Be My Bride: The Right Mr Wrong / A Most Suitable Wife / Betrothed for the Baby

She cried out—pleasure bursting in brief phrases and then moans as words could no longer be formed. He watched the deepening flush and glow of her skin, the red, tight nipples, even redder plump lips and the wild, big eyes.

This was the Victoria he’d wanted—the one he’d caught a glimpse of all those years ago. The lusty, pleasure-bent, hungry woman who’d take what she wanted. Not aiming to please him—but taking pleasure, enjoying herself. Able to give so much—yes. But also able to receive. The woman made for loving.

It satisfied him immensely that she was open, receiving pleasure from him. He arched, his spine stiffening as he realised how much he wanted to give her. Passion rushed in his ears as a piercing cry broke from her. He saw it as she shuddered, bearing down on him as the convulsions racked through her body. And he felt it as she collapsed forward, lax in his arms, blanketing him with her soft warmth.

He wrapped both arms around her, gripping her shoulders hard, his forearms pressing down on her back so she was squashed even tighter against him as he finally allowed himself to come.

He found he liked the tiny bed after all. The only way for them to fit on it was if they were locked together, either side-by-side or with one on top of the other.

Mid-morning he fell asleep like that. Still inside her.

SEVEN (#ulink_736b3b89-106d-5b2e-ad56-7933440ced1d)

Sweat had smudged the ink—the words she’d drawn on him, mingled in a mess of blue on both their skins. Liam stood in the shower behind Victoria who had her eyes closed as she rinsed frothy shampoo from her hair. While she did, he scrubbed at the ink with the palm of his hand. He could still see the anchor on his hip.

Stupid to be so bugged by such a common, naval theme. A million guys out there had tattoos just like it. There was no underlying meaning in that symbol. Yet, impossibly, he felt bound—just by the play of last night.

He didn’t want to be weighed down. He didn’t want permanent ties. Nothing anchoring him—not any one place. Not any one person.

Suddenly a flannel-filled hand pushed his out of the way and tried to scour away the image.

‘It’s fine.’ He grabbed her wrist, uncomfortable that she’d noticed his attempt to wash it away.

‘It clearly bothers you.’

He automatically released her on hearing that cold edge to her voice. He made himself meet her eyes. ‘We want different things.’

‘Not so different.’ An almost-smile twisted her lips. ‘Your career is everything to you. So mine is to me. But they’re not compatible. We’re not compatible.’

Except physically. They were so compatible there. But that wasn’t enough. ‘I’ve stayed too long already.’

One night was all he’d offered her. All he could offer her. Yet here it was, late in the day already. He’d not been able to drag himself from her bed and body. The second night was already approaching.

‘Yes.’

He hated that she agreed with him. Stupid to feel rejected all over again, as he had those years ago. Even though this was what they’d agreed—what he’d insisted on. ‘We can’t do more than this,’ he repeated.

‘No.’ She glanced at the ink mark again. ‘Some turps might help with that. Or nail-polish remover.’

‘It’s fine. It’ll wear off.’ Just as this gnawing ache to be near her would wear off.

This was the right decision. They did want different things, in different places. But he didn’t like that remote look on her face. He drew her close under the streaming water and kissed her until she relaxed against him. Until she took him one last time.

He left the shower first, needing to recover alone, resenting the power of this pull towards her. He had to run.

Victoria wrapped a giant towel around her. She wanted him to leave. There was nothing she could do or say to make him change his mind and she didn’t want to try. A reluctant boyfriend was not what she wanted. She didn’t want a boyfriend at all. So it was fine.

When she emerged from the bathroom he was already dressed, lingering by the door, looking more uncomfortable than she’d ever seen him.

‘It’s okay, Liam,’ she lied.

He tugged at his creased jacket. ‘You know it was better than I’d ever believed it could be.’

She looked away. ‘But not enough for either of us.’ And she’d been a fool. She’d been wrong. This was more than sex. So much more. But only for her. And it wasn’t enough to change things for him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

She put on an unconcerned smile. ‘Don’t be.’

She wouldn’t embarrass them both by asking him to stay. She didn’t want to ask him for something he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—give.

She didn’t want him to feel bad, or, worse, pity her. She had more pride than that. She wasn’t a pushover any more.

She’d had what she hadn’t taken all those years ago. It was done. Finished. She’d get on with her business. She had a new priority in life. She was in control of her life. She was not going to wish or wonder ‘what if?’. What was, was. And she’d make the most of every minute.

‘It was great.’ She forced herself to sound airy. ‘But it’s all I wanted too. It’s time for you to go.’

She just held onto the smile until the door closed behind him. Only then did she release the painful, jagged breath. She looked around her apartment—suddenly it felt spacious without him in it. Anger slowly trickled into the huge gap he’d left behind. She was not changing her life for anyone else. Not trying to do anything and everything for someone else.

Never ever.

She had what she wanted—her independence. The strength to do what she wanted to do. And she wanted this. She would love this.

EIGHT (#ulink_ead3881e-0044-5c46-8d05-75d0ab4af3a4)

The early morning sun streamed in through the window, the sky as brilliant and as clear as it had been the day before and the day before that. Liam rolled and buried his head under the pillow, totally over the relentless perfection of the weather. Why couldn’t there be a storm to challenge him out in the boat? He had energy to release, adrenalin to be used. With a growl he thrust out of bed, tossing the pillow to the far corner of the big mattress. He rubbed his face; his eyes ached, his brain fogged. Yet his muscles leapt and twitched under his skin.

Never had he felt so unfulfilled. He’d sailed for hours this past week, but not even a marathon on the water soothed the inflammation scored deep into his heart. He’d scrubbed every inch of every boat in the shed. Then the shed itself. Even though it was someone else’s job, he’d needed the activity—hoped the relentless grind would wear him out enough to sleep.

It didn’t.

Nothing could exhaust him enough to stop thinking about her. And it wasn’t the permanent hard-on causing the restless agony. It was the hurt in his heart. He missed more than her body. More than what they’d shared in bed those too few hours.

The inked image had long since washed away but it was as if the nib of that pen had been poisoned. Leaving him with an uncomfortable—invisible—scar. He didn’t think it would ever ease.

Frustrated, he snapped at his crew as they trained. She had him questioning everything. What he was doing, what he wasn’t doing, what he wanted in the future. Hell, he’d never thought too far into the future. He’d always lived for the next race, the next event. Loving the achievement— the solo endurance. The success—sporting and financial. And emotional.

He’d thought he had it so together. His life was perfectly set up.

To fail.

Because less than a week with her back in his life, here he was aching for all the things he’d sworn he’d never want. And the thing that hurt most of all was that she didn’t want him. She didn’t want his lifestyle. Didn’t want anything other than what they’d shared.

Illogically—when he’d insisted the same—he wanted to know why. Why didn’t she want him? He’d never known. She’d been attracted to him from the first moment she’d seen him—just as he’d been attracted to her. But she’d refused him—more than once she’d rejected him. And now, even once they’d shared that incredible night, she still rejected him. It burned his insides as if he’d swallowed a bottle of acid. She hadn’t argued, hadn’t fought. She’d just so civilly agreed.

Liam stopped winding up the coil of rope as it dawned on him—Victoria always agreed.

She always did what she thought the other person wanted. So how was he to know for sure that this goodbye was what she’d really wanted?