Got it in one, she thought tightly. ‘I hate this house.’
‘As you hate me?’
‘Yes.’ Why bother denying it? She hated him and she could not believe she had let him seduce her into coming back here. She had to have gone temporarily insane. The whole day had been one of utter insanity, from the moment she’d got into that cab this morning with Lester Miles!
She heard his sigh whisper across the room, then felt the smooth, steady vibration of his tread as he began to walk towards her, her fingers curled into two tight fists. Suddenly she was having to fight a blockage in her throat.
‘As soon as my luggage arrives I’m leaving,’ she muttered.
He came to a stop an arm’s reach away; she could feel his presence like a dark shadow wrapping itself around her shivering frame. If he touches me I won’t be responsible for my actions! she told herself shrilly. If he dares make excuses I’ll—
‘Is that why you’re staring out of the window?’ He issued a soft, deriding laugh. ‘It is just like you, Isobel, to cut and run in the face of trouble. I now have this great image of you walking up that driveway dragging your suitcase behind you. It looks so pathetically familiar that it makes me want to weep!’
His angry sigh hissed; she spun around to f
ace him. She was shocked by how pale he looked in the deepening glow of the evening light. His clothes had lost their normal pristine smoothness and he needed a shave. Sinister was the word that leapt up to describe him. Sinister and frustrated and so angry it was pulsing out of every weary pore.
How could a man change so much in a few short minutes? It was this house, she decided. This hateful, horrible house. And that image of her that he had just conjured up was dragging on her chest and tugging out the tears.
‘Don’t you dare compare this with my life here before!’ she cried.
‘Our life!’ he barked at her. ‘Whatever happened here before happened to both of us! But we are not discussing the past.’ His hand flicked out in an irritable gesture. ‘We are discussing here and now, and your propensity to run instead of facing what threatens to hurt you!’
‘I am not hurt, I’m angry!’ she insisted. His mouth took on a deriding twist. The flames burning inside her leapt to her eyes.
‘Diantha—’
‘Is so comfortable here she instructs your staff on what to do!’
‘She is a natural organiser,’ he sighed out heavily.
He was daring to stand here defending his mistress? ‘Just what you need, then,’ she said. ‘Because I can’t even organise a pot of tea!’
He laughed; it was impossible not to. Isobel turned away again and managed to break free.
‘I did not marry you for your organisational skills,’ he murmured huskily.
Sex; they were back to the sex, she noted furiously.
‘I married you because you are gorgeous and sexy and keeping my hands off you is like having an itch I cannot scratch.’
Her spine began to tingle because she knew her husband and he had just issued fair warning that he was going to touch.
‘Get your mistress to scratch the itch,’ she suggested.
‘Diantha is not my mistress.’
Scornful disbelief shot from her throat. ‘Liar,’ she said.
The light touch of his fingers feathered her bare arms. Excitement shivered across every nerve-end. He was standing so close now her body was clenching in defence against that sensational first brush with his thighs.
‘She is a close family friend, that is all.’
Isobel’s second huff of scorn sent those fingers up to gently touch her hair. She was suddenly bathed in a shower of bright static.
‘This conversation is developing a distinct echo to it,’ he then tagged on ruefully.
He was comparing it with their row about Clive. ‘The difference here being that I know about Diantha. You just jumped to conclusions about Clive because you have that kind of mind.’