Living With The Enemy. Laura Martin
with an irritated gaze. ‘I live a solitary life—always have, always will. I can’t deny that your presence here will take a bit of getting used to, but I’m perfectly capable of being sociable if you’ll act in an appropriate manner.’
She frowned up at him. ‘And what do you mean by that?’
‘If you’ll stop acting like a petulant child!’
‘Maybe I want to act like a petulant child; maybe I always have!’ She didn’t care what he thought of her. She didn’t! For the past few weeks she hadn’t cared about anything much at all. Lucy tried to shake his hand free, but his grip was firm and uncompromising, matching his expression. ‘Will you let go of me?’ she gritted.
‘No.’
She had an overwhelming desire to stamp her bare feet on the dusty ground, to pull and tug herself free and run off sobbing. ‘I want you to!’ she told him wildly.
‘No, you don’t.’ His voice was calm and controlled. ‘Tell me something.’
‘What?’ Lucy tilted her chin and eyed Alex warily. He looked so handsome, so completely male—cool and totally in command.
‘When was the last time you here held?’
Her heart skipped a beat. ‘I...I don’t know.’ She shook her head, hardly daring to meet his gaze, repeating the word as if she hardly knew its meaning. ‘Held?’
‘Yesterday?’ Alex persisted. ‘A week ago, a month?’
Lucy stared up at the smouldering eyes and felt every nerve-end tingling as a new, quite daunting prospect loomed into view. ‘I...I can’t remember,’ she murmured evasively.
‘I shouldn’t imagine Charles is particularly good at hugging, is he?’ Alex continued smoothly. ‘And there’s no one else now, is there?’ He released a breath and the firm line of his mouth softened a little as he looked at Lucy. ‘You lose someone—someone close—and everyone backs off. They don’t mean to, but grief is difficult to deal with. Even the simplest phrases of condolence sound clichéd or banal, don’t they?’
‘Yes.’ She contemplated the strong, rugged planes of his face and nodded slowly, remembering, marvelling at the fact that he actually understood how it had been. ‘Yes, they do.’
‘Your friends probably did their best, but it’s not always good enough, is it?’
Lucy released a tense breath. She was inches away from him, and the proximity of such blatant animal magnetism coupled with this sudden unexpected sensitivity was not helping her to stay aloof and unmoved.
‘I...I haven’t many friends. Not any more. Paul...’ She faltered, gulping a swift breath. ‘He...he didn’t get on with them,’ she finished reluctantly.
‘He could be a difficult man?’
Strain clenched her features; her throat ached with unshed tears. Never speak ill of the dead. It wasn’t right to criticise Paul now, especially not with a stranger. ‘He was my husband,’ she murmured unsteadily.
‘And you loved him.’ It was said as if that fact were a forgone conclusion.
Lucy didn’t bother to contradict him. It was what everyone thought, she knew that. After all, they had only been married a couple of months and she had gneved so after his death. Grieved for all the wrong reasons ... but grieved nonetheless.
‘I’m sorry if I was harsh earlier,’ Alex murmured. ‘I apologise.’
‘I deserved it,’ Lucy muttered awkwardly. ‘But apology accepted anyway.’ She gulped a breath, conscious of the tears that were threatening to overwhelm her. When people were kind, she cried—it was an equation that she didn’t know how to overcome.
‘It’s OK,’ Alex murmured gently, brushing a finger across her damp cheek. ‘Tears don’t frighten me. You don’t have to feel embarrassed.’
‘I don’t want to cry!’ She hung her head as she fought to prevent her tears. ‘I’m sick of feeling miserable, of being an object of pity.’
‘Self-pity?’
Lucy looked up. He could be remarkably brutal when it suited him. ‘Maybe,’ she whispered.
‘Honesty.’ A half-smile twisted the corners of his mouth. ‘I approve. Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ he added firmly. ‘No one’s perfect.’
‘Not even you?’ Her attempt at lightness almost killed her, but she felt proud that she had managed it when she saw his smile.
‘Not even me.’
She couldn’t reply. Another light-hearted retort would have been the best, the safest approach then—something flippant to defuse the tension in the far too personal nature of their conversation. But she knew it would be impossible. She recognised brooding compassion in Alex’s expression and swallowed back the lump in her throat. ‘Don’t!’ she croaked, shaking her head. ‘Please—!’
He took no notice. Deep down, Lucy knew, she hadn’t wanted him to.
Alex pulled her towards his solid frame, and the tears that she had held back for so long streamed like a torrent down her pale cheeks.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCY had expected a quick hug, had counted on being released after a few short seconds. But the holding just went on and on.
She wanted it to; that was the shocking thing. The fact that she craved the feeling of the firm, male body pressed so effectively against her own stunned her absolutely. Never before had she experienced such an overwhelming need to be held, to keep on being held—never with her husband, that much was certain.
The grieving widow. It indicated so much and yet revealed so little. Lucy closed her eyes and gripped Alex’s shirt tightly.
‘Are you OK?’
His voice was deep and husky and that made it worse—more difficult to disentangle herself. She felt weak with confusion. How could she feel this much physical awareness of a man she didn’t know and certainly didn’t much like?
‘Lucy?’ Insistent hands slackened her hold. Alex leaned back and tried to look into her face. ‘Will you look at me?’
‘No!’ She didn’t want to see that gaze. Too dark and attractive, too perceptive, he would recognise and understand the sexual attraction which had sprung out of nowhere and had to be repressed at all costs.
Lucy had felt guilty enough before; for weeks before Paul’s death she had been wishing that her marriage would end, that he would exit her life and leave her in peace, but now she felt even worse.
A widow of less than two months and already wanting another man.
Any man? she wondered miserably. Or just this one?
‘Don’t touch me!’ Lucy found the strength she needed from somewhere and tugged fiercely. Immediately she found herself released. ‘What do you think you’re trying to do?’ she cried. ‘Make me go mad?’ She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand and then, half stumbling away from him, ran into the house.
Let him think her crazed and deranged, she thought. What did she care? She knew better than anyone what a mixed-up young woman she was. She just couldn’t cope with Alex Darcy mixing her up any more.
He followed her, and she knew instinctively that that spelt trouble. Confrontations clearly didn’t frighten the life out of him the way they did her. She turned and faced him in the hallway of the house, conscious of herself, of him, of the cool interior and the deathly silence that enveloped them both as they looked at one another.
‘Just leave me alone!’ Lucy muttered unsteadily. ‘Stop pestering me!’
‘Pester—?’ Incredulous exasperation crossed Alex’s face. ‘What