A Husband's Vendetta

‘Better stuffy than frivolous,’ he replied stiffly.

Watching him, she realised that he wasn’t happy; it was written all over his face. He had the gravity of a man who hadn’t laughed in ages. She longed to ask him questions, to know what had happened to him. But she bit them back. He’d think her interest was personal, whereas it was… She frowned. What was it?

Old-fashioned nosiness. Yes. That was it.

‘I disagree. Life is to be enjoyed and I’m doing just that,’ she said, producing a big, beaming smile. And couldn’t resist, ‘How about you?’

Luc looked puzzled, as if enjoyment wasn’t on his agenda and it had never occurred to him that it should be. He ignored her question. ‘You still wear your wedding ring.’

Her fingers went to it automatically. It had been the cheapest they could find. But she would never remove it. ‘And you wear yours,’ she said in surprise.

He shrugged. ‘It’s a useful deterrent, as I’m sure you’ve discovered for yourself. I gather you’re much sought after. Being free suits you—whereas living with Gemma and me was unpleasantly inhibiting for you—’

‘Let’s forget that!’ she said hastily, with a dismissive wave of her hand. She wasn’t going to sit there while he reminisced about bad times. Her knees began to tremble and she squeezed them together. ‘Water under the bridge,’ she said, more airily than she’d intended. She blushed. It sounded as if their break-up had meant nothing to her.

‘More like an ocean,’ he muttered.

For a moment she thought she saw regret in his eyes. Hers must have responded and gentled, because she felt her animosity vanishing like melting snow as his dark gaze captured and held hers.

They were very close to one another. Maybe a foot apart. Some Italians, she thought hazily, had no sense of personal space. They were close enough for her to find herself inching forwards to confirm the whisper of his breath across her throbbing mouth. Close enough to smell him. It was something she wasn’t prepared for: the familiar scent which was Luc, and Luc alone, clean, fresh and male.

It did terrible things to her. It reached parts she’d thought would never feel anything again. She could touch him if she chose to, perhaps run her finger along his mouth and trace the impossibly sultry outline of his lips. Her own mouth became soft and pouting at the thought.

And then she remembered why they were both here—to sever all links. That was why he looked as though he were pleading with her. To say ‘Shame it all happened, let’s call it quits, let me make a life of my own with Miss Right and Gemma’.

Ellen flinched. Caught like a helpless animal in the path of his monstrous aura, she forced herself to lean back in her chair, cutting off the invisible strings which had been drawing them together.

When he continued to study her with narrowed eyes, she floundered around for something to say. All she could come up with was a banality.

‘You’re better dressed than I remember. Otherwise you’ve hardly altered at all,’ she trotted out brightly, pretending to make an indifferent and cursory examination.

But everything she’d seen had been etched indelibly on her mind, and she wished he’d changed beyond all recognition too. He showed the same striking masculinity which had attracted her instantly. That identical terrifying chemistry which had bonded them together, in an instant, fatal attraction. An unchanging, awesome energy emanating from every pore of his body.

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