A Perfect Marriage

A Perfect Marriage

Laurey Bright

"Didn't I ever say that I was proud of the way you look?"

Celine asked huskily. "That I like to watch you walk? That your smile gives me a thrill? And your hands, so strong and gentle, made me feel cared for?" She caught a quick breath. "Haven't I ever told you how much pleasure your body gave me, in bed and out of it?"

"No." Max's voice was hoarse, his jaw rigid, his cheeks dusky. His eyes met hers with somber fire.

Celine moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Perhaps," she said hesitantly, "it's too late now. I should have. I'm sorry."

She had moved Max, she could see. "I wish I had," she said softly. And, willing her fingers not to tremble, she took one of his hands in hers and laid it against her cheek. "I wish it wasn't too late."

Chapter 1

Max Archer sat absently twirling a glass of whisky on the table before him while his four male companions tossed quips among themselves and chuckled at each other's rejoinders. The New Zealand Legal Practitioners' annual conference was officially over, and all that remained was the final dinner in a couple of hours' time.

Max was tempted to give that a miss and drive home to Auckland. He wondered if Celine would be there. Was this her night class evening?
Or a bridge or badminton night?
He couldn't remember.

His idle gaze was caught by one of the younger women lawyers, seated at a nearby table. Katie something, he recalled.
Bright and keen.
Her blond mane of curls framing a heart-shaped
face ,
combined with a lusciously curved figure, would ensure that she was favourably viewed by some of those whose favour counted, and vastly underestimated by most of her opponents.

She was a treat to the eyes, anyway, and Max let his linger. Her attention seemed to be on the silver-haired veteran barrister next to her, but she looked up, meeting Max's gaze for a second, and smiled. A hand lifted to her hair, pushing it back, her eyes half closing. Then she smiled at him again and returned her attention to her elderly companion.

Max pulled his gaze away and raised the whisky glass to his lips. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wondering if the coquetry had been unconscious or deliberate. Not that he was about to find out. He was, he reminded himself, a happily married man.

"Hello, darling.
That looks nice."

At the sound of Max's voice, Celine turned from the vase she was filling as he came through the door from the garage into the utility room. The pigskin briefcase she'd given him last Christmas was tucked under his arm, one hand holding his overnight bag, the other a suit bag that he'd slung across his shoulder.

She smiled at him, pausing with a long-stemmed, salmon pink carnation in her fingers. Not for the first time, she thought what a good-looking man her husband was, with his lean, dark, male elegance. She'd once heard a courtroom opponent refer to his "glacial blue eyes," but for her they were more often warmed by affection.

She inserted the carnation into the vase and picked up a piece of ladder fern, considering where to put it. "How was the conference?"

Max came over to drop a quick kiss on her cheek. "Not bad.
A couple of useful sessions.
You didn't mind that I went straight to the office this morning?"

"No.
Of course not."
She glanced at him with mild surprise and returned to contemplating the floral arrangement. "I was out most of the morning, anyway." She slotted in the fern, and gave a couple of carnations a final twitch. "You haven't forgotten the Hardings are coming to dinner, have you?"

"I had, actually. I brought some work home, too, but maybe I can put a couple of hours in later. Are you using a new perfume?"

Celine gave a little laugh. "It's the flowers."

 
He bent closer to her and breathed in. "No, it's you
: '

She half turned, raising a hand to tuck a glossy strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. "Shampoo," she said. "I washed my hair." He was closer than she'd realised, and her eyelids automatically lowered a little as she tipped her head back.

For a second Max's eyes had a strangely unfocused look, before he stepped back. "Why don't you let it grow?" he asked her. It swung in a sleek, straight cut just below her ears, the ends curving gently.

Confused, she said, "I've had it this way for years. Don't you like it?"

"It was long when we got married."

"I was twenty-four when we got married."

"So?"

Celine shook her head, smiling. "I'd have to pin it up all the time." She turned to pick up the vase. "Are you going to stand there all day? I have to put this in the hallway."

He stood back,
then
followed her to the spacious entry hall, where she placed the flowers on a polished antique table with cabriole legs.

Late sunlight glowed through the fanlight over the front door, making a petal-like pattern on the gold Italian marble floor. The fanlight and the heavy kauri door had been rescued from a demolition site by the architect who designed the house. Celine had worked closely with him to plan a home that was a blend of new and old, aiming for comfort, functionality and style. Max thought they'd done a good job. He liked living in the house and he enjoyed entertaining his friends and professional acquaintances here.

Celine had chosen the furniture and interior decor herself. So successfully that other people had come to her for help
..
A few years ago she'd converted the third bedroom into a workroom and embarked on a course of study to improve her skills, and what had begun as a favour for friends had evolved into a part-time occupation for which she was paid, Max deduced, quite substantially. He had never inquired exactly how much she had in her personal bank ac-

  
 
count
, nor queried what she spent from either her own or their joint account.

"Will I have time to shower and change?" he asked, heading for the curved staircase.

"Plenty.
I told them six-thirty to sevenish. And you know Honoria. They're bound to be late."

Max was never late unless delayed by fire, flood or acts of God. Without commenting on Honoria Harding's notorious inability to be on time for anything, he went upstairs to the circular gallery from which the bedrooms opened, his footsteps soundless on the thick mushroom carpet.

Celine returned to the utility room to clean up discarded leaves and bits of
stem,
then went to the kitchen, making sure the braised lamb shanks were simmering nicely in the oven, and the passionfruit mousse in the refrigerator had set. She opened a bottle of Grove Mill Black Birch to go with the lamb, and left it to breathe, then checked the table settings in the dining room. Alice, her home help, had fixed the table before she left.

The sliding glass doors were open to the wide terrace outside, where an outdoor table and chairs waited invitingly under a canopy of flame-red bougainvillea sprawled over the pergola, and the tubbed frangipani, one pink and one white, gave off their sweet, exotic scent. Three broad, shallow steps led to the tiled area around the swimming pool. .

Celine glanced at the slim gold watch that had been her tenth anniversary present from Max, made a small adjustment to the table napkins, and left the room to go upstairs.

Max had unpacked his clothes and hung up the suit. The door to his wardrobe was ajar, the empty overnight bag tucked into a corner. When her friends complained that their husbands left their socks under the bed and never hung up wet towels, Celine sat silently counting her blessings. She knew used socks, shirts and underwear would be in the laundry basket where they belonged, and the only
evidence !
of
Max's presence in the bathroom would be a residue of warm steam from the shower and a lingering smell of the, rather expensive after-shave that he liked. Tidying up
after
 
himself
seemed second nature to Max, part of his personal code of good manners.

Celine opened her wardrobe and took out a champagne gold dress, one of her favourites. The classic crossover bodice and narrow skirt suited her and the style was timeless. She laid the dress on the bed, kicked off her shoes and went to get clean undies from her drawer.

Max opened the bathroom door as she dropped the undies on the bed. He strode into the room, naked and unhurried, giving her an absent smile as he went to his dressing table and pulled out underpants and socks. Max had always been unselfconscious about his body, and even now he had no reason beyond the bounds of public modesty to hide it. He was tall and lean, his flanks taut, his legs and arms trim and lightly muscled, and his stomach flat. He played squash and tennis, and for his thirty-fifth birthday she had bought him the latest in exercise machines, which he had looked a bit quizzical over but used generally a couple of times a week. He said if nothing else it was a good stress reliever.

"Have you finished with the bathroom?" Celine asked as he turned.

"It's all yours." He pulled on sleek-fitting underpants, his mouth quirking as she took a turquoise satin wrapper from the inner door of her wardrobe and made for the bathroom. He was often amused at her need to cover herself even on her way to and from the bedroom to the en suite bathroom, but he'd given up teasing her about it.

When she came back, her face already lightly made-up, the satin wrapper belted around her waist, Max, dressed in grey slacks and an open-necked shirt, was standing in front of his dressing table, combing his hair.

Celine went to the bed and stepped into lace-trimmed primrose satin panties before shedding the wrapper and picking up the matching bra. She leaned forward to ease her breasts into the cups and fasten the hooks, then straightened and reached for the dress. A strand of hair had floated across her mouth and she automatically tossed her head flick it away. It was then she realised that Max had put down the comb and was just standing in front of the mirror.

"What are you doing?" she asked as his eyes met hers in the glass. She held the dress in front of her. "Max!" She knew what he'd been doing-watching her dress, in the mirror.

As Max turned, she expected him to make some bantering comment. Instead he said irritably, "For pity's sake, Celine! We've been married for twelve years, and you're still hung up about me seeing you naked?"

"I'm not," she said stiffly. "Not when-the circumstances are right."

"You mean when we're in bed, and you're sufficiently turned on that it doesn't matter."

"Well, what do you want? Am I supposed to parade around naked for your benefit?"

"It would make a change... No, of course not, if it makes you uncomfortable. I'm sorry I snapped." He smiled at her and then deliberately looked away as she lifted the dress over her head.

Pulling a gold leather belt about her waist, she said with a hint of acid in her voice, "Did they have a stripper jumping out of a cake at this conference?"

Max laughed. "No such luck, I'm afraid. Even without the possible repercussions on the Society's reputation, the women members wouldn't stand for it."

Celine bent to put on her sandals, one hand on the bed to steady
herself
. "Were there many women?"

"About a third.
And some of the men brought their wives to the dinner last night." As Celine crossed to her dressing table and took a pair of pearl drop earrings from a drawer, he leaned back with folded arms and said, "There was one girl there that I bet a few of the old codgers wouldn't have minded bursting out of a cake."

"Young woman," Celine said, inserting an earring, her head on one side. "It's sexist to call them girls."

"She looked like a girl to me," he said, grinning. "Any female younger than twenty-five does, these days."

 
Celine cast him a smiling glance and turned her head the other way for the second earring. "It's a sign of middle age.

What was her name?"