He’d just thanked his lucky stars that she hadn’t asked for more and for a whole week had lived in the bliss of a happiness he’d thought beyond him. Bliss that had been shattered when, in the sleepy aftermath of intimacy, she’d babbled happily about a future that he’d never envisaged. A rose-coloured picture of family life that he knew did not exist.
He should have told her the truth then. Given her the choice of walking away. But he couldn’t risk losing her. Any more than he could let her walk away now.
Useless at emotion, he’d utterly blown his first attempt to keep her from leaving him. Now he was using what he knew, the techniques he’d learned in the boardroom, in an attempt to save his marriage. It was, he’d rationalised, not that different from planning a takeover, albeit one that might turn hostile at any moment.
The first requirement was information. He needed to know what she was thinking. What was driving her.
Had she, out there in the Himalayas, pushing her body to the limit, reached deep and found a hitherto unsuspected inner strength? Was that why he’d felt so threatened by the trip? Why, from the first moment it had been mooted, he’d behaved like some Victorian husband demanding obedience from his wife.
Too late to see that he should have abandoned business and gone with her. Right now, all he could do was hang in there, show her that she needed him, whether she knew it or not.
Decorating, for instance. What on earth did she know about decorating? How hard it was?
He’d banked on the fact that she’d be grateful for the help and when he’d seen that she’d opted to the safer distance at the top of the ladder, knew that short of coming down and throwing him out this morning, she was stuck with him.
His first mistake.
But then, almost as if she’d taken pity on him, he’d got an unexpected reprieve and since then it had gone as well as he could have hoped. Better…
In fact it was just as well that his hands were still under cold running water. It would have been so easy to go with the moment, take it from there.
He had felt the reciprocal heat in that exchange, a charge that on any other occasion would have carried them to bed. This time, he knew, that wouldn’t be enough.
A company, its directors, staff had to be courted, won over, to want what he was offering. He’d never courted Belle. What had happened between them had been instant, a conflagration.
Now, he sensed, he needed to go back to the beginning, do what he hadn’t been able to do then. Keep his head. Be patient. Somehow make himself say a word that had been deleted from his dictionary. That he wasn’t sure he understood. Except if the pain he was feeling, if the emptiness in his life had a word, then it could only be filled by Belle.
Easier said than done. It took a supreme effort of will to keep his hands from reaching out to her, keep them from cradling her face, from holding her as he slipped the buttons on her jeans. Stopping her protests with his mouth as he dipped his fingers into her warmth, watching as her eyes darkened until the only thing on her mind was him, buried deep inside her.
Not this time.
Patience…
After what felt like a year but was probably no more than a couple of seconds, Belle looked away, took a step back and, before she could put into words what she was plainly thinking-that he should go-he said, ‘I’ll put together a package for you to think about.’
And, instead of suggesting he pick up some sandwiches and coffee from the cafe across the road, he stuck to the practicalities.
‘Do you know how to prepare the woodwork?’ he asked.
‘Pre…prepare…’ She took a breath and the fact that she was forced to swallow before she could speak gave him hope that she had felt the same urgency, the same need. ‘Wash with soft soap, sandpaper, undercoat, gloss,’ she said quickly.
‘You always were hot on preparation.’
People thought that she winged it on her programme every morning, that the apparently off-the-cuff chatter came easily. He knew the hours she put in every day, studying the people she was going to interview, the subjects she was going to cover, so that it looked that way.
‘The woman in the shop gave me a leaflet explaining it all.’
‘Right. Well, I’d better be going.’
‘Thank you for your time. My manicurist will be eternally grateful,’ she said, easing her neck.
He clenched his fingers into his palms to stop himself reaching out to knead out the creases. Patience…
‘If you need anything-’
‘I can manage.’
‘I can see that.’ Then, ‘You’ve got an awards dinner on Tuesday?’
‘Yes.’ She pulled a face. ‘I didn’t think you’d remember.’
‘It’s in my diary. I’ve told Manda you’ll be picking up some of your stuff. Or is there going to be a new dress to go with your new look?’
‘I’ve already invested in a very old one. I’ll pick it up after work on Monday, if that’s convenient?’
While he was at the office. ‘Manda should be home. If not, you’ve got your key.’ Then, fighting the urge to offer himself, ‘You have an escort?’
‘Jace offered…’
He nodded. Her agent’s presence at her side at the biggest industry event of the year wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. ‘Paul is free for the evening so if you’d like him to drive you-’
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Thank you. I’ve made my own arrangements.’
He dug in his pocket for his keys, just about managing to stop himself from saying any of the things that were fighting to trip from his tongue. Keep it to a casual, ‘Fine. Well, good luck.’
‘Thank you.’
So formal. So distant. And, before he knew it, he was standing beside the van he’d borrowed from the office janitor.
He glared at her convertible. It was a declaration of independence. Of separation. He wanted to have it towed away, put in a crusher, reduced to a cube of metal. But what good would that do? Belle had made it very clear that it was her business, not his and maybe he should be taking notice of that. Give her space to stretch her wings. Test herself. Doing what his sister had been so incapable of. It occurred to him that he should be helping her find her feet, not trying to knock her off them, keep her dependent upon him.
He had intended to turn up tomorrow, find something else to do. Maybe he needed to wait for her to ask for his help.
As he rounded the van to the driver’s door, he realised he wasn’t the only one looking at it as if it were a hate object. A girl, stick-thin, her fair hair streaked with green and wearing clothes a charity shop would shun, was glaring at it too. It undoubtedly represented everything she didn’t have and he wondered if she was planning to break in or just take out her envy on the immaculate bodywork.
‘What are you staring at?’ she shouted when she saw him looking at her.
‘My wife’s car.’
Belatedly he realised how possessive that sounded. Belle did not belong to him. He did not own her.
He transferred his feelings of protection to her car.
‘If you were thinking of breaking into it, I’d advise you to think again,’ he said.
For a moment the girl defiantly stood her ground before, quite deliberately placing a hand on the door and setting off the alarm. Only then did she turn and flounce away.
Belle appeared at the window. She said something but, although her mouth was moving, the words were obliterated.
He mimed an instruction to toss down her keys so that he could kill the alarm and, by the time she’d joined him, it was all over.
‘I hope that isn’t going to happen every time someone gets within breathing distance,’ she said.
‘No. It was just some girl with green hair wanting to make an impression,’ he said. He reset the alarm, locked up and handed back her keys.
‘Take care, Belle,’ he said, then, with the briefest touch to her arm, he climbed into the van. He drove around
