Maggie Cox - The Marriage Renewal

It was hard to believe he was smiling. Tara might have been feeling weak-kneed and hot—looking at him made her ache for him in the most carnal way—but she still couldn’t believe his arrogance. Just because he knew she was no more immune to the sexual chemistry between them than he was, he had no right to think he was playing some kind of trump card.

“Sex isn’t a particularly sound reason on which to base a marriage,” she said huffily, wishing she didn’t sound like some prudish little virgin.

“I agree.” He flashed a deep bone-melting smile, a weapon clearly designed to elicit the most devastating response, and Tara clenched her thighs tightly together beneath her dress to stop them from shaking.

“But great sex—mind-blowing, knee-trembling, all-night-long, ‘we-don’t-need-to-sleep’ sex—now that’s another thing altogether. Wouldn’t you agree?”

For several years MAGGIE COX was a reluctant secretary who dreamed of becoming a published author. She can’t remember a time when she didn’t have her head in a book or wasn’t busy filling exercise books with stories. When she was ten years old her favorite English teacher told her, “If you don't become a writer, I’ll eat my hat!” But it was only after marrying the love of her life that she finally became convinced she might be able to achieve her dream. Now a self-confessed champion of dreamers everywhere, she urges everyone with a dream to go for it and never give up. Also a busy full-time mom, who tries constantly not to be so busy in what she laughingly calls her spare time, she loves to watch good drama or romantic movies, and eat chocolate!

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my mom, Norah, who taught me to love books practically as soon as I could talk and who always believed that one day something really good would happen to me.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

THE baby had distracted her. The beautiful, tow-haired, drooling baby, who had sat opposite her on his mother’s lap, his gummy grin tying Tara’s heart into knots and consigning all her well-intentioned plans to enjoy a carefree, happy day off to oblivion. All because his name was Gabriel. By the time she got off the train at Liverpool Street, tears had been welling like a dam about to burst, and she’d had to dig frantically through her purse for change for the ladies’ toilet.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Tara dabbed at her streaked mascara, reapplied some blusher and sucked in several deep breaths to calm herself. It was five years ago…five years. So why hadn’t she got over it? It had just been bad luck that the baby on the train had shared his name with another beautiful baby boy…She was tired, that was all. Long overdue for a holiday. Back at her aunt’s antique shop, she had a drawer full of glossy brochures promising the destinations of a lifetime. Carefree, sun-kissed vistas that, if she ever got round to booking one, might remind her that she was just thirty years old, with a lot of life in front of her yet to have fun.

‘The V&A,’ she said out loud into the mirror, as if putting her resolve into words might give her the will and the desire to get there. She delved into her shoulder bag for a brush, quickly dragged it through her shoulder-length blonde hair, noted for the second time that day that her fringe was in dire need of a trim, then, straightening her shoulders, exited through a turnstile out into the familiar mêlée that was Liverpool Street Station. Twenty minutes later, revived by a take-away café latte, certain she was once more steering the ship, she headed determinedly down into the underground to board a tube and continue her journey to South Kensington.

Inside the museum it was almost unbearably close. Initially trying to shrug off the heat, Tara tried hard to concentrate on what she was looking at. Browsing some of the impressive historical-dress collection that spanned four centuries of European fashion—always her favourite place to start on a visit—she paused to remove her light denim jacket and comb her fingers through her hair. Her hand came away damp from her forehead. Then, worryingly, the room started to spin.

‘Oh, my God.’ Resting her head against one of the long glass cabinets, blinking at the blur of green and yellow that was some diminutive aristocrat’s ballgown, Tara prayed hard for the spinning sensation to stop. If only she’d roused herself a few minutes earlier that morning then she wouldn’t have had to fly out of the house to catch the early train—and she wouldn’t have left the house on an empty stomach. Coupled with the shock of hearing a name that haunted her from the past, it meant that her equilibrium was now paying the price.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ An elderly lady with skin that resembled soft, crumpled parchment delicately laid her hand on Tara’s shoulder. The faintest drift of lavender wafted beneath her nose. Touched by the kindness of a stranger, the younger woman opened her mouth to speak, to tell her concerned enquirer that she was perfectly fine; all she needed was to sit down for a couple of minutes then she’d be right as rain again—but the words just wouldn’t come. Inside her head Tara was frantically trying to assimilate the frightening sensation of hurtling towards the ground in a high-rise lift when suddenly her whole world tilted and she felt herself slide inelegantly to the floor.

‘Tara…Tara, wake up. Can you hear me?’

She knew that voice. Knew it intimately. It was like the stroke of velvet whispering over her skin or the first seductive swallow of good French brandy on an icy cold day. All her nerve endings exploded into vibrancy. First the baby—now this…his voice when she hadn’t heard it in over five long years… It had to be over-work, that was the only explanation.

Her heart was racing as her eyelids fluttered open. The high vaulted ceiling seemed miles away but that wasn’t the sight that consumed her body and soul. It was the intense blue gaze beneath the ridiculously long sweep of thick blond lashes staring down at her that had her riveted. Not to mention the deep indentation in the centre of a hard, chiselled jaw and the perfectly defined cheekbones in a masculine face so captivating someone ought to paint it—just to prove for posterity that male beauty like this existed…

‘Macsen.’

There was the briefest flinch in the side of his jaw in acknowledgement of his name but other than that Tara detected no discernible response. Disappointment, hurt, then confusion temporarily stalled her brain.

‘Do you know this young woman?’ It was the lady smelling of lavender. She was staring at the impressively built blond Adonis leaning over Tara as if she was going to demand some ID.

‘Yes, I know her,’ he replied in clipped tones tinged with the slightest Scandinavian accent. ‘She happens to be my wife.’

‘Oh. Well, I don’t think it was wise to let her wander around alone. She looks very peaky to me. Is she all right? Why don’t you help her sit up and give her some of this water?’ The woman helpfully produced a small bottle of mineral water from her voluminous bag.

‘I’m all right. Really.’ Struggling to a sitting position, Tara marvelled at her ability to be coherent when her heart was pushing against her ribcage as if it was about to burst. She’d fainted. That much was obvious. But where had Mac appeared from and what was he doing in the V&A? And of all the people who could have witnessed her embarrassing moment, why, oh, why did it have to be him? Apart from her elderly friend smelling of lavender, that was.