Page 14 of The Forgotten Wife

He recalled the first time he’d heard her full name. The venom with which she’d spat it out after he dared her to, and the furious glare she’d directed at him when his initial shock had turned to foot-stomping laughter still amused him every time he recollected the memory.

But the laughter hadn’t lasted even a year. He wasn’t naïve enough to wish for the happily-ever-after expounded by fairytales, but he hadn’t expected the relative contentment and incredible chemistry they’d shared to disappear so quickly either.

The cargo plane bounced through turbulence. His arms tightened around his wife’s slender form and pulled her closer. She was here now, safe where she belonged. And this time he’d keep her there. No matter what.

The vows they’d taken had to matter for something. He would not accept that his marriage had failed before it had barely begun. Neither would he permit the unique compatibility they’d found— in and out of bed—to be so easily dismissed. He’d been around long enough to know that was very rare.

His time as a Marine had also taught him that a hostage rescue such as the one they’d pulled off rarely came without casualties on both sides. Mwana’s side had suffered in this skirmish, and he was more than all right with that.

He shifted as his gut churned with residual adrenaline. What he wasn’t all right with was the fact that Belle has been so stunned to see him. Had she really dismissed him so completely from her mind? Had she so condemned her husband and her marriage to some distant metaphorical trash heap that she’d never dreamed he’d come and find her? Well, too damned bad.

If nothing else, she owed him a long, detailed explanation, preferably one riddled with apology.

She’d deserted their marriage without so much as aDear Johnletter, but he had her back now, and he intended for her to deal with him being around longer than a mere six months or give him a damned good reason why not.

She gave a sharp cry in her fitful sleep. He drew her even closer, unable to resist the familiar feel of her in his arms despite the anger tightening his chest and brushed his lips over her temple until she calmed. His gut churned harder until he feared for his insides. Long-unused breathing exercises finally forced relaxation into his muscles.

The discomfort of the plane forgotten, his mind slid to more pleasant memories, to the first time he’d met Belle.

All through the sixth and final round of the charity polo match at Edenhall, he’d felt a gaze, a watchful presence following him—so intense, his lack of concentration had nearly lost them the match. Nearly.

He wasn’t a man who took failure lightly, so even with the powerful awareness raising the hairs at the back of his neck, he’d ridden his horse hard, struck his mallet with relentless force against the ball, until the game was won.

Dismounting, he’d zeroed in on the shaded terrace where the guests sat. His eyes had probed, hunted, ignoring the shouts of congratulations and the avid looks of skimpily clad socialites vying for his attention as he’d searched, his gaze slashing back and forth.

Until at last he’d seen her, standing back and apart from the rest, the drink in her hand full and untouched. Her own gaze riveted on him.

She’d remained watchful as he’d taken off his helmet and approached, his pulse hammering through his veins at her glorious beauty. With the sunlight from the back of the terrace streaming onto her lightly tanned skin, she’d been bathed in an angel-like halo.

Everything had taken on a surreal quality. The guests on the terrace had receded beyond his periphery, like shadowy figures in the background of a painting. The only thing he could focus on, think about, was the need to reach her, talk to her,touchher. He hadn’t dared to blink, fearing she might disappear, a figment of his imagination.

At last he’d reached her, and with a single shaky breath he’d known he had to have her. From the start, the chemistry had sizzled red-hot, and he, well, he was no monk. But apart from the familiar sexual tug, he’d sensed something else. In her eyes a deeper knowledge had probed, touching a deep, dark place within him he didn’t like to explore too often, if at all. It haddisturbed him a little, but not enough to curb the spark of intense interest. He’d wanted to know her, find out what made her happy, what made her sad. Simply put, he’dwantedher.

Before he knew it, he’d opened his mouth.

“There you are.”

She’d blinked, as if awakened from a trance, her stunning blue eyes widening a touch. “Yes. Here I am.” Her voice held a soft, draping huskiness that warmed his senses and kicked his pulse up another notch. No, he was most certainlynota monk, he’d acknowledged as his blood rushed south.

Her gaze had left his and journeyed slowly down his body. Just in time, he’d lowered his helmet, knowing his excitement would be evident courtesy of his tight white jodhpurs. A look of amusement crossed her face, and she looked up.

“Don’t you need to change?” The corners of her pink lips tilted up, awareness of her effect on him gleaming in her eyes.

“Not until you tell me your name.” He’d go nowhere until he had that information, even if it meant shocking her with his rampant erection.

She’d tilted her head to one side, her golden hair falling in a heavy curtain over one slender, creamy shoulder.

“My name is Belle Winkworth-Jones.” She’d said it in a rush, as if to get it over and done with.

“Belle.” He’d loved the silky taste of her name on his lips. “Is that short for Isabelle?”

“No.”

“Annabelle?”

“No. It’s just Belle.” Her irritation had amused and intrigued him. His normally astute brain had been fruitlessly searching out other variations of her name when her lilting voice had interrupted his thoughts.

“Shouldn’t you be thinking of a shower?” She’d wrinkled her cute straight nose, reminding him he smelled of horse and sweat.

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