire discovered when she eventually emerged from the sanctuary of the nursery which had turned out to be no sanctuary at all in the end.

‘A problem with one of his latest acquisitions,’ she was told. But Claire knew the real problem was her and that he had simply taken himself away so as not to risk anything else going wrong before the wedding.

But then, she was his latest acquisition, she supposed. So she couldn’t call the excuse a lie exactly.

The rest of that week slid by quickly. She spent the time sharing herself between Melanie and Andreas’s grandmother, who was determined to make sure her precious grandson’s bride walked down the aisle looking as perfect as she had looked herself all those many years ago.

She produced a wedding veil of the same heavy lace as the dress, and commanded Claire to put it on then presented her with two delicately worked diamond and gold hair combs which she then instructed her exactly where to position to hold the veil in place. Next day came the diamond necklace and earrings to match the ring Claire already wore on her finger.

‘My husband gave me these the night before we married,’ she said sighingly. And Claire didn’t have the heart to protest at being given so many precious things to wear when the old woman’s eyes looked so full of wonderful memories.

I’ll hand them all back to Andreas straight after the wedding, she consoled her uneasy conscience. At least then I won’t feel like a thief as well as a fraud.

After those uncomfortable visits she would steal her sister and push her out in the gardens while she tried to re-convince herself that doing this was not so much deceiving a very old lady as trying her best to make her happy in her final days.

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but having no Andreas around to bounce either feeling off meant she had to deal with the conscience-struck days herself.

So her wedding day arrived, and behind a protective haze of disassociation she went through with it, stepping into the tiny but beautiful candlelit church on the arm of Andreas’s uncle Grigoris to be handed over to a man who had taken back the guise of tall, dark stranger in the days since she’d seen him last.

All those who had been at the betrothal party were here to watch them marry. Like a puppet responding to each pull on its strings, Claire repeated vows she didn’t mean to a man who didn’t mean them, his voice a dark and husky rumble that vibrated through her system like the growl of a hungry animal who saw her as its next meal.

Only this particular animal didn’t really want to eat her. So that fanciful impression was just another deception she could add to a growing list of them.

A slender gold wedding band arrived on her finger. She was kissed—though she completely shut herself off from it. She caught a glimpse of his eyes, though, as he drew away again. They were narrowed and probing the strained whiteness of her face.

She looked away. That kind of intimate contact was just too much for her right now.

They arrived back at the house to find that the wedding breakfast was to take place outside on the lawn. But when she went to move in that direction, already armouring herself for the next ordeal of having to face again all those people who, in her mind, had somehow become indelibly linked with the night of her wretched leap into womanhood, Andreas stayed her with the light touch of his fingers on her shoulder.

Sensation ripped through her like a lightning bolt, straightening her spine and drawing the breath into her lungs on a stricken gasp.

Why it happened, when she had managed to disregard every other time he had touched her today, she didn’t know.

But his fingers snapped back, his lean face freezing in what she could only believe was shock. ‘I can accept it is a bride’s right to look pale and interestingly ethereal,’ he rasped out harshly. ‘But do you think you could at least refrain from behaving as a lamb being led to her sacrifice?’

‘Sorry,’ she said awkwardly, but it was already too late for the apology.

He turned away from her, angry, tense. ‘We have another ordeal to contend with before we can go out to greet our guests,’ he then informed her grimly. ‘My grandmother is waiting to meet Melanie.’

Of course, she thought as mutely she followed him towards the stairs. Melanie was no longer an illegitimate member of this family—which was the real point to all of this after all. So why hadn’t she considered this eventuality?

Because it had been one lie that had become lost within all the other lies. She answered her own question.

The amber eyes flicked over Claire then did the same to Andreas, who was standing beside her holding Melanie. And Claire knew the old lady was superimposing her own and her late husband’s image over the top of them as she did so.

‘Perfect,’ she sighed out in eventual satisfaction. ‘Except for the child, of course,’ she then added censoriously. ‘I would have been banished from the family and my dear Tito would have been whipped to within an inch of his life. Now, get me that soft cushion over there,’ she went on impatiently. ‘Place it on my knee then let me have my great-granddaughter.’

Eager now—almost greedy in her desire to hold the baby, Claire moved to her bidding, collecting the requested cushion and laying it on the old lady’s lap. With infinite care, Andreas followed it with Melanie, then they both straightened to watch as the bony fingers of her only useful hand gently touched Melanie’s cap of silky black hair then stroked her baby cheek.

As if she sensed a stranger around, Melanie’s eyes flicked open and stared directly into the wizened old face leaning over her. It was an electrifying moment, though Claire didn’t know why it felt like that. But a few seconds later Andreas’s grandmother lifted her eyes up to his, and static was suddenly sparking between them.

‘You devil,’ she said.

That brief grim smile of his appeared. ‘And you are just too shrewd for your own good sometimes,’ he replied.

Then they both went on speaking in their own language while Claire stood by, utterly lost to the conversation, though she was aware that it took the form of a very sharp questionandanswer session that seemed to be including her because the old lady kept on glancing sharply at her.

The inquisition was concluded with a final thoughtful glance in Claire’s direction and a brief nod of her head. ‘Now send Althea to me,’ the old lady commanded, and her attention was back on the baby lying wide awake now on her lap. ‘And leave me to get to know my great-granddaughter in peace.’

‘What was all that about?’ Claire dared to ask after they’d left his grandmother with Althea safely ensconced to watch over Melanie.

‘She likes to think she still has control over everything, you know that,’ he drawled dismissively.

‘She called you a devil.’ And she’d meant it, Claire thought frowningly.

‘Maybe I am,’ he replied in a light, mocking vein that nonetheless still made Claire feel that, like his grandmother, he was being serious.

She was missing something here; she knew she was; she just didn’t know what the something was.

Then Andreas was diverting her thoughts into a whole new area that completely dismissed everything else for a while. Because he took her to his study and produced a set of legal documents that were, he explained, a formal application to the British authorities for them both to legally adopt Melanie.

Yet another stage of his carefully thought out game-plan, she mused bleakly as she set her signature to each page as Andreas indicated. A game-plan that had gone very smoothly for him—if you didn’t count that one small glitch in the middle when he’d given in to his baser instincts and seduced one of the expendable pawns.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said. ‘This will strengthen your claim on Melanie, not weaken it. Trust me.’

Trust me…It was quite a request when she was already being plagued by a feeling that there were things going on here that she didn’t know about.

But then, expendable pawns did not necessarily need to know the overall plan of the main player, did they? she mocked herself. Or was she just overreacting and reading too much into light, throw-away remarks that probably held no hidden agenda?

It suited her better to believe the latter when she still had one last ordeal to get through—namely playing the happy bride throughout the rest of that day—for her own pride’s sake, because her pride needed to remedy the poor impression she had given of herself in front of these people the last time they’d been together like this.

Maybe Andreas was of a similar mind because he never left her side for a moment and played the attentive groom to the hilt. And slowly—slowly Claire began to feel comfortable with him again; she even laughed once or twice at some smoothly whispered remark he made in her ear about one of his relatives.

It was nice. She even discovered that she was actually enjoying herself.

As the day softened into evening, people relaxed at whitelinen-covered tables with champagne glasses chinking and the light-hearted conversation eddying softly all around.

The stars came out. Several tall torches mounted on wrought-iron stakes that had been driven into the lawn were lit to add yet another dimension to the rather seductive scene. Then, to top it all, a group of musicians arrived and set up in a shadowy corner of the garden. Classical Greek music began filtering into the evening air.

Without a word, Andreas drew Claire to her feet and walked her over to the terrace then pulled her gently into his arms. Feeling shy and self-conscious when everyone turned to watch them, she looked down at her plastered wrist, which felt very cumbersome suddenly, and wondered flusteredly where she was supposed to rest it while they danced.

He solved the problem for her, by lifting it up and around his nape as he set them moving slowly to the music. It brought her too close to his body—reminded her of when she had last placed her arm around his neck like this—and she tensed up accordingly.

‘Stop it,’ he murmured softly. ‘Don’t spoil it.’

Don’t spoil it…She reinforced that remark, and made herself relax, made herself ignore that warm, hard body brushing against her own as they moved. She made herself pretend that the butterflies were not going wild inside her stomach. And she refused to so much as flicker a fleeting glance at the shadowy mouth that only required her to raise her head a half inch for her own mouth to be in burning contact with it.

‘You make an enchanting and very lovely bride, Claire,’ his dark voice inserted into the silence between them. ‘Some day some man is going to be very fortunate to claim you as his prize.’

But not you, she made bleak note, understanding exactly why he felt the need to say that. He was reinforcing his position just in case she might be dreaming of a more romantic ending while she danced with him like this.

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ she replied, wishing that her response could cut him as deeply as his words had done to her.

If he reacted at all Claire never found out because at the same moment Lefka appeared at Andreas’s elbow, the look on her face enough to warn them that something was dreadfully wrong. Bending towards the housekeeper, Andreas listened to what she murmured in his ear. And, as Claire had witnessed many times during the short period she had known him, she saw his expression completely freeze.

‘What’s wrong?’ she demanded anxiously when Lekfa melted away again.

‘One moment,’ he said, no emotion, no warning of what was to come showing in his flattened voice as he glanced around the people present and eventually caught the eye of his uncle Grigoris. The older man came hurrying over. By then Claire was trembling, though she didn’t know why.

Andreas murmured something to Grigoris in Greek. The older man’s face dropped in dismay. ‘Take care of my wife for me,’ he then added in English. And, without making eye contact with her once since Lefka had come to him, he turned and disappeared into the house.

‘Please…’ She turned her anxiety on Grigoris. ‘What’s happened? Where has he gone? Is it Melanie?’ she then added on a sudden jolt of maternal anguish.

Grigoris shook his steely head, his dark eyes—usually full of laughter—looking unbearably sad. ‘It is Yaya,’ he murmured huskily.

Then, while Claire stood frozen herself as realisation began to wash coldly through her, Grigoris placed a hand around her waist for support and turned to the rest of the party.

‘Attend to me, everyone,’ he announced. ‘Yaya Eleni has gone. The party is now over…’

Dressed in a long aquamarine silk nightdress and a matching robe, Claire had fallen into a fitful doze on her bed when a sound in the room woke her.

Opening her eyes, she saw Andreas standing by the long French window that led out to the veranda. He had pulled back the voile drape and was staring out at the moon-kissed evening. His jacket and tie had gone and the sleeves were rolled up on his white shirt, his hands lost inside the pockets of his iron-grey trousers.

Lying there studying him, Claire felt her heart give a wrench in aching sympathy—because though his broad shoulders were straight and his spine erect he still managed to emit a mood of utter dejection.

‘What time is it?’ she asked, smothering a yawn behind a hand.

He glanced at her—then away again. ‘Late,’ he replied sombrely. ‘Very late. Go back to sleep. I had no intention of disturbing you. I just did not want to—’

Be alone, Claire silently finished for him with the pained understanding of one who knew. ‘I wasn’t asleep,’ she said. ‘Just dozing.’

He nodded in acknowledgement but that was all, his concentration seemingly fixed on some far-away point way out on the horizon when she knew he wasn’t seeing anything but the darkened shadow of his own grief.

Sliding her feet off the edge of the bed, she sat up then stood up, ignoring the protest of muscles that had been slaves to tension for too long that day as she went to stand beside him.

‘Did she feel anything?’ she questioned softly.

He released a short laugh that almost strangled into a choke. ‘She died in her sleep with a smile on her face,’ he replied very dryly.

‘She went happily, then, as you wanted her to,’ Claire pointed out. ‘You have to take some consolation from that.’

‘Do I?’ He smiled that brief smile and Claire couldn’t bear it because although he was staring directly ahead the moonlight shone on the moisture in his eyes.

Without thinking twice about what she was doing, she slipped round in front of him, put her arms around him and laid her cheek against his chest. For if anyone needed physical contact with another human being right now, then it was him.

His first reaction was to stiffen at the unexpected gesture. Then, when he came to realise what she was offering him, he muttered gruffly, ‘You are too wise for your age.’

‘Age is not a prerequisite to feel what you’re feeling,’ she countered. ‘Believe me, I’ve been there, so I know.’

His answer to that was a heavy sigh, then he relaxed a little, and his hands left his pockets to link loosely around her. ‘Grigoris said you disappeared as soon as he had told everyone. Where did you go?’

‘I hid in Melanie’s room,’ she confessed, lifting her face up to wrinkle her nose at him in acknowledgement of her own cowardice. ‘I didn’t think I could have coped with their pitying looks if I’d stayed there in my bridal finery, looking about as out of place as anyone could look.’

‘You could have changed into something more—suitable,’ he suggested, refusing to let her off the hook for her desertion.

‘After all the trouble your grandmother went to, to recreate herself in me?’ she protested. ‘She would never have forgiven me!’

He smiled—he actually managed to smile! Claire began to feel dizzy at her success in teasing away his melancholy, even if it was only temporary.

‘But you changed eventually,’ he made wry note, sliding his thumbs against the silk of her robe at the base of her spine, sending a sprinkling of static washing through her.

She tried not to respond to it by concentrating all her attention on the remark. ‘After you took her to the chapel,’ she nodded. ‘I felt she wouldn’t mind if I changed then—don’t ask me why,’ she added wryly. ‘Because I don’t really understand it myself.’

‘It does not need explaining, Claire,’ he murmured very softly. ‘You honoured her passing in the way you thought she would appreciate it the most. I—thank you for that.’

‘No need,’ she shrugged, and began to ease herself away from him as the moment when she could excuse her closeness to him as comfort began to fade.

But he didn’t let her go. Instead his loosely linked arms closed just that little bit tighter around her. And out of sheer desperation she spun in his arms to face the window, so he couldn’t see the kind of control it was taking for her not to show what his touch was doing to her.

‘You know, I won’t hold you to your commitment to Melanie now that your grandmother is no longer here,’ she told him.

‘I thought you understood that I want that commitment,’ he replied.

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘But it is no longer necessary, is it?’ If it was ever necessary, she added silently. She’d never really understood his motives where Melanie was concerned. ‘Which seems to make a mockery of the whole thing.’

‘Things stay as they are,’ he decreed. ‘And I would prefer not to have this conversation right now.’

‘Oh, of course.’ Instantly contrite for bringing it up when naturally he wanted to think only of his grandmother, she spun around in his arms to offer him a small smile of apology. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I just thought I would…’

‘Let me off the hook,’ he inserted for her. ‘When it still does not seem to have sunk in with you that I have no intention of being let off—or to let you off it either,’ he added pointedly.

‘Well, a sham of a marriage seems a bit of a wasted gesture now.’ She grimaced.

‘When is a sham not a sham?’ he pondered curiously.

Glancing up, Claire stopped breathing when she saw the dark gleam inside the hooded sombre eyes. He wants me, she realised. It’s the reason why he came in here, why he broke the rules and crossed my threshold without first gaining my permission. He did not do it to talk about his grandmother but because he needs a woman to lose himself in tonight and that woman is me!

So, what are you going to do about that? she asked herself. But even as the question was filtering through her brain she was going up on tiptoe to brush her mouth against his.

His reply was a shaky sigh against the gentle pressure of her lips. ‘What was that for?’ he asked as she drew away again, trying to sound mocking and only managing to sound dreadfully needy.

‘It’s my wedding night,’ Claire reminded him softly. ‘And I want you. Will you make love to me, Andreas—please?’

Had she said it to protect his pride so he didn’t have to lower it to ask her the same question? Claire wondered later. Or was it just that she was responding to her own needs?

Whichever it was, at least he didn’t reject her—as she knew he was very capable of doing. Instead he released a muffled curse then was fiercely claiming her mouth.

Standing there with the moonlight shining in on them, he caressed and stroked and kissed the nightdress from her body, then stood back a little to sombrely rid himself of his own clothes.

He wasn’t happy with himself for wanting her like this, and Claire wished she had the experience to remove his clothes for him in a way that would make him lose touch with himself, never mind his reservations. But she was no femme fatale, and with one near-useless hand she knew she wouldn’t be able to pull it off with any grace. So she had to content herself with watching his moon-kissed, satiny flesh appear as his shirt was removed before he bent down to remove his shoes and socks.

Yet he stopped right there. Claire frowned at him as he reached for her again. ‘You haven’t finished,’ she whispered.

‘I will,’ he promised. ‘But later…’

Later turned out to be after he had carried her to the bed and laid her down on it. Later was when he had driven her into a mindless state of unbearable arousal that left not a single inch of her flesh untouched by his touch. Later was after she had driven him almost over the edge by trailing her mouth over his chest and had learned the intense pleasure in toying with a small, tight male nipple.

Later was when she had grown bold enough to move on downwards, utilising the expertise with which he had aroused her to arouse him. But when her sensual journey was halted by the waistband of his trousers he stopped her from taking them from him by pulling her beneath him, and, ignoring her small cry of protest at his frustrating tactics, he began the whole wildly erotic process of arousing her all over again.

So by the time his idea of later arrived she was so lost in the sensual haze he had created that she didn’t even notice him ridding himself of the wretched trousers until he came over her and she felt the power of his naked arousal just before he pushed urgently inside her…

This time, it really should not have happened.

‘Don’t say anything,’ she warned him.

She was sitting at Lefka’s huge scrubbed kitchen table, hugging a mug of hot coffee in her hands as if her life depended on it. There was no colour in her face whatsoever, and her hair was a tangled mess around her shoulders, her body cloaked in a towelling bathrobe that covered her from neck to feet.

He, by contrast, was fully dressed in fresh trousers and a polo shirt. He looked neat, clean, perfectly presented. But then, he’d shot off into his bathroom so damned fast that he could have had ten showers before Claire had recovered enough to move!

After he had lifted his weight from her, of course—quickly, like the last time. Body still shuddering—like the last time.

‘I—’

‘I said don’t!’ she choked out.

The silence screamed. The tension, the bitterness. Like an action replay of last time.

Then he sighed and moved away, walking wearily across the kitchen. Checking the coffee-pot with his hand, he poured himself out a cup then came to sit down at the table.

Claire flicked him a glance. He was staring down at his drink and his shoulders were hunched over. The strain of the last twelve hours was so severe in his face now that he looked like a man who was having to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

She looked away before she started feeling sorry for him again. He might look like Atlas, but he isn’t, she reminded herself brutally. He is just a man—an ordinary man with ordinary appetites. And an extraordinary way of dealing with the aftermath.

‘Do you have a mistress?’ she shot at him.

His head came up, dark eyes very guarded. ‘What?’ he murmured warily.

‘Desmona did warn me that you had a mistress tucked away somewhere, but with everything else I forgot to ask. So I am asking you now.’

‘Desmona said that?’ He frowned. ‘When?’

‘At the betrothal thing.’ She refused to call it a party. ‘She pointed out a couple of candidates and suggested I choose.’ Her eyes flicked up again, catching him without his guard, and his expression was—

She looked away again quickly, not wanting to acknowledge what that expression was telling her because it had the power to shatter the brand-new shell of protection she was hugging closely around her.

‘You haven’t answered the question,’ she prompted huskily.

‘There is no one,’ he said.

Eyes fixed on her cup, she tried to decide if she could believe him when the man found it so easy to be economical with the truth.

‘There is no one, Claire,’ he repeated in the kind of tone that forced her to believe him. ‘I would not do that to you. Desmona was talking like a loser, that was all.’

Which was what Claire had told herself when Desmona had fed her the poison, she remembered. ‘Good,’ she said, deciding to believe him. ‘That means I have one less guilty sin to carry around with me.’

‘What we did just now was not sinful,’ he denied.

‘No?’ she mocked. ‘Well, it certainly feels as if I’ve just done something dreadful.’

‘We made love!’ he husked.

‘No—we had sex!’ she burst out. ‘Just the same as we did a week ago. W-we had sex, then you walked away—just like you did a week ago. And I f-feel unclean,’ she added painfully. ‘Just like I did a week ago.’

‘I did not walk away from you just now,’ he asserted heavily. ‘I walked away from—’

The words stopped.

Sitting there with bated breath, Claire waited for him to continue. But he didn’t. Instead he ran a tired hand through his perfectly combed hair—and added nothing.

‘May you burn in hell,’ she murmured succinctly.

To her surprise he laughed—albeit cynically. ‘I have been burning away in that place for years,’ he drawled with an irony that flew right by her. ‘You will have to come up with a better curse than that to hurt me.’

And why do I get the impression that he knows exactly what that curse would be? she wondered, seeing a flash of something almost haunted pass across his eyes.

‘Whatever,’ she said, dismissing the look—because she had to do that if she was to remain strong. ‘Burn in hell or laugh at it. It doesn’t really matter to me. I don’t want you to come near me like that ever again—do you hear?’

With that she got up with the intention of leaving him—but his next words stopped her. ‘I’m sorry if I let you down,’ he said very huskily. ‘I didn’t do it to hurt you, Claire. I just didn’t think.’

‘You mean—you always walk away from a woman directly after making love to her?’ she asked derisively.

There was a distinct pause—more a guarded hesitation—before he sighed out, ‘Yes.’

‘The man on a mountain,’ she murmured softly, aware that the cryptic remark would mean nothing to him. She shivered inwardly. ‘I understand now. It’s yourself you feel the need to walk away from.’

She had been throwing out words haphazardly with the specific need to hurt him, but as she stood there watching his face grow white beneath his olive skin before it closed up altogether Claire realised, with a small shock, that she had hit the nail right upon its head!

‘You know me so well,’ he drawled, offering her that grim brief smile again in an effort to cover his reaction up.

And she wanted to hit him—probably would have done if she hadn’t noticed the tremor in his fingers as he reached for his cup. He was more affected by all of this than he wanted her to believe.

What was it with him, Claire wondered furiously, that he hated wanting her as a woman so much that he kept his wretched sexuality hidden inside his trousers until the very last moment? As if he had still been praying for deliverance right up until then, she realised with a shudder.

And on a muffled sob she turned and ran from the kitchen—kept on running, across the hall and up the stairs, desperately needing to get to her room before she broke down and wept.

Panting and sobbing together by the time she reached her bedroom, she barely had a chance to close the door before it was thrust open again.

‘Go away!’ she cried.

‘Don’t…’ he groaned, reaching out to pull her into his arms.

To her horror she pressed her face into his chest and sobbed all the harder.

It wasn’t fair! she told herself pitiably. He loved his grandmother. He could love Melanie. Why was it so terrible for him to try to love her?

His first wife, she then remembered with a sudden chilling of her flesh. She must have been quite something to have locked his heart up as totally as this.

Fighting for control of the tears now, she tried to push away from him.

‘No,’ he refused, his arms only tightening around her.

Her face lifted away from his chest, blue eyes awash with so many painful things that it was impossible to pick which was hurting her the most. ‘Oh, please,’ she pleaded helplessly. ‘Please, Andreas, let me go.’

For some unfathomable reason, hearing her use his name in that pained, wretched way unlocked something desperate inside him. His chest expanded on a tense draw of air, his eyes flashing with some awful emotion—then he lowered his head and crushed her mouth to his with a hunger so fierce that it caught her utterly blindsided.

Once again Claire discovered that she didn’t stand a chance. Not with emotions running as rife inside her as they were doing right now. And his mouth was hot, the taste of her own tears mingling with the moistness of his tongue. It was a seductive combination. The passion ignited like a fork of lightning that exploded to smithereens all hope of control. She didn’t even notice when her robe fell apart, or hear his muffled curses as he struggled with the zip on his straining trousers.

He entered her with a thrust that brought him to his knees with her straddled across him with his hands clamped to her hipbones.

‘Oh, dear God,’ she groaned against his devouring mouth as her body went wild for him.

But he lost it first, shooting into her like a man experiencing his first release. He couldn’t control it, could not control the gasping pants that shot from his pulsing body. When she joined him his grip on her hips was locked tight. And as she went limp against him he crumbled sideways, his arms shifting upwards to control her fall as they landed in a tangle of trembling limbs on the bedroom floor.

What now? Claire wondered as she reached rock-bottom of the slow slide back to wretched sanity. Another quick withdrawal followed by a walk-out? She even tensed herself in preparation for it.

‘I’m still here.’

His voice sounded like gravel, vibrating against her cheek where he had her face pressed against him. He hadn’t let go of her, and she was still lying with her limbs locked around him.

‘I’m going nowhere.’

‘Why not?’ she whispered.

‘You were right about me,’ he said. ‘I do prefer to stand alone. I don’t find it easy to be open with my feelings. But—as God is my witness, Claire, I want you. I want this with you!’ His arms tightened round her. ‘And if that means I must change then I will damn well change!’ he vowed. ‘And I will start by holding you like this for as long as you want me to.’

He meant it—he really meant it! The tears came back, but she wasn’t sure what they were for any more.

‘Say something,’ he prompted huskily, and she felt the tremor in his lips as they brushed her brow.

Say something, she repeated to herself. But what dared she say? Could she take a chance on this actually meaning something? The trouble was, she loved this man—had known that for quite a while now—while he seemed to only lust after her. How long did lust last? Especially with a man as self-contained as Andreas?

‘I want to go to bed,’ she said.

There was a short, sharp pause, then a heavy sigh as he went to get up.

‘Your bed,’ she added, lifting her face out of his shirt-front so she could look warily into his equally wary eyes. ‘I want to sleep in your bed, in your arms all night and wake up still there in the morning,’ she told him huskily.

‘Then what?’

Claire gave a helpless little shrug. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered honestly. ‘What do you want?’

‘You,’ he said gruffly, then repeated it. ‘I want you.’

Her poor heart fluttered, attempting to reach out and grab those words because they were the closest thing she’d had to a declaration of caring from him.