Convenient Marriage, Inconvenient Husband Read online

  She had grown up desperate for some measure of affection from Isobel, always striving for her approval—almost trying to make up to her grandmother for her parent’s failings. With the charity work she’d begun to believe she’d finally achieved that goal, until Isobel had dismissed her plans with the Fulfillment Foundation.

  What made a woman so bitter that she didn’t want to invoke hope in others? Was duty everything?

  Right now it was. It was Amira’s duty to the beneficiaries of the foundation to have that baby, no matter how cold-blooded its need for conception.

  Her heart turned over in her chest. How could she do this? After her own upbringing she’d made a fervent promise to any future child of hers that they would know the joy of being loved by two parents, as she had even if it was short-lived.

  But then the question raised itself in her mind. How could she not? Once she inherited and the foundation was set up in perpetuity she could manage quite nicely on a small but solid base of investment income. Even after she paid Brent what she’d promised, her baby would want for nothing.

  Nothing but parents who loved each other.

  Children all over the world were brought up in single parent families, she argued with herself. And it wasn’t as if she knew for certain that Brent would reject their baby, in fact she very much doubted he would. She could even end up with a major battle on her hands for custody if truth be told.

  Well, she’d cross that bridge if and when she came to it, she decided. Right now, the most important thing was getting pregnant.

  Nine

  On Saturday morning Amira stood at the end of the jetty and tried to breathe evenly. Anything to settle the butterflies that lurched about like crazed winged beasts in her stomach. She still couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this respite weekend at Windsong.

  The private cove and beach had been in the family for generations. One rustic dwelling replaced by another until the current two-storied plantation-style home was constructed during Isobel’s reign. With access only by air or by sea, the property was intensely private, and the small staff employed to keep the house and grounds in pristine condition lived on the outskirts of its expansive boundaries.

  The wind rustled through the phoenix palms that lined the front of the house where it faced the sea, the sound reaching out to where Amira waited. Warm air circulated around her, caressing her bare midriff beneath the knotted white muslin blouse she wore above an ankle length cotton skirt. The well-worn fabrics pressed against the outline of her body in the breeze, and she was forced to hold on to the cowboy-style sun hat she’d perched on her head when she’d received the radio call from the launch’s skipper to say they were ten minutes away from docking.

  Clouds gathered in the sky, beginning to chase away the glorious sunshine that had bathed the island since sunrise this morning. The rain, when it came, would force them indoors.

  A shiver of anticipation rolled through Amira’s body, echoed by a thrill of excitement as the launch cleared the point and swooped in a semicircle toward the jetty. This was it. He was here. Everything now hinged on the success of today, and tonight. Just one night, but oh, the possibilities were endless.

  She’d panicked a little when he’d called off from coming over to the island yesterday, being Friday, saying a problem at work would keep him late. But she consoled herself that she still had tonight and even all day tomorrow if everything went to plan. It had to be enough.

  She could see him now, on the flying bridge next to the skipper, his short dark hair ruffling in the breeze. Dark sunglasses shaded his eyes, and his face was an unreadable mask from this distance.

  Suddenly she couldn’t wait for him to disembark. To be able to reach out, to touch him.

  But she couldn’t rush things. With the way they’d structured their arrangement, physical contact had been limited. The kiss he’d given her at the hotel a couple of weeks ago had been the only public display of affection to date, although he’d made a habit of using a proprietary touch when they were out. As if he was staking a silent claim. That said, to rush things now might throw her plans into total disarray.

  She swept her hat off her head and her fingers clenched into the straw brim. It was too important that everything go off perfectly. She had to stick to her plans. To tantalize. To tease. Until falling into one another’s arms was the most natural thing in the world, and the chasm of the past that lay between them could cease to exist for awhile.

  Brent felt an all too familiar clutch in his gut when he saw Amira standing on the jetty waiting for the launch to dock. There was a casual relaxed air about her, as if here she was a different person to the one he’d squired around to Auckland’s major functions in the past few weeks. Even what she was wearing was more like the old Amira. Just how many faces did she have? Once, a long time ago, he’d thought he knew her. The only thing he was certain of now was that he most certainly didn’t.

  Nor did he trust her. Not after discovering the financial mess that was the background of the foundation.

  Her invitation to come out to Windsong for the weekend had intrigued him, even though she’d made the suggestion on the pretext of finalizing their wedding plans and guest list without interruption or distraction from their work. There were no paparazzi here, no gossip columnists. Altogether no financial advantage to them being together, aside from the fact that it was the kind of thing a normal engaged couple might do.

  Except they weren’t that kind of normal.

  His mouth twisted in a wry smile. She was up to something again. Maybe it was the late night talk show earlier this week that had headlined the odds of their wedding going ahead that had spooked her. Perhaps it had been enough to make her want to assure Brent of her intention to follow through on the day, or even assure herself of his.

  His gaze swept up past the palm trees and the immaculately manicured lawns preceding the pillared front of the house. He’d never been invited here before but he’d heard a great deal about the place. Why anyone needed a weekend retreat with nine bedrooms and six bathrooms, not to mention two offices, was beyond him. But then old Isobel had always known how to make an impression.

  The launch bumped gently against the rubber bumpers on the jetty and, with a quiet word of thanks to the skipper, Brent skimmed down the stairs from the flying bridge. He collected his overnight bag from in the main cabin then stepped off the transom at the rear and onto the jetty where Amira waited.

  Instantly every cell in his body went on full alert. Her skin still carried the golden blush of summer, and he couldn’t help but let his eyes skim over her—from the deep exposed V of her blouse to where it knotted beneath her full breasts and then below to her bare midriff. Instinctively, he reached out, traced a finger across the soft curve of her belly.

  He pulled his hand away, but not before he felt the answering quiver across her skin.

  “Shall we go to the house? I’ve prepared some breakfast. You haven’t eaten already, have you?”

  “No. Sure, lead the way.”

  Amira prepared breakfast? Didn’t she have staff here, he wondered. He stayed slightly behind her as she walked along the narrow jetty, her bare feet making next to no sound on the smooth weathered boards. Her hips swayed slightly as she took each step, and he felt heat rise under the collar of his shirt. Damn, if he didn’t know better he would think she was deliberately enticing him. He drew level to her as they crossed the lawn to the house.

  “Would you like to put your things away first?” Amira asked as they entered the spacious front foyer.

  “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  Her warm friendliness had him on the back foot. He’d grown used to her being the cool ice princess she was renowned for. Cool, icy and avaricious.

  Upstairs, the room she showed him was huge. A super-king-sized bed, clad in coffee-colored linens that matched the walls and contrasted perfectly with the creamy colored carpet, took pride of place against one wall in the room. Opposite, French doors opened out onto
a wide balcony with a view of the bay.

  “Nice room,” he commented.

  “It’s the master. I thought you’d be comfortable here.”

  “You don’t use this room yourself?”

  “I have my own room just down the hall,” Amira answered, bending forward to smooth an imaginary ripple out of the bed covering.

  He hadn’t been certain she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her blouse before, but now he was. Painfully certain. She bent forward a little farther, unwittingly exposing another inch of sun-gilded skin and just a hint of a dusky pink nipple. His body went rock hard. He dropped his weekend bag on a large chest at the foot of the bed and grabbed his toilet bag from inside. Determined to put some space between them, he strode through to the ensuite bathroom she’d shown him and put his things on the cream-colored marble vanity.

  Coming over for this weekend worked in well with his plans. When he dashed her hopes of marriage he wanted her in his thrall. Physically and emotionally. While she’d strived to maintain an emotional distance since they’d been back together, he’d sensed that under the surface she wasn’t quite as cool as she portrayed. No matter how he’d orchestrated her comeuppance, she was still a mightily attractive woman. A fact his libido had taken note of more than once. This craving for her had become a constant. Taking it to the next level would be no hardship.

  A small sound from behind made him look up in the mirror. Amira stood in the doorway—the light from behind making her clothing translucent and haloing her blond hair. He clenched his hands on the edge of the basin. She was beautiful—a pity that it only went skin deep. Knowing that made it easier to do what he had to eventually do. Women like Amira had to learn that with wealth, came privilege—and with privilege, responsibility to others less fortunate.

  “If you’ve forgotten anything, there should be toiletries in the drawers and cupboard. Help yourself, won’t you.”

  He watched as her fingers played with the knot of her blouse. Pleating the short tail of fabric over and over. A sure sign she was nervous. Help himself? He knew where he wanted to start. With her. Here. Now. He swallowed and turned to face her.

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “Good, well, I’ll go downstairs and put on the coffee. Turn left at the bottom of the stairs when you’re ready to come down and then left again to the back of the house.”

  Brent hung up the two changes of clothing he’d brought for the weekend. It didn’t take long; after all, they weren’t here for a fashion shoot. Which begged the question, what exactly were they here for? There was a skittishness about Amira he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He’d lay odds she didn’t only want to discuss wedding arrangements.

  He had no trouble finding the kitchen. All he’d needed to do when he got downstairs was follow the delicious aroma. Fresh waffles steamed on a plate in the center of a scarred pine table and coffee percolated noisily on the stove top.

  “I wasn’t sure how you liked your waffles,” Amira said as she gestured for him to sit down at the table, “so there’s cream, fresh fruit and syrup. Whatever takes your fancy, really.”

  There was enough food here to feed an army. As he loaded his plate Brent couldn’t help feeling that she was in some way overcompensating—the question was, for what?

  “What did you have planned for today? Shall we start with the guest list?” he said as he helped himself to a second cup of coffee.

  “We’ve got plenty of time to get that finalized. I was thinking, while the weather’s still good, how about we head to the beach? There’s a Jet Ski in the boatshed. I can take you for a tour around this end of the island if you like, while our breakfast settles. Then maybe we can have a swim?”

  “Sure, sounds like a plan.” So already she was putting off finalizing the wedding arrangements. Interesting, considering it was the reason behind her insistence he come over to Windsong for the weekend.

  They changed after breakfast. Amira into a bikini top and shorts, Brent into a T-shirt and swim trunks. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her tanned belly. It tantalized and teased, drawing his attention to the slenderness of her waist and the rounded curve of her hips, the cradle of her pelvis. It was all too easy to imagine her wearing nothing at all.

  As they climbed on board the Jet Ski, Amira turned her head back to him.

  “You might want to slide a bit closer to me and put your arms around my waist. It gets a bit choppy in the channel.”

  In any other circumstances he wouldn’t have hesitated, but even the thought of sliding forward so his thighs cradled the soft roundness of her buttocks, had him already half-erect. His hesitation was almost his undoing as he slid back a bit on the seat when she opened up the throttle and headed out into the bay. Holding on to her was the only sensible option, but he’d be damned if he was going to pull himself hard up against her while he did so. He wanted to drive her crazy, not the other way around.

  She was an excellent guide, pointing out several properties owned by various members of New Zealand’s elite, as well as some areas of historical significance. As they headed back to their bay he even started to feel himself relax. Then, suddenly, somehow in their sweep into the bay and toward the boathouse he managed to end up ignominiously in the water. As he sputtered to the surface, the air rang with Amira’s laughter.

  “Wretch. You’ll pay for that,” Brent warned with a determined smile on his face as he struck out toward the Jet Ski.

  She may have taken him by surprise this time, but she wouldn’t get away with that again. He latched on to Amira’s foot before she could maneuver away, and suddenly she was there, in his arms, her full breasts hard against his chest, her legs swirling in the water around his. His blood pressure instantly ratchetted up a notch, his breathing quickened. His arms tightened around her, his legs entwined with hers. She couldn’t mistake the strength of his reaction to her.

  His eyes locked with hers, and he saw something change in her expression. All humor died, to be replaced with something else. Something elemental—hungry. He stopped treading water, and they slowly began to slide beneath the surface. Instantly he let her go and felt her push toward the surface. As he kicked back up and broke the surface himself, he saw Amira pulling herself back up onto the Jet Ski.

  “I—I’ll put this away, okay? Did you want to come in now or stay in the water a bit longer?”

  She didn’t make eye contact, instead lifting her arms to wring out her hair. The movement made her breasts lift, exposing the underside of each lush globe beneath the bottom edge of her bikini bra. That did it. Brent ripped off his T-shirt and bunching it up into a ball, threw it toward her, where it landed on the running board with a slap.

  “Take that in for me would you? I think I’ll swim for a bit. Work off some of that breakfast.” And not a little bit of the sexual frustration that held him in its grip.

  With a nod she turned the Jet Ski and returned it to the boatshed. Brent couldn’t help but watch her as she made her way back down the jetty, stopping only for a moment to slip off her wet shorts and carry them together with his T-shirt to the beach where she laid them over the branches of a nearby pohutukawa tree. Swim, he told himself. Swim hard.

  Despite it being early April, the water temperature in the sea was still bearable. Brent swam the width of the cove with punishing strokes and then turned to swim back again. Eventually, he slowed his pace slightly and turned toward the beach, to where Amira lay on the lounger on the sand. She was watching him, he could feel it, and it did nothing to ease the ache building up inside of him. As he rose from the water he heard her laugh.

  “You’re supposed to be here to relax, not exhaust yourself.” She smiled as she rose from the lounger and picked up his towel.

  She sauntered over to him and shook out the towel. He went to take it, but she ignored him, instead, beginning to dry him herself. Trails of fire followed her touch as she dragged the terry cloth over his arms and then across his chest. His nipples contracted into tight bead
s as she stroked across his rib cage and then drew the towel lower, to his abdomen, his waist.

  “Thanks,” he said, grabbing the towel from her and turning slightly away so she couldn’t see the havoc her touch had wreaked.

  “No problem.”

  He could hear the amusement in her voice. Amusement blended with something else. He flicked a glance at her. Oh yes, it was definitely arousal. Beneath the white triangles of her bikini top her nipples were equally as hard as his own, and her chest rose and fell as if she was the one who’d just completed a marathon swim. What was going on? She’d been so cool and remote these past two weeks, and now it was as if she was a smoldering ember, ready to light up at any time.

  Had their proximity been as difficult for her as it had been for him? Another thought occurred to him. Or was this her secret agenda? Did she plan to seduce him into going through with the wedding? Had that article rattled her Forsythe cool so much that she was willing to sully herself with him one more time?

  As he balanced the idea in his head, his all-too-eager flesh reminded him of how her touch had ignited his desire. If seduction was her intention, he certainly didn’t plan on putting any roadblocks in her way. Oh no. If anything, he wished she’d make her intentions clear so he could rid himself of some of this tension that had been building up since the day she’d cornered him in the chapel men’s room.

  Amira watched as Brent finished drying himself, threw his towel down on the sand and then himself facedown after it. Had she gone too far, drying him like that? She didn’t want to scare him off. She smiled ruefully. Scare off someone like Brent Colby? Now there was the definition of impossible. But getting back to her goal, she had to be careful. She needed to woo him, to slowly seduce him, not to rush at him like a bull at a gate no matter what her hormones were begging her to do.