Samantha James (17 page)

An almost regal tilt to her chin, she stared him straight in the eye. “Don’t be sorry,” she said clearly. “Because I’m not.”

How she ever made it back to her room was surely a miracle, Anne decided fuzzily. It was surely a miracle that she could walk at all! Still half dazed, she sagged back against the door, else she would surely have fallen.

Her knees were still weak, the world spinning dizzily. Unable to stop herself, she touched her fingers to the tips of her breasts, drawing in a sizzling breath. They were still prickled and achy and taut. Those same trembling fingers stole up to her lips, still throbbing from the brand of his kiss.

Anne had sensed the hunger in him. She’d tasted it in the utter fierceness of his mouth upon hers. By heaven, she’d
felt
it in the shocking surge of heat and hardness, taut against her belly. Through the cloth of his trousers—through the layers of her gown.

A man couldn’t kiss like that and feel nothing.

She wished it could have gone on forever and ever, that kiss. So full of emotion, so full of him! She wanted to be held, in tenderness and passion. She could swear he’d been shaking as much as she! She yearned to be possessed—by him. By Simon. In all the ways—in every way!—a man could possess a woman.

Her heart still thumping madly, she made her way to the bed.

Anne had learned much tonight—much
about him.

He was not as indifferent to her as she had thought. And she had the feeling that Simon too had discovered he was not so indifferent. He was battling his attraction to her with everything inside him. Oh, but it was heady and sweet, that mounting certainty!

Fast in her heart beat the strength of her resolve, the determination to forge ahead.

For Anne would not be forsaken. She would not be forgotten. She would not let him
go
.

And if he would not come to her, then she must go to him.

They did not speak of that night in his room. Nor was there any need. Simon couldn’t forget. And he had the oddest sensation Anne didn’t want to!

Unless he was losing his mind, his wife was flirting with him.

Precisely when the awareness set in, Simon was never sure. Indeed, he had trouble believing it. He was astonished. Amazed. Even a little aghast.

She found every excuse to touch him. The merest brush of her fingers as he filled her
wineglass. The curl of her hand inside his elbow when he delivered her to her room each night. A certain lingering, lovely smile when they chanced to meet in the hall.

A dozen other things gave her away as well.

Each night when she appeared for dinner, she was freshly bathed, coiffed, and perfumed, each gown more exquisite than the last—her décolletage more plunging than the last. Three nights in succession, her napkin—accidentally, of course—fluttered from her lap to the floor between them. Naturally, being a gentleman, Simon leaned over to retrieve it. Also, three nights in succession, she leaned in just as he raised his head—

Affording him a view of lush, exquisitely remarkable breasts. And then she laughed, sending them all atremble.

Simon’s reaction was immediate and intense. Hunger flashed throughout his body. An elemental heat fired along his veins, a heat that had been smoldering for days now. And that was precisely how Simon felt in that instant. Primitive and raw and wild.

And all at once he remembered what she’d said the night of their arrival at Rosewood…

Were I to choose to lie in the arms of my husband night after night, I should consider it a privilege—and not a duty.

They seared through his brain, those words. Branding him. Burning him inside and out.

Three nights in succession, Simon didn’t trust himself to speak. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to drag her onto his lap, tear open his trousers, and let desire rule then and there.

Anne was a vibrant, sensual woman. And he was not made of stone.

She was trying to seduce him. The signs were unmistakable. How could he ignore them? How could he ignore her? How could he
resist
her?

The day began innocently enough, he supposed. Or
not
so innocently, depending on one’s point of view.

Over breakfast, Simon mentioned his plans for the day. A trip to the next town to look over a stallion he thought would make an outstanding addition to his stable. It wasn’t long before he realized he was the one doing most of the talking.

It gave him a jolt to see that she was studying him, her regard unwavering—her head tilting first one way and then the other—no bones about it!

A rare flush seeped into his neck. He took a sip of coffee to cover his unease. Damn it, he might as well be direct.

He looked at her. “Is something wrong, Anne? Do I have egg on my chin? Soap in my hair?”

“No,” came her ready reply.

“Is something else amiss then?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Is there something you wish to say then?”

“Nothing in particular.”

She propped her chin on her hand, her elbow on the table, her manner quite leisurely.

“Anne, you are staring at me.”

“Oh, do forgive me! Am I?”

“You are,” he said severely. “Obviously there is something on your mind.”

Her forehead puckered. “It isn’t so much that there is something on my mind—”

“Anne!”

“It’s more of a question, actually. I suddenly find myself quite curious about something—”

“Out with it, Anne!” He could stand no more.

She looked at him doubtfully. “Are you quite certain?”

“I am! Say whatever you wish. Ask whatever you wish!” Leaning back in his chair, he reached for his cup.

“Very well then…Do you pleasure yourself?”

Simon nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”

Her mouth pursed. “I believe you heard me quite clearly.”

“I don’t believe I did!”

“Then I shall ask again, sir. Do you satisfy yourself?”

“That is not a question you should be asking.”

She looked at him calmly. “It’s a logical one,
I think. You had a wife. Two children. I’m sure you did not beget those children out of thin air. Obviously you did not have a chaste relationship with Ellie. And since then, you must have had a need for…companionship. A need for”—only then did she stumble—“for physical gratification.”

“You want to know if I’ve been celibate since Ellie died.”

Her tone was surprisingly level. “Have you?”

“That’s none of your affair,” he said sharply.

“I think it is.” Her chin rose a notch. “Particularly when I am your wife. Particularly if you have a mistress.”

“I do not,” he said through his teeth. “And this discussion is concluded.” He was already on his feet.

Anne’s eyes flashed. “Well,” she muttered, “you did say I should ask whatever I wanted.”

That exchange was to remain in both their minds. Simon couldn’t believe her audacity on a subject so intimate.

And Anne marveled that she had been so bold.

It didn’t matter that he didn’t answer her question. His silence was all the answer she needed. Simon had not lain with a woman for five long years. How desperately he had loved Ellie! How desperately he
still
loved her.

And how desperately he missed her.

The breath Anne drew was bittersweet and painful. A hollow emptiness welled in her breast. Was it guilt that held him back? Anne did not begrudge his love for Ellie; she truly did not! Yet she was suddenly terrified that his heart was forever taken. And Anne’s lent her no peace. If Ellie had loved Simon the way that Simon loved her—and somehow she knew that Ellie had!—would she want him to forever mourn?

She had to believe that Ellie would not. She must cling to that hope. She mustn’t forget how Simon had kissed her—Anne—with fire and passion and yearning. She hadn’t imagined it, she was sure of it! Yet why did he pull away? Why did he
push
her away?

A sharp, knifelike pain tore through her breast. To want for the two of them to share a bed, to share their lives…it wasn’t wrong. She wanted this marriage. She wanted
him
. And Anne was coming to know what drove this man she had wed. His vulnerability—for he was so very, very vulnerable!—and his strength.

But it was that very strength that stabbed at her soul and ripped her to shreds—that tremendous strength of will.

He needed to heal. He needed
her
.

How long would he keep her at arm’s length? How long would he keep her at bay? How could
she penetrate such iron restraint? What would it take to reach him?

Little wonder that her mind was fraught with a mad jumble of hope and uncertainty. She lay awake long into the night, tossing and turning restlessly. Finally she donned her wrapper. Perhaps a little warmed milk would help.

The house was dark and filled with shadows as she made her way downstairs. Her bare feet made no sound as she glided down the hallway. She started to pass Simon’s study, then saw that one of the doors stood ajar. She veered across the hall to close it.

And then she saw him.

He sat behind his desk, but his chair was turned toward the window. Her gaze flickered over him. He’d discarded his jacket, but he wore the same clothing he’d worn at dinner. Clearly he hadn’t been to bed yet. His long legs stretched out before him, he stared through the windows, his profile arresting, etched by moonlight. He looked so tired, so heartbreakingly lonely, that everything inside her went out to him.

Uncertain, Anne paused, her fingers still curled about the door handle. She didn’t want to see him like this. She didn’t want to
leave
him like this. She was half afraid to speak, yet something inside compelled her.

“Simon,” she said quietly.

He glanced up.

Anne was a trifle nervous. Rallying herself, she moved just inside the doorway.

His pale eyes followed her, but he said nothing. He never even moved.

Seeing him like this wrought a poignant wave of yearning. “Are you all right?”

“Of course. I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Wearily he rubbed the back of his neck.

Anne bit her lip. “Were you working?”

“No.”

She persisted. “Why are you here at this hour then?”

“I don’t sleep well,” he said briefly.

“Is that why you come to bed so late?”

The moment lay wrapped in utter silence.

Nervously she wet her lips. “I’ve seen you before, you know.” It slipped out before she was even aware of it. “Sitting in your room. Sitting in the dark…”

Through the shadows, a glimmer of a smile danced across his lips. “Spying on me, Annie?”

Annie
. It was the first time he’d called her that. Hearing it, an odd little pain clamped tight about her heart. Silly, foolish tears pricked her eyelids. Furiously she blinked them back.

“You—you left the door open.”

And so he had. Simon’s smile withered. Too long and too well he’d guarded what was inside his heart. It was easier to conceal his feelings in
the deepest reaches of his soul, where she couldn’t see. Where he need not think of them.

Anne made it impossible.

For five long years, midnight had been his refuge, if not his solace.

No more. Not with Anne here. Not since that moment they’d met, he thought with brittle candor. He’d had no peace since then, not a single minute.

And now she was here again, tearing him apart.

“Anne,” he said softly. “Go back to bed.”

The breath she drew was deep and ragged. “Not unless you come with me.”

Simon’s heart stumbled. Dear God, was she asking—

“Come with me, Simon. Come with me now.”

A dozen runaway emotions scrambled in his chest. God help him, he felt trapped. Battered. Besieged by the storm in his heart, a tempest of need and longing and fear.

One by one, she was tearing down the barriers he’d erected between them. Simon didn’t know how to stop it. Or even if he could.

It was madness to want her. Madness even to think of it! He could never take her and be done with it. It wasn’t his way. He couldn’t make love to her without emotion, without heart.

It was why he hadn’t lain with any woman since the day Ellie had died.

No, he could never make love to Anne and turn his back on her. His feelings were too engaged. He couldn’t allow himself to touch her. To care for her. He couldn’t allow himself to
love
her. He’d told himself to take the easy way. The only way. To keep his distance.

But Anne would not make it easy.

She was moving toward him now. Rounding the corner of his desk…

She knelt between his booted feet.

His heart was slamming. He trod a precarious balance between desire and despair. He’d told himself he couldn’t allow her close. That he couldn’t let her near. He couldn’t give her what she wanted. What she deserved. A man with hopes and dreams as far-reaching as her own.

There was too much at stake. Too much at risk.

Everything
at risk.

He couldn’t love her…

And he certainly couldn’t
use
her.

But now she was before him…on her knees. And Simon wanted to scream aloud his rage and his fury. Love and loss had made him bitter. He didn’t deny it. He couldn’t.

Yet he was terrified—absolutely terrified—that he could never have one without the other.

For so long now, he’d been detached from the world, detached from life. It was better to be
alone than risk such devastation and loss again…Was that so selfish? Was it so wrong?

It had been too long…and perhaps it was too late.

But there was only so much a man could take. Only so much that
he
could take.

And he was a hairbreadth from going over the edge.

Yet if he took her to his bed, he would never forgive himself. And he had the awful sensation that Anne might never forgive
him
.

He took a breath, steadying his voice. Steadying his will.

Steadying his heart.

“Anne,” he said, his voice very low, “we agreed this wouldn’t happen.”

No, Anne thought vaguely. There had been no agreement.

“Don’t you see? It
can’t
happen. I…it would change everything.”

“How?” she asked tremulously. “How would it change things?”

The taut, hollow silence that followed nearly bled her of all strength. Her mouth quivering, she laid her hands on his thighs. Her heart quavered, along with her voice.

“Simon,” she whispered achingly, “why don’t you want me?”

Beneath her fingers, his muscles tightened, rock-hard and rigid. Something flitted across his face, a look of such agony, she felt herself
cringe, both inside and out. Was she so wrong then? Was she truly so blind?

Just when she thought she would break apart, she heard him.

“I want you too much,” he whispered, a whisper at once both feeble and fierce.

Her heart contracted. That ragged tone rendered her weak all over.

“Then show me, Simon. Show me tonight. Show me
now
.”

He caught her face between his hands. “Anne,” he said helplessly. Hopelessly.

Reaching up, her eyes never wavering from his, she laid trembling fingers against the plane of his cheek…

And kissed him.

Her dignity swayed him. Her courage defeated him.

Her tenderness melted him.

Just that quickly, in the span of a heartbeat, the dam in his heart broke free. The skirmish that raged in his chest was no more.

Oh, Anne,
he thought raggedly.
Make me hard. Make me feel. Make me forget
.

His chest thundering, he dragged her up…up and into his arms.

She buried her face against him, a gesture of such trust, he came wholly undone.

Conscious thought was obliterated. The tumult in his soul was forgotten; in its stead was a passion unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

His blood pumped. His temples pounded. Ellie was but a memory. But a moment in the vast breadth of time. But the woman in his arms was flesh and blood. And
his
.