Marriage of Convenience

Chapter Eight

Afterward, Freya had been unable to remember precisely how she'd coped. Her heart had been slamming, her stomach clenched in a sickening knot, but she'd managed to perform the introductions gracefully although she'd been agonizingly aware of Theo's eyes on her as she'd watched, as though mesmerized, as his brandy had slid down Leo's throat.

'Can't stay, I'm afraid,' Leo had handed the empty glass to Freya, his eyes flickering to Theo as he swaggered to the door. 'Just dropped in to give my congratulations. The lovely lady you have, Dylan. Quite lovely.'

'I'll see you out.'

Leo's voice had been toneless as he'd followed the other man out through the door, ignoring Leo's airy, No need, I can find my way.'

And Freya had sagged against the wall, still clutching the empty glass, her hands shaking. How much had Theo heard? Panicking, she tried to force her mind to remember exactly what Leo had been saying. Something about how clever she'd been to marry Theo's fortune in order to get her hands on her own! He would think she'd been bragging about it—and to Leo, of all people—and plying him with the best brandy to add insult to injury!

Quickly, she put the glass on a table, drawing in deep breaths and trying to compose herself as she heard Theo's approaching steps along the hall.

'Known him long?'

The inquiry was almost polite and she said, 'About two years,' searching his eyes for a clue to his mood. But there was nothing, just a blank careful coolness, only a hint of a question in the gravelly voice.

'Just came to give his congratulations?'

'Yes, that's right.' She was sure he must hear the lie in her voice, see it in her eyes, and she had turned away, rearranging an already perfectly balanced bowl of tulips, feeling the cool, waxy petals beneath her shaking fingers,

Waiting for the accusation that must come if he had indeed overheard the remark Leo had made.

But there had been nothing, and, when she'd steeled herself to look around, the room had been empty.

And now the sun beat down from a paint box-blue sky, shimmering on the fine golden sand, bouncing off the cluster of angular white buildings of the fishing village further down the coast.

Freya stirred, stretching her long legs, reveling in the heat of the sun, and Theo said, so very casually, 'Turn over. You've had as much sun on your back as your skin can stand.'

Her heart picking up speed, Freya's body went rigid and wary, very still. She hadn't heard him come over the sand. But then she wouldn't, would she? The sand was very soft and she'd been drowsing, and the hypnotic suck and drag of the waves as they lapped the shore and retreated again would have drowned out any sound he might have made.

Then he spoke again, repeating his directive, his voice sharper this time.

Recognizing the sense of his command, Freya turned, feeling the beach towel rumple beneath her, wishing she'd been more prepared. She still trod carefully through the minefield of uncertainties, unspoken anxieties, that was her week-old marriage to this man.

She fumbled for her sunglasses and put them on, something to hide behind. There was little else. Her tiny black bikini revealed most of what there was to reveal, and she wouldn't have worn it if she'd known he would be back from that fishing trip so soon. She had imagined she had the best part of the day to herself.

'You're back early.' So light her voice, so carefully neutral. Freya was proud of the way she was containing those creeping, unnerving anxieties, the doubts, the dread. He was looming over her and she snapped her eyes away. Dressed in only a pair of brief black denim shorts—faded and ragged—the dark golden body which was dusted with crisp black hair seemed impossibly

Male, superbly athletic and very, very threatening. The sight of him made something inside her shudder, tremble with a sensation she couldn't identify. It was fear, she told herself, primitive fear. But there was something more, something nameless.

'I didn't want to be accused of neglecting my wife.' There was a bite to his tone that she hadn't heard during the week of their marriage, and she sensed a difference in his attitude. A subtle difference that made her feel tense, warier than ever.

'Eeek!' she yelped, her dreary thoughts sharply interrupted by a sensation of cold touch, then of warmth and strength as Theo's hand began to massage sun-cream into the soft, heated skin of her naked body.

'I can do that!' she gabbled, galvanized into action and struggling to sit up. A mistake, she realized; his hand was now trapped between her up drawn thighs and her breasts.

Smoky grey eyes, wide behind dark lenses, winged sideways apprehensively, met his, and held. His ebony- fringed eyes were as blue as the improbably blue sea that sucked at the shore and, like the sea, contained small depths of clear emerald, brilliant flecks of light. The glinting lights of laughter, damn it!

He was laughing at her, not openly, but inside—which made it worse. Laughing at her foolishly coy and virginal behavior, making her feel foolish, clumsy and gauche.

'I know you can do it.' His husky voice came close to her ear, his breath fanning her skin as he leaned forward, 'But so can I, so why not just stop twittering, and lie back and enjoy?' he added, his words pricking her mind on different levels.

Other than lashing at him with hands and feet, there was nothing she could do. And fighting him physically would achieve exactly nothing. He could,-if he wished, flatten her with one hand, the muscled Strength of his naked torso left her in no doubt about that at all! Besides, it would be undignified, and it would make him think he had a hell-cat for a wife. He didn't deserve that.

And so she gritted her teeth and endured, and closed her eyes and tartly reminded herself that she had to get used to such liberties, liberties that in exactly one week's time would sharply escalate up the scale of intimacy!

A pulse began to flutter in her throat as his fingers feathered the soft skin of her inner thigh, accelerating as his plundering fingers took more than was honest when they slid a little way beneath the fabric of the tiny triangle

Which made the bottom half of her bikini. Agonizingly, she felt every muscle and sinew of her body clench in a spasm of purely instinctive rejection, but the thieving fingers moved onwards, towards more legitimate areas, covering the flat plane of her stomach, the soft flare of her hips, and the arch of her ribcage.

And to Freya, it suddenly began to feel like nothing she had ever experienced before. Frightening—but obviously not frightening enough! Her mind told her to defend herself against the marauder, but her body had definite ideas of its own, And she was drowning in something warm and deep, and not really painlessly because her lungs felt tight, as if she, should be gasping for air, and her heart was pattering wildly... And any self-defensive thoughts she might have had were being subdued by his lean, knowing hands, and she knew that if she allowed herself to relax, by just that necessary fraction, she would be completely and utterly subjugated...

When his fingers found the front fastening of her bra top, moving aside the two small halves to expose the twin rounded peaks to the sun, to his eyes, to his hands, she made an effort to protest, to tell him, acidly, that she was unlikely to get sunburned just there, especially if he could refrain from interfering with her clothing! But the words just wouldn't come out coherently. They emerged thickly, like a moan, a moan of pleasure. And as she felt her nipples harden as a tug of something sweet yet achingly fierce flared to life deep inside her, she knew that the fraction of relaxation had been achieved, that the erotic, wordless lovemaking of his hands had dissolved the very last barrier... He was her man, her mate, and she wanted him as she had never wanted anything before. And without conscious design, her body arched sensually beneath his hands, a blatant invitation, and he said, 'That should do it.'

The clipped, disinterested tones came as if from a very great distance and it was several seconds before Freya realized that the sweet ache inside her, the sensual and unstoppable need he had aroused, was to remain an ache. A sour ache.

He began to unzip his shorts and Freya closed her eyes, her throat tightening as he told her blandly, 'I'm going for a swim. See you.' And when she opened her eyes again he had gone.