Reclaiming His Pregnant Widow (9 page)

Brand didn't dare look at her. His senses went on high
alert. He was acutely aware of the overloud ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room and the sweet feminine scent that surrounded Clea. His whole existence funneled into the present. And the two of them.

He took a gulp of the whiskey he no longer wanted.

“I'd already agreed to go to dinner with Harry before you came back,” she said from beside him.

“I know. You told me that.” What was wrong with the woman? He didn't want to talk about her night out with
Harry
. To lighten the mood before she figured him for a basket case, he said, “I had a great-aunt who had a Bassett hound called Harry. It had great big red eyes that looked like it had spent all night in tears.”

“Brand!” But she sounded like she was smiling. “Harry doesn't have red, teary eyes.”

Yet.

But that could change if Brand had anything to do with it.

Brooding, Brand set his nearly full glass down on the low, square table beside the couch and turned his head.

She
was
smiling. The edges of her mouth had curled up, and her eyes sparkled. The power of that smile lit up her whole face.

Heat shot through Brand. He wanted to hear her laugh again—the same joyous sound that had shot a lightning bolt of hot emotion through him when she'd come in through the front door with Harry behind her.

He could still make her laugh, couldn't he? He could certainly try. “Who calls a grown man Harry, for God's sake? It's a name for dogs and hamsters.”

The corners of her mouth stayed up-tilted. “Don't forget wizarding heroes and princes. It's very distinguished—it's short for Henry.”

“That begs the question. Who calls a son Henry?”

“It's got to be better than calling a daughter Cleopatra.” Before he could tell her he liked her name, she continued, “Lots of queens called their babies
Henry
. Many kings of England are Henry.”

Brand gave a snort and laid an arm along the back of the sofa behind her head, taking care not to touch her. Not yet. “I doubt it was the queen's call. You're telling me Hall-Lewis has royal aspirations?”

She gave a gurgle of laughter. A real laugh that kept his gaze on her mouth.

“Of course not! And stop calling him Hall-Lewis—it's such a mouthful.”

“There won't be any need to call him anything at all if he continues to paw you,” he said darkly.

“He wasn't pawing me!”

“His hands were all over you.” Brand came up on the couch and moved closer.

Clea averted her face until he could only see a slice of flushed cheek beyond the veil of her curls.

“You're overreacting, Brand.”

“Overreacting?”
The light and laughter had vanished. All Brand could focus on was the telling fact that Clea hadn't told her lover to stop, only him—her husband.

The dangerous possessive heat, so close to the surface, spun out of control. Acting on the outrage and anger bottled up within him, Brand clasped her shoulders and swung her around to face him. “Did you enjoy it when
he
stroked your shoulders like this?” he snarled, matching actions to his words. Yet the instant his fingers brushed against her skin, a different, more intense, yet more poignant emotion, wiped out all anger.

Ah, hell!

She stiffened then stilled when his fingers gently settled
into the lightest, stroking touch. Her eyes widened, the pupils darkening as she stared at him.

“Or when he kissed you…”

Brand didn't wait to add
like this
. He simply acted.

The taste of her was intoxicating. Sweet chocolate. And, more tantalizing, the taste that was the essence of Clea. Honey. Jasmine. Brand hit an instant high, adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. He sampled the sweetness, licked the chocolate froth from her top lip, felt her shift restlessly against him.

He hauled her off the leather couch, into his lap and sealed his mouth across hers, claiming her as
his
.

Brand was conscious of the roughness of his desert-callused fingertips against her silken skin. It highlighted the difference between them…and heightened his arousal. She was so beautiful. So sweet. So soft.
His
Clea.

Once he'd started, he couldn't stop. Nor did she object as he smoothed his hand along her leg under the fabric of the dress she wore. The skin covering her inner thigh was sleek and smooth. He caressed the silkiness in circular motions, until she bit back a half moan. His fingers inched under the edge of her panties. Clea's breath caught—a harsh, jagged sound in the silence broken only by the tick of the grandfather clock.

His fingers retreated and returned to the silky skin. “You're so incredibly soft.”

He pressed openmouthed kisses along the seam of her lips until they parted, yet still he didn't sink into the welcoming sweetness to explore more deeply. Inside he was shaking. A mass of desperate, hungry urges. Yet he held off, deferring the pleasure, waiting for her to initiate the action.

She moved in his lap, the curve of her bottom rubbing against the erection restrained by his denim jeans. Brand
groaned at the agony of having her so close. He wanted to thrust his tongue into her mouth, yank her skirt up and rip the scraps of lace she called underwear off. He wanted to part her legs and ream his ready hardness into the feminine heat that he'd been deprived of for so long.

It would be over in seconds.

A terrible letdown for Clea…

Hardly the way to start their life over again. He fought for restraint, and touched her inner thigh with trembling fingers. His hand slid higher and found moist, slick flesh.
She was ready.
Blood rushed through him, making him light-headed. He stroked with slow care that belied the primal instincts pounding through him, and she arched up against him, her breathing quickening.

Her heart thudded against his chest. Brand wished they were naked. He wanted her skin bare against his so he could absorb her heartbeat. The barriers of his T-shirt and her silk dress were sheer torture.

“Open your legs.”

For a heartbeat she didn't respond—and Brand thought he'd pushed too fast. Tense, he waited for her to leap off his lap and flee.

Then she moved, and his heart seized. Her legs splayed across his lap, offering him access to delights he'd dreamed of in the darkness of his desert cell, only to waken and find them nothing but a cruel mirage. Leaving him feeling sullied, beset by the fear that his love for Clea had been defiled by bringing her memory into his violent world.

But this…touching her…was like the first time, that first night, all those years ago.

Except now she was his wife—and this time he knew exactly how to pleasure her. Even though there was more uncertainty and fear than there'd ever been in those heady, halcyon days when he'd first courted Clea.

It was different now. No fairy-tale romance. No headlong falling in love.

This was raw…

And very, very real.

Her mouth slanted over his and her tongue swept in.
At last.
She'd done it—she'd made the move he'd been waiting for. Brand suppressed a male roar of approval. Instead he rewarded her with little sucking nips. She squirmed against him.

Brand stroked more deeply, his fingers testing the slick channel between her parted legs, even as her breath caught.

“Let go, let it happen,” he murmured.

“Aah.”

The gasp that broke from her roused an emotion in Brand that he thought he'd lost forever. He swallowed against the thick, painful lump in his throat and stroked again, his fingers gentle. Her body leaped, superbly responsive to his touch.

The control he'd fought so hard to leash was finally stripped.
She was his.
Brand drove two fingers into her. Clea gasped, her head fell back and the shudders started.

C
lea could barely bring herself to look at Brand during the ride to Madison Avenue on Saturday morning. Much good her human shield had done…at Brand's first touch, she'd surrendered.

Totally.

Even looking out the window, she was tautly, intensely aware of the man beside her. Brand had been perusing the papers when she'd come downstairs this morning, desperately hoping he might already have left. No such luck.

When she'd entered the breakfast room, he'd tossed his reading aside, speared her with a look and offered a terse greeting—which had done nothing to soothe her already ragged nerves.

Brand looked as cool as ice.

She started to ache. What had happened between them last night hadn't been about love…it had been about sex.

During the drive he'd said little, which had only added to the antsy feeling stringing her out. So when Smythe held the back door of the Lincoln open for her to alight, Clea bulleted out onto the sidewalk and into the small, exclusive menswear outfitters.

What must Brand think of her?

Clea stopped in front of a rack of suits and shuddered at the blazing flashes of memory from last night that she'd just as soon forget.

Staring blindly at the selection of finely tailored garments, she could only agonize over how her very worst fear had materialized. Even with all the unresolved issues between herself and Brand, the uncertainty, the lack of trust…it had taken only one touch, and she'd fallen into his arms. Worse than that, she couldn't blame Brand for what had happened—she hadn't even tried to resist after he'd kissed her.

As soon as she'd come to her senses, she'd made a hasty, lame excuse of being tired, even though she'd been aware that he must be on fire. But her guilt had been outgunned by her need to escape. Thankfully, Brand had taken her excuse at face value…and Clea made a run for the guest bedroom.

She still wasn't sure whether she'd bolted the door to lock Brand out—or to keep herself in. But his footfalls hadn't even paused outside on his way to bed, while she'd lain awake for hours reliving the entire episode over and over in her mind.

How she'd all but attacked him, climbing astride him, kissing him…demanding—

“Can I help you?”

The question caused her to swing around. Heat suffusing her cheeks, Clea blinked at the dapper man standing
in front of her, a discreet name tag proclaimed him to be Alberto.

“Uh…”

Brand moved soundlessly to flank Alberto. “Is Emilio in today?”

“Emilio retired and sold the business to me two years ago. I'm his cousin—the store has stayed in the family.”

Brand's face wore a strange expression. “Once again life has moved on. I need clothes. Let's start with two suits,” he continued, without missing a beat. “I'll need shirts and sportswear, too.”

The salesman's eyes lit up at the prospect. “I'll take you to the fitting rooms, then I'll bring the garments.”

While Alberto quickly measured Brand's leg length and waist size, Clea studied the fitting room. A large mirror took up one wall. The carpet, in an oatmeal shade that matched the tint of the walls, should've given the area a spacious feel. Yet as soon as Alberto shut the fitting-room door behind him, Clea became aware of the suffocating proximity.

Brand reached to grab the back of his white T-shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth movement, leaving his upper body naked. Clea stared. His biceps bulged and his chest was broad—the pectoral muscles more defined than she remembered—sloping down to a trim, lean waist. His skin gleamed like polished oak.

Then his hand reached for the zipper of his jeans.

Clea swallowed. She hadn't considered that he'd be taking off his clothes when she'd offered to accompany him shopping.

She chickened out. “I'll go see if Alberto needs any help with color selections,” she said, wrenching the door open.

Coward.

But it was worth the relief she felt, Clea decided, as her hot discomfort subsided. If she carried on like this, Brand was going to know how much he affected her—and she couldn't afford that. Not when he no longer loved her.

But he still wants you,
taunted a wicked little voice.
Remember last night?

No. She would not think about last night.

Clea marched across the shop to where she could see Alberto adding a garment to the stack draped over his left arm. Her phone beeped, and she extracted it from her purse. She'd missed three calls. Her father. Harry. And a book-club friend. No doubt her father wanted to invite Harry and her over. The three of them often spent Saturday afternoons or evenings together. Clea glanced toward the fitting room.

Brand had invited her to lunch.

They needed to talk. She hesitated then came to a decision. She switched her phone off then slid it back into her purse. She'd call back. Later.

Looking up, she saw Alberto had already selected three suits and an armful of business shirts. “Italian styling—rather than French—for your man,” he told Clea. “More powerful. Less refined.”

Clea smiled in acknowledgment, and Alberto headed for the fitting room.

It was easy to see why Brand came to this establishment. Alberto was efficient and competent, as Emilio must have been. No doubt Brand had known he would be in and out of here in the shortest time possible.

So why had Brand suggested that she come with him? Clearly he didn't need her help. Scanning the shelves of immaculately arranged shirts, Clea's gaze landed on a display of ties and belts. To give herself time, she headed over to inspect them. Had the invitation been an elaborate
cover-up to persuade her to have lunch with him, when she'd turned down his dinner invite? Had this been the easiest way to get what he wanted?

If he'd only asked her to dinner, he would've gotten what he wanted. She wouldn't have refused.

But the way Brand's mind worked had always been a mystery to her. So controlled…so contained…so secretive.

Drawing a deep breath as she mulled over his motives, Clea selected two belts she thought Brand might like, then returned to the fitting room. Hovering in the doorway, she saw that Brand had already donned a pair of suit pants and a white shirt, which he was busy tucking in while Alberto pinned the trouser cuffs. Clea gave a silent sigh of relief. Clothed, he posed far less of a threat to her peace of mind—yet he was still every inch the powerful, irresistible male. And, with Alberto there, too, the oppressive intimacy in the fitting room had dissipated.

The tightness in her chest began to ease.

“The fit of these trousers is good.” Brand placed his hands on his hips and turned to face her. There was nothing in his expression to show that he had any idea why she'd rushed out.

Clea followed his lead. “I thought you might need a belt.”

“Thanks.” Brand reached out and took the slightly narrower of the two. His fingers brushed her hand, and Clea struggled to keep her breathing even.
This was how the trouble had started last night…with a touch.

The bell sounded from the front of the shop, and Alberto excused himself. Instantly, the thick tension was back in full force. Brand continued to thread the belt through the loops in his trousers, apparently unaffected. Yet Clea couldn't help noticing how the fit of his pants showed off his lean waist…

Help!
“Perhaps a slightly narrower belt?” Her voice sounded strangled. “I'll go look for one.”

“That's not necessary. This one's fine.” Brand pulled the leather through the buckle with a snap. Reaching for the suit jacket, he shrugged it on carelessly then flexed his shoulders, causing the fabric to grow taunt.

Clea's breath snagged in her throat as he turned to face her. The dark gray of the suit provided a foil for his startling aqua eyes. For an instant she felt as though he could see right into her soul…read her every secret.

It disturbed her.

Forcing herself to ignore the wretched image, she said brightly, “You look like a million dollars. It's perfect.” Her eye landed on the collar. “Oh, just one sec.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Maybe not a million dollars?”

Act unconcerned.
Crossing over to stand behind him, she reached for his shirt collar. Brand had gone as still as a statue. Clea's heart started to pound again. Perhaps this hadn't been her best idea; she should've stayed in the relatively safe zone of the doorway. Her fingers had turned to thumbs, and she fiddled to straighten the recalcitrant collar.

“There.” Her voice was husky. “Definitely a million dollars. Look at yourself.” Turning her head when she got no response, she discovered Brand watching her in the mirror. A frisson of shock stabbed her as their eyes tangled.

“A million dollars,” he repeated, holding her gaze.

Desire, hot and molten, chased panic through her veins.
Run
. But it was too late to obey the fight-or-flight impulse. Brand spun around, a blur of movement too fast for her eye to follow. This time their eyes clashed without the false
reflection of the mirror…and this time Brand was right in front of her. Clea's lips parted.

Brand made a sound that was half groan, half laugh. “You do realize that if I kiss you now, I'll never stop.”

“You'll have to stop. You still have to try on the other two suits.” Beneath the prosaic statement, Clea's voice was hoarse with hunger.

“One kiss.”

It had taken only one touch to land her in hell last night.

A door banged shut. Someone—Alberto?—called out a greeting. Clea jumped back, quickly retreating to the doorway. “Brand. Not here—not now.”

Not anywhere. Not anytime.
But Clea knew it was already far too late for that. She was trembling as she grasped the frame of the doorway and Brand's breathing sounded loud in the private space. They were both far past the point of no return. And she knew what was happening between them was as inevitable as the sunrise in the morning.

Nothing could protect her.

Except him.

After a long shuddering moment, Brand said, “Okay, not now…but later.”

With a safe distance of five feet between them, Clea watched him warily through her lashes. “But first we talk.”

“You drive a hard bargain, woman.” Brand gave her an indecipherable look. “I'll hold you to it.”

As shivers shook her, Clea silently hoped she hadn't let herself in for more than she could handle.

 

It had taken Brand a little over an hour to replenish his wardrobe, much to Clea's obvious consternation.

After picking out three suits and a week's worth of business shirts, Brand arranged for the suits to be delivered
to the house once the tailoring had been completed. Then he'd allowed Clea to drag him to the new Cesare Attolini store, before finishing off at Ralph Lauren, where, in less than fifteen minutes, he'd rounded up three pairs of denims and a half-dozen T-shirts and Polo shirts along with a pair of sneakers. He donned a pair of jeans and a shirt then paid for the rest, without bothering to try them on. Before Clea could object, he'd told her that what didn't fit could easily be exchanged, leaving Clea shaking her head and muttering about men being from Mars.

But Brand had had enough of shopping, of crowds, of being unable to catch more than a quick glimpse of blue sky as they exited one store and entered the next. The buildings were closing in on him. He needed space. A walk through the green oasis of Central Park to the Loeb Boathouse Restaurant provided the perfect antidote to the restlessness consuming him.

They were escorted to a table at the lake's edge. Once they were seated, the tranquil water beside them, Brand scrutinized Clea from behind the menu. He took in the small frown of concentration crinkling her brow—and the way the leaf-green top she wore accentuated her eyes.

Brand had deliberately chosen the Boathouse Restaurant for lunch. One of their old haunts, he intended to reawaken memories of the good times they'd shared, though it would be important to keep a cool head during the discussion to come. He was fighting for everything that mattered most.

After all, Clea was still his wife.

And he wasn't about to allow that to change. Whatever Hall-Lewis planned.

When the waiter returned for their order, Brand shut his menu with a snap—he hadn't needed to peruse the menu to know precisely what he wanted: the familiar comfort of a burger with a cold Coca-Cola. It had been too long
since he'd enjoyed such mundane Western pleasures. And it took Clea only a few seconds extra to decide on wild mushroom ravioli and a green salad.

“When I was young I used to imagine celebrating my wedding day here beside the lake,” Clea said dreamily after the waiter departed.

The information came out of the blue, and Brand's interest sharpened. “I always knew you enjoyed coming here—but you never told me that before.”

“It's so romantic—see how the water reflects the trees. The rowboats. The swans. The gondolier.” A skimming gesture of Clea's arm encompassed the scene. “Even the city skyline in the distance beyond the trees reminds you that it's a secret world in the middle of New York City.”

Brand followed the arc of her arm, his gaze skimming over the glass-smooth surface of the water to where the lone gondolier punted near a bridge.

The waiter came back and poured sparkling mineral water into a tulip glass for Clea before setting a tall, frosted glass of cola in front of Brand. After the waiter had hurried off, Clea's voice grew softer. “And I never said anything to you because I never wanted you worrying that I'd missed out by getting married in Vegas.”

But she
had
missed out. Clea had deserved the romantic white wedding of her girlhood fantasies. Hell, she'd even been a virgin. Brand's body tightened as he remembered the disbelief—and devotion—that had overwhelmed him when he'd made that surprise discovery on their wedding night—as unexpected as discovering a mythical unicorn in a modern world.