Victor had the grace to flush. “I’d like to come with. I can clear my calendar whenever you have pre-natal appointments.”
“You would?” She thought about it for a few moments, then nodded. She had to say yes—it involved the baby, and she had promised him involvement in that one area of her life. “Not much happens,” she warned him. “She just feels my belly, weighs me, and asks if I have any questions. Then I pee in a cup and make an appointment for next month.”
“Not at the same time, I hope.”
She snorted out a laugh and dropped her soup spoon, then bit her lip, hard, to stop.
“Please don’t cut yourself off, Ashley. I love the way you let yourself go. You’re emotionally fearless and that’s a gift, it truly is. It’s not a bad thing to be able to smile and laugh with me.”
She shrugged sullenly and the mood was broken. They finished their meal in silence.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said after he had signed for the bill.
“Can’t we have dessert first?” she blurted.
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Now you’re hungry,” he said wryly. “Nice try, Ashley. Come on.”
She trudged after him, a noblewoman on the way to the guillotine, and when they were in the room he opened his mouth; she closed her eyes, bracing herself.
“Would you mind if I watched a pay-per-view movie? I haven’t seen it before.”
“Dammit, I’m just not—what?”
“The movie. I’d like to watch it, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh. Oh! No, I don’t mind. That’s perfectly fine. No problem. None. I don’t mind.”
He shook his head at her, sliding out of his jacket, and she turned and practically ran into the other room. She’d take a nice long shower, get into her nightgown, and read in bed for a while. A two hour reprieve! What a gift!
Except when she entered the bedroom, she saw Victor was already in bed, mesmerized by the latest James Bond movie. He was dressed in navy boxers and a wristwatch.
I can’t do this.
Yes, you can, she argued with herself, furious at her cowardice. It’s a done deal, like he said. He’s my husband now. I can’t spend the rest of my life afraid to be in the same room with him, the same bed. Now get over there.
She got over there, scurrying under the covers and yanking them up to her chin. He turned to her and opened his mouth; she cringed, waiting.
“You knocked the remote control on the floor. Mind picking it up?”
Feeling like a moron, she did so. And now she was a little, just a little disgruntled. Obviously, sex with her could wait. He wasn’t in any sort of hurry. Hardly the actions of a supposedly loving husband on his wedding night.
Annoyed, and annoyed at herself for being annoyed, she settled herself with much fluffing of pillows and straightening of blankets, carefully ignoring the man next to her.
Beside her, Victor slowly relaxed. He was rigid with the strain of appearing to be involved with the movie. Pretending to be interested in anything but making slow, sweet love to his bride was maddening beyond belief. His bride. His wife. God, what a lovely word.
He fidgeted during movie’s climax, very conscious of Ashley’s soft weight beside him. She was wearing a plain cotton nightgown, two sizes too big, in a clear attempt not to appear alluring in any way. He could have told her it was a lost cause. She could be wearing a dirty baseball uniform and he would still want her.
The movie, finally, ended, and he clicked it off. He turned to Ashley and saw she had dozed off, her book, Dante’s Inferno, open across her breasts. He watched her sleep for a long moment, finally able to gaze at her without making her nervous about his intentions. Her breasts rose and fell with each soft breath, and her face was peaceful, relaxed in sleep. Even in the room’s dim light, her hair had a rich gleam that made him wonder what it looked like in moonlight.
He itched to touch her, but made his hands stay still. A thought occurred to him—here was a wonderful opportunity to show Ashley he could keep his desire in check. He would let her sleep. It would almost certainly kill him, but he wouldn’t make love to her tonight.
Are you nuts? It’s your wedding night, and she’s your wife. Go for it!
He sternly told the inner voice to get lost, picked up Ashley’s book and put it on the nightstand, then carefully leaned over her and shut that light off. He shut his own light out, then lay back, resigning himself to a long night.
* * * * *
Ashley woke to a familiar sensation, known since childhood: Where am I? Whose house is this? Is it safe here? In a few seconds she remembered where she was, and got up to use the bathroom. She had only taken a few steps when nausea overwhelmed her and she had to run. She barely made it to the toilet in time.
She was resting her forehead against the cool porcelain, trying to muster the energy to get up and brush her teeth, when she heard Victor pad into the room and put a warm hand on the back of her neck. She was too exhausted to jump. His voice in the dark was rough with sleep and concern. “Are you all right?”
“Morning sickness,” she mumbled.
“Well, it is morning, so that makes sense. Three a.m., in fact. Shut your eyes, I’m turning on the light.” She did so, and heard the click as he switched on the small light over the sink. She heard running water, and then he was crouched beside her, pressing a wet cloth to her face.
“Victor?”
“Mmmm?”
“When I’m sitting here feeling sick and miserable, with everything I ate heading into the sewer system, slapping a cold, clammy washcloth on my face doesn’t help. Okay?”
He stopped immediately, feeling like an idiot. She saw the look on his face and said, without having any idea what would come out, “But thanks for trying. It’s scary to be in strange places. It was brave of you to hear me making those awful noises and come after me in the dark.”
He gave her a funny look, understanding mixed with compassion and possibly a little pity. She shook her head irritably at him. “Please, no more lectures on why it’s silly to fret about being a foster child. I don’t want to throw up again.”
“I wasn’t going to do that. I was just wondering what you were like when you were a little girl.”
“Ugly and quiet,” she assured him.
“Doubt it,” he said, smiling. The moment stretched between them and they were both afraid to speak, to shatter the fragile connection. Finally he said, “I’m going to call room service, have them bring up some soup and crackers for you.”
“Vic, I just threw up, I couldn’t eat a—”
“The books say you’ll feel worse when your stomach’s empty,” he said stubbornly. “I read it in at least four places. Stay there and rest. I’ll be right back.”
“I wasn’t thinking of getting up and running a marathon,” she called after him rudely. Childish, but she felt better for it.
When he came back he helped her stand, ignoring her protests that she was fine. He steadied her while she brushed her teeth, then helped her back to bed. He was carefully tucking her in when room service knocked.
“That was fast,” she said, surprised.
“Penthouse Suite, so they try hard,” he said carelessly, leaving to let them in. He returned with a breakfast tray and placed it on her lap. She saw chicken soup, toast, a large bowl of oyster crackers, and a glass brim-full of clear carbonated liquid; she tasted it and deduced it was ginger ale. She realized with startling suddenness that she was thirsty and ravenous. He watched contentedly while she polished off everything on the tray, leaving a few crackers to nibble on in the morning.
“That’s better,” she said, lying back with a sigh. He silently removed the tray Good service here, she thought wickedly. When he returned, straightened the blankets and pulled them to just under her chin. “Victor, cluck-cluck.”
“Sorry. I never shared a room with a pregnant lady before.”
That made her realize something, and she almost sat up with the shock of it. “You didn’t—I mean
, we didn’t—we didn’t do anything last night.”
“No.” He leaned over and shut off the light, then lay down.
“Why didn’t you?” She couldn’t hide the relief in her tone. “You seemed pretty determined before.”
“You fell asleep and I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said simply.
“Oh. Well, I appreciate that,” she said formally, feeling slightly silly. This had to be the oddest wedding night on record.
“Thank you,” he replied, equally formal. Then, gently: “Go to sleep.”
Oddly disappointed, and annoyed to be feeling that way, she did.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I’ve seen happier brides,” Jean admitted as Ashley took a left and drove toward her new house. “Those poor mail-order brides, for example. The ones who can either marry an American or hang out in Siberia for the rest of their lives. They look a little chirpier than you do.”
“Stow it, Jean,” Ashley said, not unkindly. “What’s done is done.”
“That’s the spirit,” Jean deadpanned, and Ashley giggled.
“This is it. Victor’s money guys took care of all the details this morning, and the movers should be here any minute.” Ashley parked in the three-car driveway and got out. She had trouble believing this was her new home, the place where she and Victor would live and raise their children. She expected to be met by a snarling Doberman and escorted off the property at any moment.
Jean whistled in appreciation. “Grotesquely expensive, but not ostentatious,” she said approvingly. “So few can pull it off.”
See? There are compensations, Ashley told herself. No one’s kicking you out of here if your rent check bounces, that’s one thing. And the house is plenty big enough so you can keep out of Victor’s way, that’s another.
“I like it,” she said shortly. “I hope you will, too. Victor said you could stay here as long as you liked.”
“I don’t even want to think about what you were doing to him at the time he agreed to this,” Jeannie said, startling another laugh out of her friend. “Ah, that’s more like it. For a while, you were looking more like a death row inmate than a newly wed rich lady.”
“I’m not rich,” Ashley said, surprised. “Victor is. I’m just…” What? His roommate? His brood mare? His sex toy? What?
“How about a tour?” Jean said quickly, clearly sensing her friend’s riot of emotions.
Up, down, up, down…Ashley wondered how much of her state was due to her pregnancy, and how much was due to all that had happened in the last two weeks. “Let’s start with one of the nine bedrooms.”
“There are only six. I think,” she admitted, then grinned. “I quit counting after four. Race you to the foyer.”
* * * * *
“Ashley, I swear to God, if I see you lift one more box, I’ll—”
“Force me into marriage?” she replied sweetly, dropping the box full of clothes on the floor with a decisive thump.
“Cute. I hired movers to take care of this stuff. You’re supposed to take it easy.”
It was late, and they were in his, their, bedroom. Ashley had been unpacking for hours, stalling the inevitable. But she finally gave in and dressed for bed, except when she saw Victor in bed already, she had grabbed the first box she could get her hands on. It didn’t help that he was bare to the waist, the sheets puddled around his midsection. The man had a ridiculously splendid build, and that was a fact.
“I’ve rested enough,” she said shortly, trying not to stare at her husband’s flat stomach.
“Ashley. Quit unpacking and come to bed. It’s late and you’ve been working like a dog all day. That’s another thing—you’ve got to start taking better care of yourself.”
“You just want me to lie around and eat bon-bons all day.”
“That’s not true,” he said. He slapped his book shut, So You’re Pregnant!, and put it on the nightstand next to And Baby Makes Three! and The Best New Baby Book. “I just don’t want you to work so hard, and that includes unpacking and moving boxes.”
“Ha! I know for a fact that all of those books told you exercise was very important when you’re pregnant. Not sitting in a corner while strangers put all my stuff away. Ex-er-cise.”
“So go for a walk,” he said, still looking stubborn. She slipped into bed beside him, pleased they were arguing. It would keep his mind off…other things. “A nice, slow, gentle walk. That’s all the exercise you need.”
“You’re an idiot,” she informed him.
He pretended to wipe away a tear. “I remember the first time you told me that,” he mock-sobbed. “It was in the elevator at Carlson-Musch, when you were trying to prove that you weren’t a patient.”
She laughed, pleased. “I remember that!”
“Of course you do, it wasn’t even three months ago.”
“What a weird day, huh?” she asked seriously. “Who would have thought…”
“That so much would happen,” he finished, “and that we would be so blessed.” He rested a hand on her stomach and she was so surprised she let him. “When do you think you’ll start to show?”
“Not for a couple more months.” Her voice sounded too high, but his warm fingers on her stomach were extremely distracting. Thank God for the sheets and blankets. And her nightgown. “Then I’ll get so fat you won’t be able to stand the sight of me.”
“That will never happen,” he said softly. He leaned forward to kiss her and she pulled back.
“Don’t do that.”
“Yes,” he said firmly, leaning back to look into her eyes, “I will do that. You’re my wife, you have my name, my property, and my money, but the flip side means you have to be a wife.”
“But I only married you because—”
“I know why you married me. But that doesn’t mean you and I aren’t going to live as husband and wife.”
She was trembling, and hated herself for it. “I don’t think I can.”
“Yes, you can. I’ll help you.” He smiled at her. “I’ll even do all the work.”
“Just like last time?”
He froze in the act of reaching for her, then carefully pulled the blankets away. “I deserved that. If you feel the need to say such things to me, do so whenever you wish. I’m in no position to cry mercy. But it’s not going to stop me from making love to you.”
Furious that she hadn’t distracted him, she tried to yank the blankets back up but he pulled them out of her reach. “If you can just give me a little time,” she said, hating the pleading note in her voice, “if you can wait until I’m ready for you—”
“You’ll never be ready for me,” he said gently, sadly. “If we had done things your way, I wouldn’t even know you were pregnant. I’m not saying these things to hurt you. Do you think I like scaring you? But you didn’t give me any choice. I don’t willingly choose this kind of relationship. I want us to love each other.”
“It’s impossible!”
“That’s the spirit,” he said wryly, sounding, to her ears, eerily like Jean. He leaned over and shut off the lamp, plunging the room in darkness.
She felt him take her by the arms and cried out, then bit her lip, hard. She wouldn’t do that anymore. It was too humiliating.
“Ashley, Ashley,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I promise not to hurt you. Don’t be scared.”
“Don’t draw it out, for God’s sake! Please, Victor, if you insist on this I’m not strong enough to stop you—”
“Don’t say that! It’s not a question of who is stronger. You promised to be my wife in all ways. I’m only holding you to your word.”
“Yes, all right, I did promise, but please, don’t be all night about it. Can’t we just get it over with?”
He sighed. “I suppose ‘can’t we just get it over with’ is a slight improvement over ‘don’t touch me’. Stay put, I’ll be right back.”
She heard him rummaging around in the nightstand drawer and wondered how he could see a thing in such dark. The
n he was tugging at her nightgown. “Off with this, sweetie,” and then she shivering in the middle of the bed. He pressed her down against the pillows, stealing a kiss before she could pull away, and then she was flat on her back and he was easing her hips up to remove her panties.
“Just close your eyes,” he murmured, “and think of England.”
She bit her lip, hard, so she wouldn’t laugh. There was nothing funny about what was going on in this bedroom, and she wouldn’t give in to her weird sense of humor.
“Aren’t you ashamed?” she asked. She felt his hands on her knees, gently parting them.
“Not especially. We made a deal, remember?”
She blew out her breath in irritation. Did he have to keep reminding her? “I mean about marrying twice, and neither time for love. You should be ashamed.”
“But this time I did marry for love.”
She nearly sat up in her outrage. “That’s a lie!”
“No. In time you’ll come to believe it.” She felt his warm fingers between her thighs, and then slowly, but insistently, he pushed up inside her. In a flash she understood what the rummaging in the drawer meant—his fingers were slick with lubricant. He gently worked a finger in and out, paused—she assumed he was getting more lubricant—and then worked more of the gel into her soft woman’s flesh. Her humiliation was extreme; her traitorous body was liking this very much, and she began to feel very warm.
“God, you feel good,” he said softly in the dark. “So soft and sweet.”
“Hurry…up…” she grated, fists clenched at her sides.
She felt his tongue lap at her nipple, a touch so light she could barely feel it. Her nipple stiffened instantly and she was grateful for the dark that hid her blush of shame. Bad enough to be made pregnant against her will. Bad enough to be blackmailed into marriage. But then to enjoy his touch, crave his touch—what on earth was wrong with her? She never used to be such a masochist.
Now he was stroking her clit while his breath tickled her nipple. She had to clench her fists hard enough to drive the nails into her palm to keep from reaching out to him. “I asked you not to draw this out," she gasped.