Husband On Trust. Jacqueline Baird

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      “How did she get in here?” he demanded of Lisa.

      “The lady has a key. You appear to hand them out like candy bars at Hallowe’en. But don’t let me interrupt. I’ll just get my things and go.” She headed for the dressing room, but Alex stopped her. He had leapt out of bed stark naked, and now grabbed her by the shoulders.

      “Don’t be ridiculous, Lisa, this is all a terrible mistake. Surely you can see that?”

      “I can see everything,” she snorted, “and so can your lady friend. But then, there’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.”

      Alex let fly with a string of curses in Greek, while grabbing the sheet from the bed and wrapping it around himself. Free of his hold, Lisa headed for the door.

      “Not so fast,” he growled, and caught her arm. “You must have seen her come in here. Why didn’t you stop her? You’re my wife, for heaven’s sake.”

      “Was,” she said trenchantly.

      JACQUELINE BAIRD began writing as a hobby when her family objected to the smell of her oil painting, and immediately became hooked on the romance genre. She loves traveling and worked her way around the world from Europe to the Americas and Australia, returning to marry her teenage sweetheart. She lives in England, in Northumbria, the county of her birth, and has two sons. She enjoys playing badminton, and spends most weekends with husband Jim, sailing their Gp. 14 around Derwent Reservoir.

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      Husband on Trust

      Jacqueline Baird

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      Contents

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      LISA raised her hands above her head, stretched, and yawned. With only a fine cotton sheet covering her body she felt decadent and deliciously languorous, due entirely to the expert administrations of her very new husband last night.

      The door to the ensuite bathroom opened and Lisa’s gaze automatically turned to the man walking into the bedroom. Six feet plus of pure masculine perfection, he was naked except for navy silk boxer shorts hugging his lean hips. He was also strikingly handsome, his strong dark features cast in the classic mould of the Greek male of legend, and he was hers, Lisa thought on a swift, involuntary breath. His thick black hair was still damp from the shower, a stray droplet of water easing its way down his strong throat and lower, to be captured by the curling black body hair that dusted his broad chest.

      A lazy smile curved her full lips. ‘Alex,’ she said softly. Just saying his name was a pleasure. Sometimes she felt like pinching herself to make sure the last few weeks had not been a dream.

      In the process of pulling on a crisp white shirt, he turned his dark head and his eyes clashed with hers. ‘I know that tone of voice, wench, but forget it. I have to be in London by eight-thirty.’ He grinned and continued dressing, stepping into grey tailored trousers.

      ‘Spoilsport.’ She pouted, and moved across the bed, allowing the sheet to slip to her waist. ‘Do you have to leave so early?’ she queried huskily, and was rewarded by Alex’s renewed attention. He walked over to the bed and, bending down, brushed his mouth over hers; her lips parted, hoping to prolong the kiss, but abruptly he straightened up.

      ‘Not this morning, Lisa, I have no time.’ And, turning, he crossed the room, picked up his jacket and eased himself into it. ‘I told you that yesterday, when we drove up here. Today I have meetings lined up in London, morning, afternoon and late into the evening,’ he flung over his shoulder, as he picked up his wallet and keys from the dressing table. ‘And from what your stepfather said last night, you have a busy day ahead of you.’

      Lisa sighed; Alex was right. They had arrived back in England last night and travelled straight to her home in Stratford-upon-Avon. On the death of her mother nine months ago, Lisa had inherited the major share in the family company, Lawson Designer Glass and her mother’s job as managing director. Her stepfather, Harold Watson, was the marketing director.

      ‘You’re right; I know,’ Lisa grudgingly conceded, and, sitting up, she swung her long legs over the side of the bed. She grasped the sheet and wrapped it around under her arms, sarong-style and stood up, flicking a glance at Alex as she did so.

      ‘Amazing! You hide yourself in a sheet.’ A dark brow rose quizzically. ‘I have seen everything many times, no?’ he drawled, and, turning his back on her, he picked up a silk tie, and slipped it under his shirt collar.

      Lisa hesitated and, realising how ridiculous it was to cover herself in front of him, she let the sheet fall to the floor. A month ago she would have died if any man had seen her naked, but Alex had cured her of almost all her inhibitions. Her gaze lingered on his broad back; the exquisitely tailored jacket hung perfectly off his wide shoulders, the few tendrils of black hair curling over the collar an endearing dent in a picture of sartorial elegance, she thought with a grin. At that moment Alex turned back round and caught her staring.

      His deep brown eyes flared for an instant, as his glance swept her from head to toe. Lisa was a tall girl, five feet nine inches, but perfectly proportioned, with high, firm breasts, a narrow waist, slim hips and legs that went on for ever. The three weeks of their honeymoon, which they had spent sailing around the Mediterranean on Alex’s yacht had given her skin a golden glow, the sun adding natural streaks of platinum to her long blonde hair.

      ‘I guess the honeymoon is over and work beckons for both of us,’ she said huskily, hiding a smile. She could tell he was rethinking the need for an early departure. From the moment she had met Alex he had awakened a sensuality in her twenty-three-year-old soul that she had not known she possessed. She had taken one look at him in the lounge bar of a local hotel and had fallen in love on the spot. It