A Perfect Marriage (18 page)

Deprivation, she told herself. It was ages since she'd made love, and her body was telling her what she'd been missing. It probably would have reacted the same way to any personable, half-naked male. Men weren't the only ones who had purely physical urges. Hastily, she walked away and opened the door of her wardrobe.

She wondered if she had the bravado to strip off her green wrap and change into a dress. But Max would either turn away to spare her modesty or he'd recognise the action
for
 
a
blatant invitation, and she didn't want to be humiliated again as she had been the last time she made the first move.

He was lounging against her dressing table, his arms folded. The robe wasn't long enough-it stopped at about mid-thigh-and the gap in the front had grown wider, the belt sagging at about hip level. To her own chagrin, Celine heard herself say sharply, "I wish you'd do that thing up properly!"

Straightening, Max looked down at the robe in patent astonishment. "What's the problem?"

Was he being deliberately obtuse? Or did he simply not think of her anymore as a sexual being? "If I didn't know better," he said, taking his time about retying the belt round his waist, "I might have thought the sight of my naked chest was giving you an unexpected thrill."

From Max, the gibe was startlingly crude, rousing confused emotions. She sensed a surprised query behind the apparent insensitivity.

"I'm used to your naked chest," she retorted, selfpreservation winning out over her other mingled feelings. "It's no novelty to me."

His eyes scanned her face, detecting the faint flush in her cheeks. Then his gaze slid down, and she was suddenly acutely conscious that the thin green fabric wasn't hiding much. She ought to have kept her bra on. Trying to distract him, she added, "Try flaunting
yourself
at Kate. She might appreciate it."

As his eyes moved back to her face, he made a tiny negative movement with his head, as though throwing off an unlikely thought. "She does," he said, almost absently. "I'm well aware that you've always been distinctly underwhelmed by the sight of my body."

Celine gaped. "What on earth do you mean by that?"

Max seemed to mentally shake himself. Shrugging, he strolled away from her towards the door. "That was probably in bad taste," he said. "I'll wait downstairs."

"You've forgotten your coat," she said, and marched into the bathroom, scooping it up from where he'd left it.

  
 
He was halfway across the room to meet her when she thrust it into his hand. He gave her a curt nod of thanks and turned to leave. She watched him, biting her tongue until his hand touched the door.

"What did you mean about my being 'underwhelmed' by your body?" she repeated finally, glaring at his back as he walked to the door. "There's nothing wrong with it:'

He dropped his hand from the doorknob and turned to face her, his expression rather caustic. "Except that it doesn't turn you on. Not your fault."

"Of course it does-did! What makes you think I don'tdidn't find you attractive?" As his brows rose in scepticism, she said, "We've made love so many times, you must know I enjoyed it with you!"

"Oh, yes," he said coolly. He thrust his hands into the capacious pockets of the robe, standing with his feet apart.
"In the dark, in bed, under the blankets."

"Not always," she protested. Admittedly she preferred the comfort of a double bed to less orthodox settings, and she didn't often have the impulse or the time to make love in daylight. But there had been occasions

"Mostly," Max claimed, cutting across her thoughts.
"And then there's the exercise machine. I did get the message, from the impressive photos of pleased users flexing their muscles, but I'm afraid building pecs isn't actually a top priority in my life."

Astounded, Celine said, "That wasn't what I wanted at all! The pictures just happened to come with the machine. It was to help you keep fit when you didn't have time for any other form of exercise. It's good for your health, when you have an essentially sedentary job. I don't like huge, musclebound men. Most women don't. As a matter of fact, I've always admired your looks-both your face and your body."

He said slowly, "That's the first time you've said anything of the kind. You used to barely look at me when I was less than fully dressed-unless you were already thoroughly aroused."

 
She supposed that was true. Having a high degree of modesty herself, inculcated by her mother and perhaps reinforced by being a teenage girl living in a household of males, she had tended to look away from Max's unashamed nudity, out of some instinctive desire to accord him the privacy she required for herself.
Even though he didn't give a damn.
But sometimes she hadn't been able to resist
The
heat in her cheeks intensified, and she muttered, "I peeked."

"What?" Max took a step forward and inclined his head, obviously unsure if he'd heard right.

"I peeked," she confessed.
"Sometimes.
And-it never occurred to me that you needed to be told that-that I liked looking at you, enjoyed touching you. But I do-I did." Emboldened by his dumbfounded expression, she added, her voice scarcely above a murmur, "I love the way your hair feels in my fingers-like cool silk-and the way your shoulders are so smooth and yet firm, and your `pecs,"' she said with a glimmer of a smile, "sort of ripple when I run my hands over them, so I can feel the muscles, how hard they are. I like the way the hair on your chest grows mostly down the middle, but curves up over your nipples, and how it's not too thick, so when I run my hands over it I can still feel the texture of your skin."

Max's gaze seemed riveted, his body turned to stone. She discovered that her heart was pounding. "Didn't I ever say," she asked huskily, "that I was proud of the way you look in swimming togs, when so many men are pot-bellied and flabby or covered in thick hair, or have skinny little legs?
That I like to watch you walk, with that long, confident stride.
That your smile gives me a thrill.
And your hands -you have such nice, masculine hands. I like the way the fingers are long but almost square at the ends, not tapered and feminine, and the palms are so broad. Your hands made me feel cared-for when you took my arm while we were walking, or put one on my waist to cross a road. I used to watch them when you drove the car, because they looked so com-

  
 
petent
, so in control. And they were so strong and so gentle when we made love." 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." His voice was hoarse, and she could see his jaw was rigid. His cheeks had a dusky flush, and his eyes met hers with a look that held a sombre, sullen fire.

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

Max shook his head, whether in negation or an attempt to clear it, she wasn't sure. "It's too late, now."

But she had moved him in some way, she could see. "I wish I had," she said softly, and walked slowly towards him. Willing her fingers not to tremble, she took one of his hands in hers and laid her cheek against the back of it. "I wish it wasn't too late."

She saw the shock in his face, felt his fingers convulse around hers.
"Celine!"

She turned her head and put her lips to his hand. Tears stung her eyes, and one escaped down her cheek and landed on the hand she held.

"Don't!" Max said, sounding shaken. As she raised her head, he lifted his other hand and clumsily wiped the skin below her eyes. His pupils were enlarged, very dark. He looked as though he was suffering. "I didn't mean to do this to you. I'm not worth it, you know."

If anyone had told.
her
that about another man in these circumstances, she'd have agreed. "Our marriage is worth a few tears, Max," she said, trying to smile as another hot droplet slid down her cheek. "You'll have to allow me that, even if you can't shed any yourself."

His mouth twisted in some kind of anguish, and he said, "I have. It's probably not going to help you much, but a lot of the time I feel as though I'm being stretched on the rack. This decision wasn't made lightly, Celine, or in a hurry."

Celine felt her heart plunge. Max would have considered every angle, including the fact that she would be dreadfully hurt, that his own family might support her, perhaps even
 
condemn him, that he was giving up a whole way of life. But his desire for Kate had outweighed everything else. "Oh, Max-we had so much!" she cried. "Everyone thought we had the perfect marriage! It was a nice life-and if you found it unexciting, we could have worked on that the way we worked on all our problems. You didn't need to throw away twelve years of happiness. You were happy! We were!"

"We were contented," Max said, freeing his hand.
"Even complacent.
Do you call that happiness?"

"It was good enough for you for twelve years," she said, her voice hardening as the tears dried. "I put a lot of work into this marriage, Max," she said fiercely.
"Too much to just tamely surrender it to your romantic whim."
She looked defiantly at him.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Celine," he said quite gently. "I know I'm being selfish and unfair, because you've done nothing to justify my leaving you. You always kept your side of the contract, and I respect you for it, more than you can know, but I don't love you in the way that you deserve to be loved, and
L..can't
pretend, year in and year out. I'd need to be superhuman."

"Have you been pretending all these years?" she asked him, pushing down the pain of his blunt repudiation. "I thought our love-life was pretty satisfactory-you never complained. And there was certainly no sign that you didn't enjoy it. What about when you came home after the firm's Christmas party and couldn't wait to make love to me?" she asked. Seeing him flinch, she followed up her advantage. "That wasn't so long ago, Max. Are you going to tell me that you didn't love me then? You certainly felt something pretty potent. And you assured me you hadn't had much to drink. Or were you lying?"

"No," Max said in a strange voice. "Not about that. It was the lovemaking that was a lie."

Chapter 9

Celine stared at him, puzzled, and then an inkling of his meaning penetrated her mind, setting off violent waves of heat and light inside her. Her head jerked up a little, her eyes hot and questioning. "What are you talking about?" No!
she
thought. It's too monstrous.

"It isn't important," Max said uneasily. "I was thinking aloud."

"What happened at the party?" she demanded. "She was there, of course-Kate. Did you sneak off to a back room together? Was that the first time you made love to her?"

"No. Celine, there's no point in this."

She felt sick. His wooden expression only goaded her further. "But you came home with all systems on go," she said. "What happened? Did someone interrupt at the crucial moment?" That was vulgar, she thought, even as a flicker of expression in his eyes gave her a paltry thrill of triumph. "Or hadn't you persuaded her to come through at that stage?"

"Stop it, Celine." He had gone white. She knew that her own face was hectically flushed.

"I'll stop when you tell me what happened!"

His eyes were furious, too. He
was hating
this. "Nothing happened.
Nothing that couldn't have taken place in public, at any Christmas party!"

Couldn't have, he said. So whatever it was hadn't been in front of all the others. The two of them had sneaked off to be on their own.

Wearily, he said, "Leave it, Celine. There was nothing to upset you!'

"You're lying!" She felt cheapened and defiled, possessed by a scorching anger. She lifted her hands, curled into fists, and thumped them hard but harmlessly against his solid chest. Max took a step backwards, and she followed. "Tell me!" she said, doing it again.

"All right!"
He warded her off with his arm, so that she hurt herself on the hard bone. "We kissed, that's all. It was nothing-an innocent, friendly kiss under the mistletoe. Everyone was doing it."

Max had always avoided that sort of meaningless, playful behaviour; he was too reserved by nature to enjoy it.

But he'd kissed Kate. Kissed her and wanted her, and then he'd come home to tell Celine she was beautiful, with that deliberate, assessing-comparing-stare.
And practically forced her into bed with him.
Because he'd wanted Kate and couldn't have her.
So he'd made do with his wife instead. And probably fantasised that it was Kate in his arms, Kate laughing softly, surprised but pleased at his importunate passion, Kate discovering a buried passion in herself that she'd not known she possessed, Kate, not Celine, responding eagerly and adventurously and making Max's excitement even more intense, fuelling hers in turn, so that her body turned to a white-hot flame that flared in his arms, that consumed them both in a great primal explosion of pleasure that engulfed them again, and again, and again.

! Kate, Kate, Kate.

All of it had been for Kate, not for her. Not for the wife he'd held hundreds of times, who had learned how to please him and taught him to please her, so that their lovemaking

  
 
was
always successful, always satisfying-and always the same?

"You bastard!"
It was a cry raw with rage and pain. Celine wasn't even aware that she'd swung her hand back until it flew forward and connected stingingly with Max's cheek, so fast and hard that his head was jerked aside. She was conscious of being, for once, out of control, and in a strange, heady fashion of being freed by it. Her fury was incandescent, so that she felt it like a leaping, all-consuming fire, her veins liquid and burning,
her
head singing.