Princes of the Outback: The Rugged Loner / The Rich Stranger / The Ruthless Groom. Bronwyn Jameson

cell of her body.

      “You’re why I gave Manny the night off and you’re why I’m wearing satin underwear,” she said huskily. “But first you’re having a shower, and then we’re having dinner. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

      While he showered Tomas tried to work up a decent sense of outrage. Without asking she’d used his bathroom again. She’d given his staff the night off. He’d let her know, in plain language, how this would happen and she’d gone ahead and set up a seduction scene.

      But it was hard to maintain rage in a body tight and hot with anticipation. She’s waiting out there alone, it throbbed, for you. She’s wearing satin underwear, it pulsed, for you. She’s starving, it thundered, for you.

      Despite the insistent ache of arousal he forced himself to dress unhurriedly, to arrive slowly, to sit and eat and talk. The wine helped. After one glass he realized he wasn’t going to ignite every time their eyes met in an awkward conversational lapse, or each time his gaze was drawn to the erotic caress of her thumb over the rim of her wineglass.

      It only felt that way.

      He shifted in his chair, surreptitiously rearranging that insistent ache of arousal. He was a sad case. There she was, chatting away about the innocuous and everyday, oblivious to the effect of her unconscious glassware fondling. Lucky he’d worn roomy chinos because sitting down in jeans, in his condition, would have been murder.

      “Hello?”

      He looked up to find her waving her hands to attract his attention.

      “You didn’t hear a word of that, did you?”

      “I was—” Tomas frowned “—thinking.”

      “Looks serious.”

      Yeah, deadly.

      She eyed him a second. “About the trip you made to Queensland? Is there a problem?”

      His pulse kicked up a notch as he met her eyes across the table and imagined telling her his real problem. I’ve been at least half-hard ever since I hauled your naked backside into your bedroom five nights ago. The waiting’s killing me, Angie. Let’s skip the pretense and—

      “Because I’m all ears. If you need to talk it through.”

      Abruptly she put down her cutlery and pushed her plate away, and the decisiveness of her action startled the hor-

      mone haze from his mind. She thought he was distracted by cattle problems. He was dying for action, and she wanted to talk.

      Shaking his head in disbelief, he pushed his plate away, too. “There’s no problem with the business.”

      “Good.” She smiled, and damn her, started to play with her glass again. “Yesterday I read that feature article in The Cattleman, about how you’re now considered the innovator, the market leader. It seems you’ve made a lot of changes since you took over managing the northern stations.”

      “Necessary changes.”

      “And production has increased fifteen percent.”

      “We’ve had some good seasons.”

      “And good management.”

      Half distracted by the play of her pale-tipped fingers on her wineglass, he didn’t answer. Idly he wondered where she was going with this, but mostly he didn’t feel any need to answer. She was right. Good management had increased Carlisle’s productivity.

      “Can I ask you something…about the will clause?”

      The idle part of his brain clicked to full alert, driving the lingering heat of arousal from his synapses. Not because of the question, but the hint of non-Angie guardedness in her delivery. Tension straightened his spine as he made a go-ahead gesture.

      “Here’s the way I understand it—correct me if I’m wrong. If you fail to produce this baby between the three of you, you won’t inherit ownership of Kameruka Downs or any of the other cattle stations. The company would keep ownership and the board overall control?”

      Tomas nodded. Correct so far.

      “So, I can’t see the board replacing you as manager or kicking you out of your home, not when you’re making the company money hand over fist.”

      “It’s not the same as ownership. That’s what I’ve worked toward, always.” He met her eyes across the table. “More than ever the past couple of years.”

      “Because of Brooke?”

      Yes, because he no longer had Brooke. What else did he have to work toward, to strive for, if not this place?

      “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, and the husky catch to her voice brought his gaze rocketing back to hers. To the undisguised light of emotion in her eyes. “Do you want to talk about—”

      “No, I don’t,” he said curtly.

      “Fair enough. That’s your prerogative. But any time you change your mind…”

      He didn’t bother responding. He didn’t want to talk about Brooke and he didn’t want to debate why. And he sure as hell didn’t need her watching him with those serious, solemn eyes that made him want to run a mile…and made him want to lash out at everything wrong about what happened with Brooke. Everything he wouldn’t let happen again.

      The silence stretched between them another tense minute before he saw her start to stack their plates and set them aside. Her hands with their pale glossy nails spread on the table, providing leverage as she stood. And he looked up to find her watching him, those serious, solemn eyes filled with all kinds of promises of temptation and salvation as she extended her hand toward him.

      “Let’s go to bed.”

      Five minutes ago he would have taken that hand and invitation and they probably wouldn’t have made it to any bedroom. But now…No, he couldn’t touch her. Not in this mood, not with so much emotion and despair and desperate need roiling in his gut.

      He couldn’t need her like that—he wouldn’t allow himself.

      “I have to work on the books,” he said.

      “Okay. I’ll pack the dishwasher then I’ll come help you.”

      “No, Angie. You can’t help me.”

      She’d started to gather up the dishes, but paused, her eyes rising slowly to lock on his. “I thought I already was.”

      “In one way. That’s all.”

      The message hummed between them and for several taut, electric seconds he didn’t know that she would accept it. “I don’t want to fight about this,” he said softly. “I don’t want to fight with you, Angie.”

      “Oh, me, either,” she said in a breathy rush. “Those things we said to each other the night I got here—I don’t want it to be like that between us. Let me help you, Tomas.”

      He set his jaw, his resolve, the steel in his heart and his eyes. “Don’t ask for what I can’t give.”

      Emotion shimmered in the fathomless depths of her eyes, but she nodded and mouthed one word. Okay. With careful hands she gathered up the pile of dishes, and as she walked from the room he heard one tiny clatter of crockery, as if her hands trembled and then regrouped. At the door, she hesitated and turned. “Will I see you later?”

      Tomas nodded. Later when this maelstrom of emotions stopped whipping through his body, when he’d controlled the persistent pounding need to stop her leaving and yell, yes, I want to talk. I want to talk if it eases the pain and the guilt and this bitter knowledge that I could have done better. That I failed my wife.

      “Later,” he said hoarsely. “Yes.”

      Nine