The Millionaire's Marriage. Catherine Spencer

not,” he said, “but the real question is, does it matter to you, one way or the other?”

      “Not in the slightest,” she lied, the glass sliver driving deeper into her heart and shattering into a million arrows of pain.

      “Should I take your indifference to mean there’ve been other men in your life?”

      “No,” she said forthrightly, unwilling to add further deceit to a heap already grown too heavy to bear. “I’ve never once been unfaithful, nor even tempted.”

      “Not even by those pretty plastic consorts you team up with in your photo shoots?”

      “Certainly not.”

      He hefted the bottle from the cooler and splashed more wine in their glasses. “Why should I believe you?”

      “Because I’m telling the truth.”

      A mirthless smile played over his mouth. “The way you were when you told me you were pregnant? The way you were when you intimated you’d had a string of lovers before me?”

      “I’m not that person anymore.”

      “Of course you are, Gabriella. People never really change, not deep down inside where it matters. They just pretend to.”

      “When did you become so cynical, Max?” she asked him sadly. “Did I do that to you?”

      “You?” he echoed cuttingly. “Don’t flatter yourself!”

      The pain inside was growing, roaring through her like a fire feeding on itself until there was nothing left but ashes. For all that she’d promised herself she wouldn’t break down in front of him, the scalding pressure behind her eyes signaled how close the tears were, and to her horror she felt her bottom lip quiver uncontrollably.

      He noticed. “Don’t you dare!” he warned her, in a low, tense voice, starting up from his chair so violently that its metal legs screeched over the pebbled concrete of the terrace. “Don’t you dare start with the waterworks just because I didn’t give you the answers you came looking for! I know that, in the old days, tears always worked for you, but they aren’t going to get you what you want this time, at least not from me, so save them for some other fool.”

      When she first started modeling, there’d been times that she’d found it near impossible to smile for the camera. Days when she’d missed Max so badly, it was all she could do to get out of bed and face another minute without him. Nights when she hadn’t been able to sleep for wanting him, and mornings when she’d used so much concealer to hide the shadows under her eyes that her face had felt as if it were encased in mud.

      But she’d learned a lot more in the last eighteen months than how to look good on command. She’d learned discipline, and become expert at closing off her emotions behind the remote elegance which had become her trademark.

      She called on that discipline now and it did not fail her. The familiar mask slipped into place, not without effort, she had to admit, but well enough that she was able to keep her dignity intact.

      “Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, rising to her feet with fluid, practiced grace, “but I stopped crying over you so long ago that I’ve quite forgotten how.”

      “Don’t hand me that. I know what I saw.”

      She executed a smooth half turn and tossed her parting remark over one provocatively tilted shoulder. “What you saw was a flicker of regret for the mistakes I’ve made in the past—a passing weakness only because weeping does terrible things to the complexion, especially when one’s face is one’s fortune. Good night, Max. I’ve worked hard enough for one day, so if you’re feeling energetic, you might try loading our plates and cutlery into the dish-washer—always assuming, of course, that you remember how to open it. Oh, and one more thing. Please don’t disturb me when you decide to turn in. I really do need to catch up on my beauty sleep.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      IF THERE’D been any plausible alternative, he’d have spent the night anywhere but in the same room with her. Since he didn’t have that option, he gave her a good two hours’ head start before he went up to join her.

      She was asleep—or pretending to be—perched so close to the far edge of the mattress, all it would have taken was a gust of air from the open window to topple her to the floor. Being scrupulously careful to leave enough space between them to accommodate a third body, he inched carefully between the sheets on his side of the bed.

      Her breathing was light and regular, which made him think perhaps she really was out cold, and eventually he must have dozed off as well because the next thing he knew, it was four in the morning and somehow, while they slept, they’d gravitated toward each other. She lay spooned against him, with her back pressed to his front.

      She was wearing a soft cotton nightshirt and it was either very short to begin with, or it had ridden a long way up from where it was supposed to be. He knew because his hand had found its way over her hip so that his fingers were splayed across the bare skin of her warm, taut little belly. A few inches higher and it would have been her breast he was fondling, a realization which put his nether regions onto instant and standing alert.

      She stirred. Stretched a little, like a lean, pedigreed cat. Rolled over until she was half facing him. In the opaque light of predawn, he saw her eyes drift open. Then, as awareness chased away sleep, she grew very still and very, very wary.

      For about half a second, they stared at one another, then simultaneously rolled away from each other. She retreated to her side of the bed again and he slunk off to the bathroom, telling himself his problem was that he had to pee.

      It hadn’t been the problem then, and it wasn’t the problem three hours later when he found himself suffering the same physical reaction all over again at the sight of his wife—his estranged wife! he reminded himself for about the fiftieth time—presiding over the breakfast table and looking even more delicious than the food on his plate.

      “Are you coming with me to the airport this afternoon?” she asked him, her tone suggesting she’d be hard-pressed to notice whether he did or not.

      Regarding her over the top of the morning paper, Max had found himself wondering if there was something in the bottled drinking water she favored which allowed her to remain so cool and aloof, when it was all he could do not to break out in a sweat at the thought of the night just past.

      “I wasn’t planning on it,” he said, trying to match her nonchalance. “It’s been a while since your parents last saw you. I imagine they’d like to have you to themselves for a while.”

      Nonchalant? What a laugh! He sounded as stilted as a rank amateur trying out for a spot on some third-rate TV commercial! Not that she noticed. She simply gave that impassive little shrug of hers, waved the coffeepot under his nose, and said, “May I give you refill?”

      He didn’t know what time she’d slipped out of bed, but it must have been early. Not only had she ground fresh coffee beans and made fresh fruit syrup for his waffles, she’d also found time to repair her manicure. Her nails gleamed pale rose against the brushed steel of the carafe.

      As for the rest of her…oh, brother! Sleek and elegant in a floor-length, blue-and-purple patterned thing which was neither bathrobe nor dress but something in between; with not a hair out of place and looking as fresh as the morning dew, she gave new meaning to the term “picture perfect.”

      “No,” he said, slapping down the paper and shoving back from the table. “I have to get going.” Quickly, before his imagination ran riot feeding itself on memories of the night before and he made a further fool of himself!

      “When do you expect to be back?”

      “As late as possible. That way, there’ll be less risk of us screwing up the charade.”

      Her eyes, pure turquoise in the morning light, pinned him in an unwavering stare. “But you will join us for dinner?”

      “Of