mouth, inviting the kiss to deepen. She sighed into his mouth, their breath mingling there, tongues entwining; she ran her fingers through his thick black hair, her heart pounding. Justin loved her; he was her husband, her love, her life.
Justin slightly parted his long legs, one strong hand curving down over her bottom and urging her between his muscular thighs. She curved into the hot, hard warmth of his body, her breasts flattened against his rihcage, her nipples tingling with the contact then hardening as his other hand swept up to cup possessively over one high, firm breast through the soft wool of her dress.
He broke the kiss long enough to nuzzle her throat, his mouth covering the madly beating pulse in her neck then trailing back to her softly parted lips; a low moan escaped her just as his mouth found hers once more.
As always she trembled, melting against him, her blood pounding through her veins, but suddenly he was easing her away. ‘Justin,’ she murmured.
‘Easy, Zoë. Now is not the time.’
She raised passion-hazed eyes to his rugged face; she recognised the dark blush of desire staining his taut features at the same time as she saw the familiar iron control reassert itself in the black depths of his eyes.
‘You’re right, as usual,’ she agreed, and was swept into a gentle hug, his large hand stroking the back of her head as he pressed her to his broad chest, easing the sexual tension surrounding them into something more manageable.
‘Come on, Zoë; the quicker we say goodbye to the guests, the sooner we can get this day over with.’
He was right, but sometimes, just sometimes, Zoë wished that he would get swept away by passion. But the great Justin Gifford, renowned for his cool, lethal voice, his absolute control of any jury, never, ever lost control.
Now, where had that unkind thought come from? Zoë mused as she saw the guests depart. Justin was British and restraint was an accepted characteristic of the people, and she should know! On first arriving here, a typical American teenager, she had found it difficult to adjust to the more formal way of life.
Half an hour later she followed Justin into the study and sat down beside him on the black hide sofa. Mrs Crumpet, the housekeeper, Jud, her husband—also the gardener—and John Smith, the chauffeur, plus the two daily women, stood around in a rather embarrassed silence as Judge Master sat down in the chair behind Uncle Bertie’s desk.
It soon became apparent that Bertie hadn’t changed his will in years. All the staff were left generous amounts of money and there were pensions for Mr and Mrs Crumpet and the chauffeur. His law books were to go to Justin and the remainder of the estate was left to Zoë, with the proviso that Justin be her guardian until she was twenty-five.
‘You—my guardian.’ She smiled at Justin. ‘It sounds slightly kinky as we’re already married.’
Judge Master laughed. ‘Bertie made this will when you were sixteen; he did think about changing it, but, as you and Justin married, there was no real point. It’s all in the family anyway.’
The staff left the room, and then Judge Master revealed the extent of the estate. It was not a great deal of money but, with the house, a very nice legacy. She felt Justin tense beside her, and she shot him a puzzled look, but he ignored her, his gaze fixed on Judge Master.
‘With the house included, if he didn’t make prior arrangements, the death duty will be quite considerable.’ Justin was all business, and Zoë felt oddly excluded as the two men talked literally over her head.
‘Yes, I did warn him,’ the judge responded.
‘But you know Bertie—he refused to admit he was dying right up until the end.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about the tax, though. Zoë is twenty-one in a month, when she will obtain control of her trust fund from her parents. I was talking to the lawyer in New York only a few days ago, and, with the reissue of an old film of her father’s about dinosaurs, apparently her trust fund is quite healthy.’
‘How healthy exactly?’ Justin asked quietly.
‘Double what Bertie left, so the tax should not be a problem. Mind you, I would advise you to sell this place; it’s far too big for this day and age. Maintenance alone was always a drain on Bertie’s funds.’
‘Do you mind, gentlemen? I am sitting here,’ Zoë intervened, and wanted to laugh as the two males in the room turned to look at her as though she were some apparition.
Judge Master was the first to recover. ‘Yes, of course. It has been a long day; Justin and I can discuss all this in a day or two, and I’d better be making tracks or Mary will not be pleased.’
Zoë smiled; she liked Judge Master and, after the conversation she had overheard earlier, she appreciated his wife, who had defended her against the infamous Sara Blacket.
Justin rose to his feet and walked across to the cabinet in the corner of the oak-panelled study. ‘You will join me in a drink, Judge? I need one.’ He picked up a bottle of whisky, opened it and poured a large shot into a crystal tumbler before adding, ‘How about you, Zoë?’
She looked across at her husband; his back was to her, his shoulders tense, and, as she watched, his dark head tilted back as he lifted the glass to his mouth and drank. It was unusual for Justin to drink spirits—an occasional glass of wine was more his style.
‘Zoë.’ Justin turned, glass in hand. ‘Do you want one?’ he asked again, his expression austere.
‘No. You and the judge carry on. I’ll go and find Mary.’
Ten minutes later, she stood in the entrance hall and thanked Judge Master for all his help, but her glance kept straying to Justin at her side as she said goodbye to the couple. She had the oddest feeling that although he was there he was not really with her.
The door closed behind Judge and Mary Master and she sighed in relief.
‘At last it’s all over,’ she murmured, her eyes seeking her husband’s. He had been a tower of strength all through the death, the funeral, everything. She could never have managed without him, and all she wanted now was to feel the comfort of his arms around her.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, a stark white shirt and the obligatory black tie, he looked all powerful, virile male, as though nothing could touch him or those he cared for. He was her rock, her comfort and her lover, and she had never needed him more than now. She stepped towards him.
‘I have some work to attend to, Zoë; I’ll see you at dinner.’
She shot him a pleading if puzzled glance and could have sworn that he was avoiding her eyes. ‘Yes, OK.’ But she doubted whether he heard her as she was talking to his back.
ZOË knocked on the heavy oak door, turned the handle, opened it and entered the study. Justin was sitting behind the huge mahogany desk in what used to be Uncle Bertie’s chair, his broad shoulders hunched, his head buried in a mass of papers.
He had removed his jacket and tie, and his white shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves rolled back to reveal sinewy forearms sprinkled with a downy covering of dark hair. He looked stern and somehow remote. She moved silently across the room but he sensed her presence, his proud head lifting.
‘Yes?’ he said distantly.
‘It’s eight—dinner is ready.’ She shook her head in disgust at his vacant look, her long blonde hair floating around her shoulders in a silvery cloud as she moved to his side and leant against his broad shoulder. Placing one slender arm around his other shoulder, she added, ‘You work far too hard, Justin, and it has got to stop.’ She pressed a swift kiss on the top of his head. ‘Come and eat.’
‘I have to work hard if I expect to keep my beautiful wife in the manner