Widow - Anne Stuart [69]
She was barely aware of the door opening, the coolness of the air as the covers were lifted. But she felt his body slide up against hers in the sagging bed, his arms go around her, pulling her back against him, and she panicked, kicking out.
“Calm down,” Maguire whispered. “It’s just me.”
“Get out!” she said. Or tried to say. The words were almost indecipherable through her sobs.
“I’m not going anyplace. There are times when a woman needs to be held and this is one of them.”
“No!” She tried to fight him, but he was astonishingly strong, holding her pinioned against him.
“Yes,” he said. “You need someone to hold you, and I’m your man. Now, go to sleep.”
Somewhere along the way her tears had left her. “Sleep?” she echoed in astonishment.
“Yes, sleep. Did you think I was going to have my wicked way with you, love? I’m a right bastard, but even I have my limits, and you’re not interested in sex right now.”
“I’m never interested in sex.”
“So you say,” he muttered. “In the meantime, go to sleep. I’m not leaving until you do.”
“I can’t sleep with you.”
“Sure you can. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and try it.”
She yanked once more at his restraining arms, but it was hopeless. His grip was like a straitjacket, albeit a relatively gentle one. There was no escaping.
“I hate this. I hate you,” she said fiercely.
“Of course you do, love,” he said in a lazy voice. “Now, stop arguing and go to sleep.”
There was no escape. At least, not until he was asleep. All she could do was lie perfectly still, somehow grit her teeth and put up with the feel of his body pressed up against her back, and sooner or later he’d drift off and she could get away from him.
At least he’d gotten into bed with his clothes on. She could feel the cotton of his T-shirt, though his legs were bare against hers, and…
“What’s that?” she demanded.
“What do you think it is? It’s not like you never had any. You just didn’t like it.”
“You’re disgusting. Get out of my bed.”
“My bed, and I’m not going anywhere. It’s a perfectly natural response to being snuggled up to a woman. It doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it. Go to sleep.”
“I don’t want…”
“If you keep talking then I’ll start thinking of ways to occupy our time.”
She shut up, fast. She’d survive this. She’d survive anything—she already had, and this was just one more assault on her fragile serenity.
She took a deep breath, then let it out in a shuddering sigh. The softness of the bed kept her plastered up against him, and the stiffer she held herself, the longer it would take for him to drop his guard and fall asleep. Besides, he was stiff enough for both of them.
The thought shouldn’t have been funny. She was just a little punchy by now—too many things happening in too short a period of time. She should be lying here mourning Henry, and instead all she could think about was the feel of Maguire’s heat against her back, the steady pounding of his heart, echoing through her own skin.
His breathing was slow and steady, but his hold on her didn’t lessen, and she wondered whether he’d be able to sleep with her clamped against him. Probably. The sooner she gave in, the sooner the night would be over.
She closed her eyes, trying to think of something peaceful. Snowstorms and olive trees and ocean waves and heat, reaching into her very bones, soothing her, so that her muscles began to relax and she felt herself sink back against him with a soft, forgiving sigh.
She was going to fall asleep, which seemed like the greatest betrayal of all, and yet she couldn’t fight it any longer. She felt drugged, by the night, by the heat of his body, and she was tired of fighting.
“Maguire?” she whispered, just before she fell asleep.
“Hmm?”
She didn’t even know she was going to say it until the words came out. “Thank you.”
There was silence. And then a little shift, as he tucked her closer to him, spoonlike, and she was even more comfortable. “My pleasure, love,” he whispered. “My pleasure.”
When she awoke the room was filled with a murky