The Millionaire's Marriage. Catherine Spencer

      The remark stayed with him all day, a major but not, he was surprised to discover, unpleasant distraction. By the time he let himself into the penthouse late that afternoon, his dread at what the next two weeks might bring had been diluted by a peculiar anticipation. Damned if he understood why, but having Gabriella underfoot again charged his energy like nothing else had in months!

      Stopping by his office to drop off his briefcase, he stood a moment at the partially open sliding doors, unnoticed by the threesome seated a few yards away at the table on the roof garden. He didn’t need to understand the language to recognize a certain tension in the conversation taking place between his wife and his in-laws.

      Still strikingly handsome despite failing health, Zoltan sat ramrod-straight in one of the cushioned chairs, his dark eyes watchful as Gabriella replied to something her mother had said. Maria Siklossy, a little heavier than she’d been two years ago, leaned forward, consternation written all over her face.

      Gabriella, polished and perfect as ever in a dress which he’d have called washed-out green but which probably deserved a fancier description, traced her finger over the condensation beading her glass. From her stream of fluent Hungarian, only three words had meaning for Max: Tokyo, Rome, and Vancouver.

      He didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure she was trying to justify keeping three addresses while her husband made do with one, and that neither Zoltan nor Maria was buying any of it. Loosening his tie and rolling back the cuffs of his shirt, Max waded in to do his bit toward easing the old couple’s concerns.

      If the relief that washed over Gabriella’s face when she saw him was any indication, he’d timed his entrance perfectly. Springing up from her chair like a greyhound let loose on the racetrack, she exclaimed, “You’re home, Max! I didn’t expect you until later.”

      “Missed you too much to stay away any longer, baby cakes,” he said, immersing himself in his appointed role with gleeful relish.

      Her mouth fell open. “Baby cakes?”

      The opportunity was too good to pass up. Sweeping her into his arms, he planted a lengthy kiss on those deliciously parted lips. She smelled of wood violets and tasted of wild cherries.

      Her eyes, wide open and startled, stared into his. Briefly, she resisted his embrace, then sort of collapsed against him. Her small firm breasts pressed against his chest. Their tips grew hard. Her cheeks flushed pink.

      Fleetingly, he considered wallowing in the moment, if only to enjoy her disconcertion. Why not? He hadn’t asked to be cast as the romantic hero in her little production, but since it had been thrust upon him anyway, he might as well get his kicks wherever he happened to find them.

      At least, that’s how he tried rationalizing his actions. But, just like the night before and the morning after, another part of his anatomy had different ideas and showed itself ready to play its part with animated enthusiasm. So, reluctantly, before she realized the state she’d reduced him to, he backed off slightly but kept her anchored next to him as he turned to greet her parents.

      “Good to see you again, Zoltan,” he said, shaking his father-in-law’s hand. “You, too, Maria. Welcome to Canada.”

      He bent to kiss her cheek, peripherally aware of the tears in her eyes as she held his face between her palms and murmured approving little Hungarian noises, but most of his attention remained focused on Gabriella. Her waist, half spanned by his hand, felt shockingly frail. Though he didn’t test the theory there and then, he was pretty sure he could have counted every rib through her clothes.

      Pasting on his most affable expression to disguise his concern, he said, “So, what’s everyone drinking?”

      “Iced tea,” Gabriella murmured faintly. “Would you like some?”

      He smiled into her eyes which had a sort of glazed look to them. “We can celebrate your parents’ arrival with something more exciting than that, surely? How about champagne—unless you’d prefer something stronger, Zoltan?”

      “A glass of wine would be pleasant.”

      He might have temporarily quieted Maria’s suspicions, but he had a long way to go with the old man, Max realized. Zoltan was watching him like a hawk about to dine on a very fat mouse.

      “Fine. I’ll go do the honors.” Suddenly feeling about as uncomfortable as he had the night he’d been discovered almost stark naked in the Siklossy palace, Max took off around the southeast corner of the terrace to the kitchen entrance, and left Gabriella to clear the iced tea paraphernalia off the table.

      She followed soon after and plunked the tray of glasses on the kitchen counter with a clatter. “What was that all about?” she demanded, her color still high.

      “Being a good host,” he said, knowing damn well she wasn’t referring to his suggesting champagne, but deciding to play dumb anyway. “What are you serving for dinner?”

      “Broiled salmon. But another stunt like the one you just pulled, and you might find yourself being the one shoved in the oven!”

      “Your English gets better all the time, Gabriella,” he remarked, hauling a nineteen ninety-seven Pol Roger out of the refrigerator and inspecting the label. “Very idiomatic indeed. I’m impressed.”

      “Well, I’m not! Who did you think you were fooling just now with that ridiculous exhibition?”

      “Your mother, certainly. And if your father still has any doubts about us, I’ll make short work of them, as well.”

      “Not with a repeat performance like the one you just put on, I assure you.”

      “Are you saying you didn’t enjoy our little exchange?”

      “Certainly not!” But she blushed an even deeper shade of pink.

      “Keep telling fibs like this, Gabriella,” he informed her genially, “and your nose will grow so long, you’ll never model again. Come on, admit it. You practically fainted with pleasure when I kissed you.”

      “That wasn’t pleasure, it was shock.”