Anne Winston - The Bride Means Business

He couldn’t take it, even though he knew she was baiting him. “Someone special?”

“Two someones,” she corrected, smiling fondly at the photo. “Other than my brother-in-law, Jack and Ronan are the men I love most in the world. Even when they conspire to throw me into the pool.”

He gritted his teeth, aware that if he moved right now, it only would be far enough to get his hands around her unfaithful throat. “You never were satisfied with just one of anything.” He hadn’t meant the words in an intimate sense, but as he glanced at her, he suddenly realized they applied to their shared past in another way.

And in the sudden aura of awareness that the words dropped over them, he saw in her eyes that she was thinking the same thing he was. Their lovemaking had always been intense and primitive, and they’d both been young, healthy, in love with lust when they’d been together. A single episode of sex had never been enough for her. As if she were speaking, he could hear her husky voice urging him on and on, begging him for more and more, and protesting that she really couldn’t without meaning it when he moved over her, giving her a second satisfaction only moments after the first.

He looked at her lips. They were slightly parted, the edges of her perfect teeth—courtesy of the braces he still remembered—showing. She was breathing in quick, shallow gulps. He could practically smell the scent of her arousal, and the erection that had been teasing him since she opened the door roared to full, throbbing life. His hand reached for hers, their gazes locking in a desperate, wordless exchange. Taking her small hand in his, he carried it to his chest.

She sucked in a strangled breath, her eyes darting to their hands—

And the tidal wave of sudden, rigid-muscled, bodyshaking rage that possessed him when he thought about her running straight from his arms into those of his brother blasted through him without warning, knocking down any fragile barriers he’d sandbagged against it.

“How many men have those hands touched?” he demanded, as he flung her hand from him.

For an instant, he thought he saw anguish pass over her features. Then, if it had ever been there at all, the desperate emotion in her eyes vanished. Tossing her head to throw back her hair, she smiled. “Dozens. And every single one of them tells me I’m the best thing he’s ever known.”

He could kill her. He really could kill her.

Reading his eyes correctly, she hastily stepped back. But she just couldn’t shut that smart mouth of hers. “You asked for that, Dax. You know you did.” She paused, and weariness drew at her pretty face; again, for a moment, she looked so sad that a little part of his heart almost reached out for her before he shoved it back into hiding. “If I told you the truth, you’d think I was lying, anyway.”

“You aren’t capable of telling the truth,” he snarled. Truth? What truth?

In self-preservation, he transferred his attention to the last photo.

And was shocked speechless for a moment. It was a close-up of Jillian. She was cradling an infant in her arms, a newborn whose blond fuzz barely dusted the tiny head. She was holding the child up close to her, looking into its face, and the tenderness in her expression dug into him like a sharp blade. His hands were shaking and he shoved them into his pockets. Was it hers? Where was it? The sight sent sharp arrows of pain through him again.

That should have been my child.

But she hadn’t loved him enough to have his babies.

As if she’d followed his thoughts, she said quietly, “That’s my friend Deirdre’s first child. He’s a whole lot bigger and a whole lot livelier now, but he sure was precious then.”

His shoulders slumped as the tension leached out of him, and with a small shake of his head for what should have been and never would be, he gave up the inspection and escorted her out the door.

As Dax drove up the hill and pulled into the circular driveway fronting Charles and Alma’s house—or was it Dax’s now?—Jillian steeled herself. The last time she’d been here had been the day after they’d died, when the funeral director had asked her to pick out clothing in which the couple could be buried. God save her from ever having to choose another loved one’s final attire.

“Why are we stopping here?”

Dax gave her an unreadable glance as he killed the engine. “We’re dining here.”

She stared at him a minute. “I hope you’re joking.”

He looked puzzled. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

She couldn’t eat here. No. Absolutely no way. “Dax...the past few times I’ve been in this house haven’t exactly been easy moments for me. I thought you meant we were eating out or I’d never have agreed to come with you.”

He uncoiled himself from the driver’s seat and came around the car to open her door. “Get out.” His voice was clipped.

He was determined to make her life a living hell, she thought in resentment. She never should have told him coming to the house bothered her; he was far to quick to seize on things and rub them into her skin.

“Get out or I’ll get you out.” The menace in his voice convinced her he meant it.

Slowly, she swung her legs out of the car and stood, ignoring the hand he extended, and walked up the wide, shallow flagstone steps before he could touch her.

Following her up, he reached around her to open the door. As he turned the knob, he hesitated and looked down at her.

She averted her eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the pain she was feeling, and after a moment, he pushed the door inward and she preceded him into the spacious foyer. Mrs. Bowley, the housekeeper who’d been there since they were small, bustled through the swinging door from the kitchen and hurried down the hall, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Jillian!” The older woman enfolded her in a warm, cinnamon-y smelling embrace that catapulted her back in time. Funny how some smells always made you remember certain things. Mrs. Bowley’s scent always relaxed her and gave her the warm, secure feelings she’d known in childhood. When the housekeeper stepped back, her faded blue eyes were swimming with tears. “How are you, honey?”

“I’m fine.” She gripped Mrs. Bowley’s hands. “I’ve been worried about you. Have you been all right?”

The housekeeper gave her a watery smile. “It’s been hard. I keep expecting Miss Alma to come flying down the steps, or Charles to come out of his study with his nose buried in the paper.”

“I’m sure.” Jillian draped an arm around her sloping shoulders. “I can’t quite accept it yet, either.”

“Having Dax come home has been wonderful. And of course, there’s—”

“Mrs. Bowley.” Dax’s voice was warm but firm. “Could you please bring us the hors d’oeuvres?”

“Right away, dear.” The older woman gave Jillian one last fond smile as she turned away.

Dax crossed the hall and opened the door of Charles’s study. Only she supposed it was his study now. She looked at him, uncomprehending, before she realized he wanted her to go into that room, rather than into the parlor opposite it, where guests were usually entertained. Or at least, where Charles, and Dax’s parents before him, had entertained. It was difficult to remember that this was Dax’s home now.

As she passed him and entered the room, he asked, “Would you like a drink?”

“A glass of sherry would be nice,” she said. He disappeared again, and she dropped her purse in a wing chair as she idly walked to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes. She couldn’t stand to sit in here in the dark, and it was still light outside. Perching on the wide ledge, she stared at the familiar scene without really seeing it.