The Billionaire's Bride of Innocence. Miranda LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
do realise this can’t continue, Megan.’
‘Yes,’ she replied tautly, then looked away from his probing gaze.
‘We’ll talk in the morning. Before I go to work. Make some decisions about our future.’
Her eyes flew back to his. Maybe he was going to make it easy for her and ask for a divorce himself. Maybe he’d finally lost patience with her. Part of her hoped so.
But not the part which tormented her for hours that night as she lay in their marital bed, her back to James, pretending to be asleep when all the while she was wide-awake.
In the end she could bear it no longer. Rising quietly, she drew the matching silk robe over her nightie and made her way downstairs and out onto the back terrace. The moon was up, moonlight dancing on the water of the swimming pool as she hurried past it down to her studio, shivering in the cool night air as she went.
Once inside what had once been the pool house, she turned on the lights and the air-conditioning and made her way over to the easel that was set up under the skylight which James had had put in for her. Lifting the dust sheet off the canvas, she studied the painting she’d been working on for ages.
It was not what she wanted to work on tonight. Tonight, she would work on something very different indeed.
Quickly she replaced the canvas with an empty one, hiding the other painting in a cupboard. After that, she sat down on the stool in front of the easel and began to mix her paints, every now and then glancing up at herself in the long mirror which hung on the wall opposite.
Could she capture that look on canvas? she wondered.
What did it matter if she couldn’t? No one would ever see this painting, or the other one, but herself.
Chapter Two
JAMES emerged from the bathroom and stood there for a long moment, glowering at the king-sized bed which dominated the elegantly furnished master bedroom and which, at that moment, looked as if it had been in the path of a herd of stampeding elephants.
The dishevelled state of the sheets and pillows wasn’t the result of a night of satisfying lovemaking with his wife, something he’d been hoping for when he’d kissed her in the car last night and she’d responded like the Megan of old.
Instead, the moment they arrived home from Hugh’s wedding, she’d claimed a headache and bolted for bed straight away, although it hadn’t been late, only about eight-thirty. Then, soon after he’d finally come to bed around eleven, she’d upped and fled the room altogether, leaving him to toss and turn, the meagre hours of sleep he’d managed to get being peppered with darkly erotic, highly arousing dreams. He’d woken this morning and even after a fifteen-minute cold shower he’d felt extremely frustrated.
Tightening his tie, James marched across the plush cream carpet and flung open the French doors which led out onto the sun-drenched balcony. Dark brows bunched together, he gripped the curved railing top and peered down at the pool house which sat at the far end of the swimming pool.
He couldn’t see inside the pool house. But he knew she was in there, painting.
When he’d had the pool house converted into an art studio for Megan, James had imagined he was doing the right thing, giving his emotionally fragile young wife something to distract her from her grief. She’d taken losing their baby very hard, even harder than he had.
James had never anticipated that she would end up spending all day, every day in there—and now every other night as well.
What he’d thought might be good therapy had become an obsession. Hell, she wouldn’t even let him look at any of her work. Goodness knew why. She didn’t seem to want to share any part of her life with him any more. It was the bed part, however, which bothered James the most.
Megan’s doctor had said to be patient; that Megan was an especially sensitive young woman; that he couldn’t expect her to want sex for a little while.
Well, he’d been more than patient in his opinion, and a ‘little while’ had turned into three long months. James had coped. Just. What he could not cope with was the constant delay in trying for another child. He was already thirty-six years old, older than he’d planned to be when he became a father.
Becoming a dad was what James wanted most in the world these days, but it was almost impossible if your wife never let you make love to her.
James sympathised with Megan. He really did. But running away from life was no answer. You had to face up to things, then move on.
Of course, Megan was an extremely soft, shy, vulnerable girl. That was why he’d chosen her.
Because she was nothing like Jackie.
James’s heart twisted when he thought of his first wife. Why was it that men often fell for the wrong woman?
Jackie had captivated him from the start, his mad passion for her beautiful body blinding him to her materialistic motives in marrying him. The ugly truth had been outed when she’d been unable to conceive and James had suggested IVF, or adoption. When she’d rejected both of his suggestions out of hand, James began to suspect that Jackie didn’t want children at all. During the course of their subsequent argument, she admitted that she’d known all along that she was infertile, that she could never give him the family he so desired.
That she hadn’t really loved him had also become obvious to James. He’d just been a ticket to the good life, an insurance policy for the future when her modelling life came to an end.
What she’d done had been wicked, and cruel, and totally selfish.
Hugh and Russell believed he was still in love with Jackie.
But he wasn’t. She’d killed his love for her. Unfortunately, it seemed she’d also killed his ability to fall in love again. As much as he wanted to be in love with Megan, James knew he wasn’t. He liked her very much, though, and he liked making love to her.
Or he had.
Of course, sex with Megan wasn’t as exciting as it had been with Jackie. How could it be? Jackie had been an experienced woman-of-the-world with lots of tricks to turn a guy on. Megan had been a virgin when James had met her, shy and somewhat inhibited. Total nudity still embarrassed her, so their sex life so far—when they’d had one!—had been pretty conservative, with James always the initiator.
Not that she wasn’t a passionate girl, she was. Right from the start James had received surprising satisfaction in Megan’s obvious pleasure in his lovemaking.
In hindsight, he wasn’t at all sure about Jackie. Faking it would have been part of her modus operandi.
Nothing fake about Megan, or her love for him. James knew that.
Occasionally, he did experience some momentary guilt that he didn’t love her back; usually when Hugh and Russell made some uncomplimentary remark on the subject. Or sometimes, when he told her that he loved her. But whenever that happened, logic soon came to the rescue. Megan didn’t know he didn’t love her and James firmly believed he could make her happy.
If she’d only let him…
Frustration on several levels sent him striding back into the bedroom, where he slipped into his suit jacket, then collected his wallet and mobile phone from the bedside table. With one last glower at the messy bed, he headed downstairs, where the enticing smell of freshly brewed coffee indicated that his breakfast was almost ready.
‘Good morning, Mr Logan,’ Roberta said cheerily when he walked into the kitchen. ‘Your breakfast won’t be long.’
As housekeepers went, Roberta was a gem. James had hired her shortly after he’d bought this place from Russell late last year, knowing that the huge Bellevue Hill mansion was way too large for Megan to look after by herself. Though in her mid-fifties, Roberta was still slim and very fit, and a simply wonderful cook. Her handyman husband coming with the deal was a bonus. Running