The Billionaire's Bride of Innocence

Of course, Megan was an extremely soft, shy, vulnerable girl. That was why he’d chosen her.

Because she was nothing like Jackie.

James’s heart twisted when he thought of his first wife. Why was it that men often fell for the wrong woman?

Jackie had captivated him from the start, his mad passion for her beautiful body blinding him to her materialistic motives in marrying him. The ugly truth had been outed when she’d been unable to conceive and James had suggested IVF, or adoption. When she’d rejected both of his suggestions out of hand, James began to suspect that Jackie didn’t want children at all. During the course of their subsequent argument, she admitted that she’d known all along that she was infertile, that she could never give him the family he so desired.

That she hadn’t really loved him had also become obvious to James. He’d just been a ticket to the good life, an insurance policy for the future when her modelling life came to an end.

What she’d done had been wicked, and cruel, and totally selfish.

Hugh and Russell believed he was still in love with Jackie.

But he wasn’t. She’d killed his love for her. Unfortunately, it seemed she’d also killed his ability to fall in love again. As much as he wanted to be in love with Megan, James knew he wasn’t. He liked her very much, though, and he liked making love to her.

Or he had.

Of course, sex with Megan wasn’t as exciting as it had been with Jackie. How could it be? Jackie had been an experienced woman-of-the-world with lots of tricks to turn a guy on. Megan had been a virgin when James had met her, shy and somewhat inhibited. Total nudity still embarrassed her, so their sex life so far—when they’d had one!—had been pretty conservative, with James always the initiator.

Not that she wasn’t a passionate girl, she was. Right from the start James had received surprising satisfaction in Megan’s obvious pleasure in his lovemaking.

In hindsight, he wasn’t at all sure about Jackie. Faking it would have been part of her modus operandi.

Nothing fake about Megan, or her love for him. James knew that.

Occasionally, he did experience some momentary guilt that he didn’t love her back; usually when Hugh and Russell made some uncomplimentary remark on the subject. Or sometimes, when he told her that he loved her. But whenever that happened, logic soon came to the rescue. Megan didn’t know he didn’t love her and James firmly believed he could make her happy.

If she’d only let him…

Frustration on several levels sent him striding back into the bedroom, where he slipped into his suit jacket, then collected his wallet and mobile phone from the bedside table. With one last glower at the messy bed, he headed downstairs, where the enticing smell of freshly brewed coffee indicated that his breakfast was almost ready.

‘Good morning, Mr Logan,’ Roberta said cheerily when he walked into the kitchen. ‘Your breakfast won’t be long.’

As housekeepers went, Roberta was a gem. James had hired her shortly after he’d bought this place from Russell late last year, knowing that the huge Bellevue Hill mansion was way too large for Megan to look after by herself. Though in her mid-fifties, Roberta was still slim and very fit, and a simply wonderful cook. Her handyman husband coming with the deal was a bonus. Running Images left James with little time for gardening, or cleaning the pool.

Even so, James had every intention of semi-retiring once his first child was born. When he’d come to the decision a few years back to embrace fatherhood rather than run away from it, James had resolved to give being a parent one hundred and ten per cent effort.

His own father’s pathetic example had shown him what not to do. James didn’t want any son—or daughter—of his to feel what he’d felt when he’d been growing up. No way!

‘Could you hold breakfast for a while this morning, Roberta? I’m going to pop down to the pool house for a few minutes.’

Roberta shook her head sadly. ‘Mrs Logan spent the night painting again, did she?’

James hesitated. Since his ego-bruising break-up with Jackie, James had become a bit paranoid about keeping his private life…private. But it was difficult to keep secrets around Roberta. She was a canny woman—though, thankfully, a kind one.

‘Afraid so,’ he admitted.

‘Poor love. I’ve tried talking to her, you know. Told her that lots of miscarriages are nature’s way when something isn’t quite right.’

‘And?’

Roberta shrugged. ‘She said she already knew that.’

James nodded. Yes. The doctor would have explained that to her, since he’d told him the same thing, reassuring James that there was no reason why his wife’s next pregnancy wouldn’t be fine.

‘I’ve decided to take Megan away on a second honeymoon,’ James informed Roberta. ‘Get her right away from here, and that infernal studio.’

‘That’s a very good idea. She can’t keep going on the way she is. She’s living on her nerves. And she eats like a bird. I can’t remember the last day she had a proper breakfast. Or lunch, for that matter.’

James frowned. He’d noticed her picking at her meal at night, but hadn’t realised she wasn’t eating much during the day, either.

‘Why don’t you make up a breakfast tray for two, Roberta, and I’ll take it down with me? That way I can sit with her and make sure she eats something.’

‘That’s another good idea. It shouldn’t take me too long.’

‘I’ll get myself a cup of that great coffee of yours while I wait.’

Ten minutes later, James arrived at the pool house with a well-stocked breakfast tray in his hands. The door was closed, James knocking with the toe of his shoe.

‘It’s me, Megan,’ he called out at the same time. ‘Can you open the door for me? My hands are full.’

The door eventually opened, with a sleepy-eyed Megan half hiding behind it.

‘What time is it?’ she asked.

‘Breakfast time,’ he answered, and walked in with the tray, putting it down on the small round table which sat to the right of the door. When he pulled out a chair for her, Megan ignored it. Instead, she hurried over to the easel, where she threw a dust sheet over the canvas, then sat down on her stool and started cleaning her brushes.

‘How’s the painting coming along?’ he said, suppressing his irritation with difficulty.

‘Fine,’ Megan said without looking up.

‘Am I going to be allowed to see it one day?’

‘Not till it’s finished,’ she said, still not looking his way.

Megan had confessed to him early on in their relationship that she had a dream of becoming a famous artist, an ambition which James never believed would come to fruition, mainly because he didn’t think she had enough talent. Megan was a good painter; she hadn’t spent several years at art school for nothing. But her paintings simply didn’t have that special something which made them stand out from the crowd.

They’d met last year at an art gallery, in front of the one and only painting of Megan’s ever to be exhibited. It hadn’t been to his taste—he’d never liked still-life pictures—but he’d bought it anyway at the end of the evening, knowing by then that he’d found the ideal girl to marry. Attractive enough and suitably young, with a sweetly innocent way about her which always appealed to cynical men-of-the-world. That she also came from a well-off family hadn’t hurt, either, James not wanting to risk marrying a golddigger again.

He’d encouraged her to keep on painting after their marriage, thinking it would be good for her to have an involving hobby. He’d certainly encouraged her to keep on painting after her miscarriage, even putting up with her suddenly developing the kind of artistic temperament which didn’t allow anyone to see what she was working on whilst the work was in progress.

But there was a limit to his patience, and he was fast reaching the end of it!

‘Roberta tells me you haven’t been eating breakfast,’ he said somewhat sharply.

Now she glanced over at him, her eyes startled, perhaps by his harsh tone. Megan’s big brown eyes were very expressive.

‘I…I haven’t been very hungry lately,’ she said, and turned her attention back to her brushes.