Beyond Desire. Gwynne Forster

but she was charismatic, and in that flowing peach gown and peignoir, she was the epitome of feminine softness. A man could get used to that kind of woman. If she wasn’t beautiful, she sure seemed like it. He felt a rush of blood and the swift tightening of his groin and ordered his libido under control. He wouldn’t let her do this to him, he told himself for the second time that night.

      His self-control in working order, Marcus grazed her cheek lightly with the back of his left hand and admonished her, “Go to bed, Amanda, before you get into trouble.” She raised one eyebrow, and he watched her smile slowly evaporate as she examined his face. “You heard me.” He said it gently, but in such a way that she couldn’t mistake his meaning nor his sincerity. She went into her room and closed the door.

      Amanda hung her peignoir in the closet, opened the window wider and went to bed. She had a sense of unease as she turned out the light on her night table. She might have undertaken more than she could handle. She sensed trouble if she didn’t watch her step with that sleeping giant across the hall. She didn’t doubt that he could be trusted, that he was a gentleman, but she had to admit that her feelings for Pearce Lamont never even approached what she’d felt for Marcus a few minutes earlier. If she had to live in that house with him for a year…She let the thought slide and, as though to banish it altogether turned over so quickly that the bed seemed to swirl around and she had to grasp the side of the mattress to steady herself.

      Reminded that she hadn’t had any options before he agreed to their arrangement, she told herself to be thankful and not grumble; being susceptible to a man like Marcus only meant that she was female and human. Even so, her reaction to him had surprised her, and it was he who had stopped that almost kiss when she should have done it. But she had no intention of congratulating him on having such self-control; men had never found it impossible to withstand her charms. “I’m safe from him and from me, too,” she told herself unhappily just before she started counting sheep.

      Chapter 3

      Ten days after he’d stopped himself from kissing Amanda, Marcus made another trip down to earth and had another hard battle with his feelings. Having just arrived home, jolted by the sound of what seemed like thunder, he raced up the stairs four at a time, feeling as if his heart had fallen into his stomach. What on earth was that noise? He had walked into the front door and gone to the kitchen for some thirst-quenching iced tea. The doctors had told him that Amy was progressing even more rapidly than they had anticipated, and that her therapy would start in a week, so he had come home feeling more relieved and more lighthearted than he had in more than a year. And now this. Where had the noise come from? Something had literally shaken the house, or at least it had sounded that way.

      “Amanda! Amanda!” Where was she? He knew she was at home; she hadn’t even put her car in the garage. He ran into her bedroom and found it empty. He listened, heard the water and momentarily froze. If she was in that bathroom with the door locked…He tried the door, pushing it with full force as he did so. “Amanda? Amanda, my God. Are you all right?” He took in the incredulous scene. She lay on her back in the tub, the shower rod, curtain and part of the wall were in the tub with her, and water from the shower sprayed her face. Quickly, he turned off the tap, cleared the debris away from her, lifted her naked body into his arms and stumbled into her bedroom, where he lay her gently on the bed. Then he raised the edge of the bedspread and threw it across her body.

      “What happened, Amanda?” He leaned over her. “Amanda, answer me!” His gaze roamed from her head to her feet. “I’m taking you to the hospital. You may have done some damage. What were you doing? Amanda, talk to me!” She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. He dried her body, got a pair of slacks and a robe from her closet and dressed her as best he could, but by the time he got her in the car, her continued silence had alarmed him. He was thankful that the trip to the hospital was a short one. What if she lost it? He paced the floor in front of the emergency room for what seemed like hours, until the resident opened the door and beckoned him.

      “Mr. Hickson, your wife is mildly in shock, but otherwise all right. We’ve given her some medication, and here’s a prescription for some more. Give this to her at bedtime, as instructed. Nothing is broken, but she’ll probably be sore tomorrow. And I’d see that she stays off her feet for a few days.”

      Marcus fought to make himself ask that most important of questions. In the end, he didn’t ask it. He just said, “She’s three months pregnant, doctor.”

      The doctor smiled, seeming to understand his reticence. “Yes, I know. That’s why she reacted this way. Going into shock, I mean. She was afraid that she had injured the baby or that she might lose it. But she’s healthy and strong so, as I said, she won’t have more than a little soreness. Just keep her in bed for a few days.”

      Marcus nodded. “May I see her?” He wanted to see for himself that she was all right. Since he’d met Amanda, he had never known her to be speechless, and he didn’t think that was a good sign. He stood looking down at her, so small in that ridiculously ungainly, utilitarian hospital gown. She opened her eyes and lifted her hand to touch him.

      “Thanks for helping me and bringing me to the hospital, Marcus. I was so scared. I slipped while I was taking a shower. Then when I grabbed the shower curtain rod for support, it came out of the wall, and I lost my balance and fell. I was scared to death that I was going to lose the baby.”

      “I’m glad I was there. Actually, I had been in the house less than a minute when I heard that noise. The doctor’s going to let me take you home, but only if you promise to stay in bed for three or four days. Will you?” He contemplated the strangeness of the situation. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her, but that wasn’t the kind of relationship they had. Unable to resist at least a minimum display of tenderness, he caressed her cheek and had the pleasure of seeing her turn her face fully into his palm, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

      Marcus combed her still damp hair with his fingers, and put her robe on her while they waited for the wheelchair, as the hospital regulations required. And he was very much aware that, within the past hour or so, his relationship with his wife had undergone a subtle change. He wheeled her out to the car, lifted her to put her in the backseat and stared down at her in wonder. He’d had her naked in his arms and had been so alarmed that he’d barely looked at her. That thought brought a half smile from him. Must be getting slack in testosterone, he told himself derisively.

      Marcus laid Amanda on her bed, realized it was still damp from his having placed her there earlier, and took her into his room instead. He noted with considerable amusement that she offered no objection. Didn’t even seem concerned. Where was the feisty, independent woman who had turned his life around?

      He fluffed the pillow, propped it against the headboard and let her rest there. “Your bed’s wet. Stay here while I get some fresh sheets and try to make it presentable.” When she didn’t answer, merely nodded, Marcus straightened up and looked down at her. There she was in his bed, completely agreeable to his every suggestion, soft and submissive. A woman who could tie him into knots with her big black eyes or her come-here-tome smile. Who said he didn’t have a sense of humor? Marcus threw his head back and roared with laughter.

      “What’s set you off?” she asked him testily. He ignored her peevishness and grinned.

      “‘Never trust a husband too far, nor a bachelor too near.’ I’m about as close as you can get to a combination of the two.”

      She glared at him, trying to ignore the mischievous dance of his luscious eyes. That quote was not only to the point, he could hardly have found one more fitting.

      “Why on earth would you read Helen Rowland? She wasn’t exactly enamored of the human male.”

      So he had thought that this time he’d outwitted her, had he? He shrugged in the manner of a man caught loafing on the job. “Helena was always quoting her to me, so I read the stuff in order to defend myself. Phooey was my judgment.”

      That was the opening she wanted. “‘The average man’s judgment is so poor, he runs a risk every time he uses it.’”

      Marcus