Lee Wilkinson - The Determined Husband

His smile wolfish, Keir replied, “You know quite well what I want, Sera.”

“Revenge, presumably.”

“Revenge, certainly. But there’s something I want a great deal more. You in my bed,” Keir told her.

“There are plenty of other women,” Sera insisted.

“It happens to be you I want.”

“I’ve already told you I’m not for sale to any man.”

“Then if money won’t do the trick, I’ll have to think of some other way to get you….”

There are times in a man’s life…

When only seduction will settle old scores!

Pick up our exciting new series of revenge-filled romances—they’re recommended and red-hot!

Coming soon:

The Marriage Demand

by Penny Jordan

Harlequin Presents ®#2211

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

THE elevator descended smoothly and sighed to a halt. As the doors slid open, like a prisoner scenting freedom Sera stepped out and, her rubber-soled trainers squeaking a little on the marble floor, hurried across the Warburton Building’s impressive, chandelier-hung foyer.

At this very early hour it was deserted, but as she approached the smoked-glass doors, the blue-uniformed night-security guard appeared.

His seamed face breaking into a welcoming beam, he said, ‘Morning, Miss Reynolds,’ and decided, with fatherly concern, that she was still looking a mite thin and pale.

‘Morning, Bill. How’s your lumbago?’

‘Not as bad as it might be.’

He surveyed her navy and white track suit, her shiny nose, and the long, silky black hair caught up in a pony-tail. She looked no older than fifteen in that get-up, though he knew from a previous conversation that she was twenty four, the same age as his own Nancy.

‘Off for your usual run round the Park?’ he asked.

Sera, who was by no means an athlete, only walked or jogged gently according to her mood, but she answered pleasantly, ‘That’s right.’

‘Well, you’ve sure got a nice day for it.’

Bill was a creature of habit, and the same conversation took place each morning, the only difference being his last comment, which changed according to the weather.

He held open the side door for her, and she thanked him with a smile. She was a pretty little thing, he thought for the umpteenth time, and, unlike a lot of the tenants, she always managed a pleasant word and a cheerful smile, in spite of an ever-present air of sadness.

Outside it was cool and fresh, the sky a pale, innocent blue. Fifth Avenue lay as quiet as a sleeping babe in the after-dawn lull, undisturbed as yet by the bustle of the day.

In Central Park the green leafy trees looked newly washed, the flowers heavy with dew. Swirls of early morning mist hung over the grass like translucent ghosts lingering on after some spooky midnight gathering.

Taking her usual route, Sera began to walk at a good pace, enjoying the coolness of the air with its promise of a scorching day to come.

Other than a solitary jogger in the distance, she seemed to have the Park to herself. She liked the sensation of being alone. This was the only hour of the day when, free from the stifling atmosphere of Martin’s luxurious apartment, she felt truly at ease, unpressured, able to be herself.

That, apart from the much-needed exercise, was the reason she treasured these early morning outings. It was also the reason she kept them a secret from Martin.

Kathleen, his attractive, black-haired Irish nurse knew, but was sympathetic and said nothing.

Sera was truly grateful.

If Martin found out, she knew instinctively that he would find some way to put a stop to them. With a jealous possessiveness that amounted almost to paranoia, he wanted her by his side every minute of every hour of every day.

Though having the utmost sympathy with his bitterness and frustration at being in pain and confined to a wheelchair, and suffering for him vicariously, Sera was frayed.

She could only feel guiltily thankful when Kathleen occasionally relieved her of the burden by insisting that, after a morning of business, he should rest alone in his room for a couple of hours.

When that happened, still wanting her within call, he would turn to Sera and order peremptorily, ‘Don’t go out.’

‘No, I won’t,’ she’d assure him.

After the stick would come the carrot. ‘When I’ve had my afternoon therapy, we’ll take a drive.’

But she was weary of the specially adapted, air-conditioned limousine, of sitting when she would sooner have been walking, of having Martin beside her when she would rather have been alone…

Miserable and ashamed of herself, she broke off the disloyal thought. No doubt things would be a great deal easier when he was able fully to resume his business life.

Martin was a vigorous go-getter and found any kind of inactivity or restriction irksome, to say the least. His temper ready to flare at any moment, he had made a difficult, demanding patient, and even Kathleen’s imperturbable good humour had sometimes been stretched to the limit.

It had been a great fillip to him when, only a few days ago, his doctors had given him a positive progress report.

Though he might never be able to run a marathon or jump hurdles, and he would be left with a slight limp, in a matter of months he should be relatively free from pain and on his feet once more.

Normally a very sociable man, since the accident he’d hardly seen a soul, apart from his sister, Cheryl, and his brother-in-law, Roberto.

Hating the idea of people seeing him in what he termed ‘This damned contraption’, he wouldn’t go out—his only excursions had been afternoon drives in the car—and he’d refused to invite anyone to the apartment.

His thirty-third birthday, which fell on the following Saturday, would have gone unmarked. But bolstered by the good news, and encouraged by Cheryl, whose suggestion it was, he’d started to make plans for a weekend party at Pine Cove, his house in the Hamptons.

‘How many people were you thinking of inviting?’ Cheryl had asked.

‘Perhaps twenty or so to stay at the house—though we’ll need to warn Mrs Simpson—and some of the neighbours for the Saturday evening…’

‘Right. Roberto and I are having a break at Fiddler’s Cottage, so you can leave all the arrangements to me. I’ll talk to Mrs Simpson, phone or fax the invitations, and arrange for the caterers. We’ll need plenty of champagne. I think news like this calls for a celebration!’