The Billionaire's Bride of Innocence

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 Images left James with little time for gardening, or cleaning the pool.

Even so, James had every intention of semi-retiring once his first child was born. When he’d come to the decision a few years back to embrace fatherhood rather than run away from it, James had resolved to give being a parent one hundred and ten per cent effort.

His own father’s pathetic example had shown him what not to do. James didn’t want any son—or daughter—of his to feel what he’d felt when he’d been growing up. No way!

‘Could you hold breakfast for a while this morning, Roberta? I’m going to pop down to the pool house for a few minutes.’

Roberta shook her head sadly. ‘Mrs Logan spent the night painting again, did she?’

James hesitated. Since his ego-bruising break-up with Jackie, James had become a bit paranoid about keeping his private life…private. But it was difficult to keep secrets around Roberta. She was a canny woman—though, thankfully, a kind one.

‘Afraid so,’ he admitted.

‘Poor love. I’ve tried talking to her, you know. Told her that lots of miscarriages are nature’s way when something isn’t quite right.’

‘And?’

Roberta shrugged. ‘She said she already knew that.’

James nodded. Yes. The doctor would have explained that to her, since he’d told him the same thing, reassuring James that there was no reason why his wife’s next pregnancy wouldn’t be fine.

‘I’ve decided to take Megan away on a second honeymoon,’ James informed Roberta. ‘Get her right away from here, and that infernal studio.’

‘That’s a very good idea. She can’t keep going on the way she is. She’s living on her nerves. And she eats like a bird. I can’t remember the last day she had a proper breakfast. Or lunch, for that matter.’

James frowned. He’d noticed her picking at her meal at night, but hadn’t realised she wasn’t eating much during the day, either.

‘Why don’t you make up a breakfast tray for two, Roberta, and I’ll take it down with me? That way I can sit with her and make sure she eats something.’

‘That’s another good idea. It shouldn’t take me too long.’

‘I’ll get myself a cup of that great coffee of yours while I wait.’

Ten minutes later, James arrived at the pool house with a well-stocked breakfast tray in his hands. The door was closed, James knocking with the toe of his shoe.

‘It’s me, Megan,’ he called out at the same time. ‘Can you open the door for me? My hands are full.’

The door eventually opened, with a sleepy-eyed Megan half hiding behind it.

‘What time is it?’ she asked.

‘Breakfast time,’ he answered, and walked in with the tray, putting it down on the small round table which sat to the right of the door. When he pulled out a chair for her, Megan ignored it. Instead, she hurried over to the easel, where she threw a dust sheet over the canvas, then sat down on her stool and started cleaning her brushes.

‘How’s the painting coming along?’ he said, suppressing his irritation with difficulty.

‘Fine,’ Megan said without looking up.

‘Am I going to be allowed to see it one day?’

‘Not till it’s finished,’ she said, still not looking his way.

Megan had confessed to him early on in their relationship that she had a dream of becoming a famous artist, an ambition which James never believed would come to fruition, mainly because he didn’t think she had enough talent. Megan was a good painter; she hadn’t spent several years at art school for nothing. But her paintings simply didn’t have that special something which made them stand out from the crowd.

They’d met last year at an art gallery, in front of the one and only painting of Megan’s ever to be exhibited. It hadn’t been to his taste—he’d never liked still-life pictures—but he’d bought it anyway at the end of the evening, knowing by then that he’d found the ideal girl to marry. Attractive enough and suitably young, with a sweetly innocent way about her which always appealed to cynical men-of-the-world. That she also came from a well-off family hadn’t hurt, either, James not wanting to risk marrying a golddigger again.

He’d encouraged her to keep on painting after their marriage, thinking it would be good for her to have an involving hobby. He’d certainly encouraged her to keep on painting after her miscarriage, even putting up with her suddenly developing the kind of artistic temperament which didn’t allow anyone to see what she was working on whilst the work was in progress.

But there was a limit to his patience, and he was fast reaching the end of it!

‘Roberta tells me you haven’t been eating breakfast,’ he said somewhat sharply.

Now she glanced over at him, her eyes startled, perhaps by his harsh tone. Megan’s big brown eyes were very expressive.

‘I…I haven’t been very hungry lately,’ she said, and turned her attention back to her brushes.

‘Come and have some juice, then.’

‘In a moment…’

James counted to ten before saying firmly, ‘Megan. We have to talk.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said. ‘We do.’ But she made no move to join him at the table.

His patience finally ran out.

‘Then have the decency to stop what you’re doing and come over here!’ he snapped before he could stop himself.

He hated himself immediately for taking that tone with her. But, truly, there was a limit to what he could endure.

He watched, somewhat chastened, as she put down her brushes, stood up, then re-sashed her silk robe tightly around her waist, bringing his attention to just how much weight she’d lost since her miscarriage.

When he’d first met Megan, she’d been nothing out of the ordinary, a reasonably pretty, round-faced brunette with nice eyes, a few too many pounds and not much interest in how she presented herself. Like a lot of people with an artistic bent, she was introverted and unworldly. By the time he’d married her two months later, however, she’d smartened herself up considerably, admitting later that she’d sought the help of a professional style guru who’d helped her with her wedding dress and her honeymoon wardrobe, then shown her how to do herself up to her best advantage.

James had been taken aback—and turned on—by the more sophisticated look of his bride when he first saw her on their wedding day, having been overseas on business during the weeks leading up to their marriage. Her bridal gown was a delight, the strapless style and corset-like bodice giving her body a sexy, hourglass shape.

James hadn’t given Jackie a second thought on his wedding night. Quite a feat after running into his first wife in New York three days earlier, on the arm of her latest lover.

He wasn’t thinking of Jackie now, either, his eyes—and his concentration—totally on Megan as she turned and moved towards him.

Yesterday, at Hugh’s wedding, he’d thought she looked very attractive. Today, however, she looked seriously sexy and quite beautiful. Yet she wasn’t wearing any make-up and her hair wasn’t done properly, just bundled up on top of her head in a decidedly haphazard fashion, with bits and pieces falling down around her face.

The loss of weight suited her, James realised. She now had cheekbones, her eyes looked bigger, her neck looked longer. So did her legs. In fact her whole figure was leaner, but still shapely, with good child-bearing hips, nice breasts and nipples just made for a baby’s mouth.

And for a man’s.

As James stared at the provocative outline that her nipples were making against the thin silk of her white negligee, he resolved that last night would be the last time Megan would sleep down here.

Tonight, she would stay in the marital bed.

Tonight, she would not turn away from him!

Chapter Three

MEGAN tried to ignore the direction of her husband’s coalblack eyes. Tried not to respond to the obvious glitter of desire in their depths.

But it was impossible.

Her nipples tightened, so did her belly, her weakness where he was concerned both exciting and annoying. It was wicked, the way he could affect her. She should have hated him for what he’d done to her. She did hate him. Sometimes.

Don’t look at him, she lectured herself. Sit down and pour yourself some juice and simply don’t look at him!

He was ahead of her, however, reaching for the jug before she had a chance and pouring the juice for her. She was forced to meet his eyes when he handed the glass over, his expression having changed by then from one of frustration to kind consideration.

‘Drink this up, there’s a good girl,’ he said with one of those warm, winning smiles of his, the kind he reserved for difficult clients. And weak-willed wives.

Still, he wouldn’t be calling her a good girl if he looked at the painting she’d worked on all night, Megan thought with bitter irony as she lifted the glass to her lips.

‘I’ve decided to take you away on a second honeymoon,’ he said after pouring himself some juice as well.

Megan blinked at him. He’d decided, had he? Just like that.

She had to admire him. At least he could do that—make decisions. Unlike her own wishy-washy self.

‘I was talking to Rafe the other day,’ he went on, clearly assuming by her silence—and possibly because of the way she’d kissed him yesterday—that she was going to agree. ‘You know Rafe, don’t you? Rafe Saint Vincent, the photographer. Anyway, he was telling me about this island he went to once, Dream Island. It’s off the coast of Queensland up near Cairns. He said it was the perfect place for a romantic getaway; a tropical paradise which offers total privacy and all the luxury in the world.’

Megan’s breathing quickened as she imagined what it would be like to go to such a place with James on a second honeymoon. He would be oh, so attentive to her, attentive and loving. And he’d make love to her as passionately and as often as he had when they’d first met.