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spitting fire when he sought Megan out. He had phoned her friend on the spur of the moment, not really knowing whether she was back from France. Jake had answered. And when Luigi stated his business he had gone into a long tribute to Megan. So much so that Luigi had begun to gain the impression that more had gone on between them than Megan had ever admitted. He’d felt an indescribable jealousy. The very thought of another man touching his wife was sickeningly abhorrent and he’d been prepared to shake the truth out of Megan.

      And now when he thought back on their conversation he realised that he hadn’t won at all. Megan was tougher than he’d realised and she had fought back with admirable qualities. He still didn’t know whether she’d actually slept with Jake and the thought drove him crazy.

      So much so that he couldn’t sleep. In the end he dragged on a tartan dressing gown over his boxer shorts, went downstairs to his den and sat at his computer. There was work that needed to be done but, dammit, he couldn’t do that either. He kept seeing images of a fired-up Megan as she stood before him.

      How he had fought the urge to pull her hard against him he didn’t know. He’d wanted to forget everything Jake had told him and make love to her. With her hair tousled and her face flushed, and nothing on beneath her cotton nightdress, his virulent male hormones had sprung into life. He loved Megan so much that it tore him apart when she rejected him. Was he really as bad as she painted?

      It was true that no one ever saw themselves as other people did, but a tyrant? Always taking, never giving? He wasn’t like that. The presents he’d bought both her and Charlotte should have proved it. And she had this huge house to live in, no more worries about rent. He was prepared to give her anything she wanted. He’d even cut down on his working hours; hadn’t she noticed that?

      The more he thought about it the more confused he became. He picked up the whisky bottle and poured himself a generous measure, tossing it down his throat in one swallow before refilling it. This time he set it on the desk in front of him, fingering the cut-glass, twisting it absently round and round. But the more he thought about the situation the more he failed to understand it and fury rose once more inside him. He gulped down the rest of the whisky and in a fit of rage threw the glass at the fireplace, shattering it into a thousand tiny pieces.

      The next moment his door was pushed open and there stood Megan, pale-faced and questioning, still in her nightdress and dressing gown. With nothing on underneath! This was the first thought that registered. The second was, what was she doing here? Why wasn’t she in bed? And his third, perhaps she’d had a change of heart, realised that she’d been too hard on him, and had come to make amends.

      His entire body throbbed in anticipation.

      Megan looked from him to the fragments of glass in the hearth and then back again, a faint frown dragging her brows together. ‘So you’re still angry about Jake?’

      Damn! She wasn’t supposed to have said that. He felt his sudden hope draining away. ‘What are you doing here?’ he enquired gruffly.

      ‘I was on my way to the kitchen to heat some milk.’

      ‘Your conscience troubling you?’ he sneered. He couldn’t help himself. His optimism had been so miserably dashed.

      ‘Not as much as yours, obviously,’ she riposted, backing away from the doorway, ready to carry on her journey.

      ‘Wait!’ he said, though he didn’t know why. He wanted her company and yet he knew it would be volatile. But better that than nothing.

      She looked boldly and questioningly in his direction. ‘For what? More of what you’ve just put me through? No, thank you.’ And this time she walked away.

      But Luigi wasn’t prepared to let her go. He couldn’t get through this night without her. ‘Megan, please.’

      She faltered and stopped.

      ‘Come and talk to me.’

      ‘Why should I?’

      ‘It’s silly us both being wide awake. We may as well keep each other company.’

      ‘Not if you’re going to pick another fight.’ She half turned towards him but still looked prepared to flee.

      He held up his hands. ‘Truce.’

      ‘How can I believe you? You already have me hung, drawn and quartered. Why should I escape more misery?’

      ‘Because I don’t feel like my own company at this moment.’ He was exposing his feelings in a way he never had before. He always liked to give the image that he was in complete control—which he usually was. It was only Megan who managed to instil doubt into him—doubt and despair.

      ‘You mean you might throw a few more glasses? Is it an image of me that you’re throwing them at or disgust with yourself?’

      He winced, but refused to give her the pleasure of seeing how accurate her second guess was. ‘Perhaps it’s a bad idea. I wasn’t intending it to be a re-run of what happened upstairs. I simply thought we might both enjoy some company. But if it’s too much for you…’ He saw her hesitate, the doubt in her eyes, then the reluctant decision that he might be right.

      ‘Very well,’ she answered quietly, ‘but I’d still like some hot milk. How about you?’

      On top of whisky! But if it helped keep her at his side…‘I’d like that, shall I—?’

      ‘Come and help? No thanks! I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

      He watched her walk along the corridor, her behind swaying seductively with each step that she took. She walked like a model, every inch of her alerting his senses to such a degree that he began to question the perverseness that had made him invite her into his sanctum. He wouldn’t be able to touch her, he knew that, there was a mile-wide gap between them that would be difficult, if not impossible, to bridge. Not in a few minutes, or even hours. Days, weeks maybe, but he wasn’t that patient.

      To him it was simple. They resumed marital relations and the rest would follow. It was Megan who was making progress difficult, finding problems when there were none. He would never understand her.

      In the five minutes it took her to heat milk and make their drinks he’d decided that they needed to have a real heart to heart. It was the only way they would be able to solve their problems. And probably now, in the middle of the night, was the very best time. No Charlotte to interrupt, no phone calls, nothing except the two of them—together.

      Hunger for her crept through every one of his strong male veins. How he was going to sit there, knowing that she was as naked as the day she was born beneath her enchanting white nightie, laced from waist to throat with a Christmas-red ribbon, and do nothing about it he didn’t know. It would be the worst form of torture.

      She returned with their drinks on a tray, together with a plate of home-made biscuits which he knew would choke him if he attempted to eat one. What he wanted to do was suck one of Megan’s nipples into his mouth. She always tasted so beautiful and reacted so wantonly. He wanted to suck and bite and tease until she was putty in his hands. He wanted to feel her softly scented body close to him, he wanted to mould her with his palms, feel every curve and contour; he wanted to touch her most intimate places, feel her moistness, make her as ready for him as he was for her.

      But he knew he couldn’t.

      She was out of bounds.

      For the moment!

      But soon…

      Megan nibbled on a biscuit, sitting in the armchair opposite him where he couldn’t possibly touch her, but he could look…It was warm in the room. He had stoked up the fire and it burned brightly in the grate. Her purple dressing gown was undone, the ribbon on her nightdress beckoning his fingers to untie the bow and unlace it. Lord, he wanted to look at her—she was his wife, after all. Instead she was covered up as primly as a nun.

      He picked up his mug of malted milk and cradled it in his palms. It was absolutely no compensation for her temptingly full breasts. He felt

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