When Enemies Marry

When Enemies Marry
Lindsay Armstrong

In bed with her enemy! Justin Waite made it plain that Lucy could lose everything if she didn't marry him - so she agreed to tie the knot. Justin had claimed he only wanted a marriage of convenience, but soon it became clear he actually wanted a wife - in the fullest sense of the word!Justin was supposed to be Lucy's enemy, so why was she tantalized by the thought of sleeping with her own husband?

“I really don’t know what I have to do to make you approve of me, Justin.” (#udca14b1c-d69d-561c-a198-7e5e7c404c89)About the Author (#u11585c65-6116-5c23-8195-c063c3e8db9a)Title Page (#u0d8f31cc-9629-55d1-8523-b4fc2a8d7367)CHAPTER ONE (#udc6398d7-b172-5fe2-b711-05a123fff755)CHAPTER TWO (#u542ffa84-9ede-53a4-86a8-5ee456edcc39)CHAPTER THREE (#u5a4af514-09be-599c-8b8c-414c36122cbf)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“I really don’t know what I have to do to make you approve of me, Justin.”

Justin moved so his face was in the shadows and Lucy couldn’t read his expression. “Just the one thing you won’t do.”

For the life of her, Lucy couldn’t stern the images that flooded her mind, of lying in his arms and being made love to. “But then I might not approve of myself....”

LINDSAY ARMSTRONG was born in South Africa but now lives in Australia with her New Zealand-born husband and their five children. They have lived in nearly every state of Australia and tried their hand at some unusual—for them—occupations, such as farming and horse training, all grist to the mill for a writer! Lindsay started writing romances when their youngest child began school and she was left feeling at loose ends. She is still doing it and loving it.

When Enemies Marry

Lindsay Armstrong

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE

‘JUSTIN, this is unbelievable; there’s a photographer—oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you were with someone.’

Lucinda Waite paused on the threshold of her husband’s study, then swept in, continuing, ‘But it’s only you, Sasha—well, you and someone else. How do you do?’ she added politely to the third party in the study. ‘I’m Justin’s wife Lucinda, but most people call me Lucy. Who are you?’ she enquired, extending her hand graciously.

‘Robert Lang,’ the third party murmured, rising hastily and taking the extended hand. ‘How do you do, Mrs Waite?’ He was about twenty-three and looked both embarrassed and slightly dazed.

‘Not very well, thank you, Mr Lang,’ Lucy Waite replied with a grimace. ‘My privacy is being invaded—and I can’t help feeling you might be responsible for it all.’

Robert Lang blinked beneath a clear blue gaze and made a mental note that registered some surprise. They were the colour of deep blue velvety pansies, her eyes, and her skin had the texture of cream rosebuds while her hair, caught back carelessly, was the colour of ripe wheat. Now, now, he cautioned himself, letting his gaze drift over the rest of Lucinda Waite, it can’t be all perfection. Short legs possibly, out of proportion with the rest of her, or hippy and pear-shaped, thick legs—no, his eyes widened, talk about legs, they were sensational...

‘You’re staring, Mr Lang,’ Sasha Pearson said all but inaudibly and not quite kindly She was an elegant redhead in her early thirties but whether she was family hadn’t been made clear.

But Robert Lang, despite his youth, was not without charm and ingenuity. ‘I sure am,’ he conceded boyishly. ‘In point of fact, I’m quite bowled over. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as lovely as you, Mrs Waite—er—if you’ll forgive me for saying so, sir!’ He turned deferentially to Justin Waite still sitting behind his desk, not altogether in a further demonstration of his charm but because, to his mind, Justin Waite was not the kind of man one gave offence to and possibly least of all in the matter of his stunningly beautiful, flawless, twenty-year-old-if -she-were-a-day wife.

‘You’re forgiven, Mr Lang,’ Justin Waite said. ‘My wife has been having that effect on people since she was in her cradle.’ He moved in his chair and stood up, revealing most of the over six foot, lean, muscled length of him that, coupled with rather hard grey eyes and a look of worldliness and experience, had kindled Robert Lang’s wariness in the first place. ‘My wife has also,’ he went on coolly, ‘been leading people up the garden path for almost as long.’

Lang’s eyes widened and jerked to Lucinda. But, far from any expression of outrage, she merely smiled faintly, and murmured, ‘What have I done now, Justin?’

‘Invaded your own privacy, my dear, from what I can gather. Did you or did you not write to a certain publication and invite them up here to do a story on the place, and on you?’

‘Yes, I did—so that’s who you are!’ Lucy said to Lang with a glorious smile. ‘But you didn’t let me know you were coming. I thought you must be one of those maverick journalists who turn up from time to time and make my life a misery.’

‘Lucy, that happened once and has never been repeated,’ Justin Waite said in the kind of voice that caused Robert Lang some trepidation, although it didn’t seen to have any effect on his wife.

‘And the reason you didn’t know he was coming, Lucy,’ Sasha Pearson—where did she fit in? Robert wondered—rose and picked up a letter from the desk, ‘is because while Justin and I were away you didn’t bother to open any mail although you assured me you would.’

‘That’s right,’ Robert Lang said eagerly. ‘I did write and suggest today if it would suit you.’

‘Oh, dear,’ Lucy Waite said regretfully. ‘You really should have waited for a reply, Mr Lang, but now I know who you are, we might as well go ahead. I’ve got nothing else on. By the way, you are indispensable, Sasha, aren’t you? Forgive me for ever doubting it! I’ll just go and get changed.’

‘You’ll do no such thing, Lucy.’

‘Justin.’ Lucy protested. ‘Why not?’

Blue eyes stared into hard grey ones and, despite only mild protest registering in Lucy Waite’s expression, the atmosphere was suddenly electric and Robert Lang found himself, to his amazement, wondering what went on behind locked doors between Justin Waite and his wife. Did he beat her or did he throw her down on the bed and make punishing love to her...

‘Because I say so, Lucy,’ Justin Waite said with sudden detachment as he looked away from his wife thereby seeming to cut the electric current between them. ‘Go back to your horses, my dear, and I will apologise for this misunderstanding.’

Lucy Waite shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Justin,’ she murmured. ‘Do forgive me, Mr Lang,’ she added. ‘I haven’t been married very long, you see, so I’m not altogether familiar with the rules, I guess, but I—’

‘Lucy—’

‘Just going, Justin. Bye!’ She strolled out with a wave.

‘I gather,’ Justin Waite said across the dinner table, to his wife, ‘that today’s events were more shots in the war you promised me the day you married me, Lucy.’

Lucy Waite smoothed down the skirt of the clinging, long-sleeved black dress with a heart-shaped neckline that she’d changed into for dinner and picked up her soup spoon. She’d also tucked a creamy gardenia into the hair that was lying loose and rippling on her shoulders. ‘You gather right, Justin.’

“It wasn’t much of a shot.”

Lucy sipped her soup then grinned. ‘As a matter of fact I thought it quite got you off the bit for a moment, Justin.’ She changed her expression to one of severity and mimicked, “My wife has been leading people up the garden path from the cradle.” But yes, it would have been better if it had come off,’ she conceded. ‘You do so hate publicity, don’t you, Justin?’

‘I can’t believe you really enjoy it,’ he commented drily.

Lucy wrinkled her nose. ‘It was only a rural paper. I thought it was rather tasteful to choose a rural paper instead of a national daily. And all I’d planned to do was show them the house and some of...our treasures, and all your improvements to the property. It would have been quite a scoop for that young man, don’t you think? Something about the Waites in a newspaper, even just a rural one. You’ve probably blighted his career, Justin, and he was rather sweet, really.’

‘I haven’t blighted his career at all, but he does understand now that my wife is off limits so you might as well forget him, Lucy. And any other young man who takes your fancy.’

Lucy laughed and pushed away her soup. ‘You perceive me quaking in my shoes, Justin,’ she murmured. ‘Still, all may not be lost,’ she mused. ‘There’s got to be at least one person out there now who’s thinking that the Waites of Dalkeith and Riverbend have a very strange marriage.’

‘On the contrary, there could be at least one person out there who is actually thinking that Lucinda Waite is a spoilt brat and deserves a good lesson.’

‘From my experience of young men, Justin, they don’t generally have those thoughts about me. It’s only your generation—at least, you’re the only one of your generation I have to go on, and I have to tell you that if you mean what I think you mean—’

‘That you deserve to be put over someone’s knee and ceremonially spanked?’ he broke in lazily.

‘How picturesque.’ For the first time a little glint of anger lit Lucy’s eyes. ‘I have to tell you I should probably get so angry I’d even be capable of taking a pot-shot at you. Don’t forget I’m an excellent shot and I would know exactly how to inconvenience you considerably without doing a lot of harm—and make it all look like an accident anyway.’

‘That wasn’t what I had in mind, Lucy,’ he drawled, and reached for the decanter to pour himself some wine.

‘How brave you are,’ she retorted.

‘What I had in mind—were I so minded,’ he continued, holding his wine glass up to the light meditatively, ‘was a lesson of another kind. Such as—’ he put the glass down gently and their eyes locked ‘—removing your dress from your delectable body, uncovering your breasts and the rest of you and making love to you until you’re—shall we say, in a much more amenable frame of mind? I have this theory on women,’ he went on, idly inspecting the pulse that had started to beat rather erratically at the base of Lucy’s throat. That without regular, satisfying sex they become fractious and troublesome, and in your case in particular, dear Lucy, that what you really need is a couple of kids to keep you out of mischief.’

It took Lucy several moments to gather enough composure to be able to speak, moments that were made worse for her because her tall, satanic husband did not relax his leisurely scrutiny of her in the slightest and then had the gall to pour her a glass of wine and push it towards her with a faintly amused twist of his lips.

In the end, as she sipped the golden liquid, it was he who spoke first. ‘You don’t agree?’