An Heir Made In The Marriage Bed

Taking a breath, she turned to him and said, ‘I’ve not checked in yet.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s a queue, and there’s really no need for you to stay.’

Matt felt the kind of tension he hadn’t felt since they were last together. The muscles in his stomach clenched as he said, ‘You’re sure you have a room here?’

‘As sure as I can be.’ Joanna didn’t want to face the alternative. ‘I phoned the hotel from the airport.’

Matt’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘From the airport?’ he echoed incredulously.

Joanna straightened her spine. ‘Look, when I left New York, I didn’t know if you were staying in Miami. All I knew was that I wouldn’t have time to hire a car and drive out to Coral Gables and back in a couple of hours. I was going to phone you, but I needed somewhere to stay, and I remembered—well, I remembered we’d stayed here before.’

‘So we did.’ Matt’s eyes darkened. ‘I’m flattered you recall our visits.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic.’ Joanna sighed. ‘I suppose I had thoughts of asking you to join me here for dinner.’

‘To talk, I assume,’ he remarked, still somewhat sarcastically, and Joanna’s lips tightened.

‘I thought that was what you wanted.’

Matt lifted his shoulders dismissively. ‘And Sophie changed your mind?’

‘Well, yes.’ Joanna took another steadying breath. ‘She told me you’d been ill and—and I was concerned.’

‘How sweet!’

Matt gave a mocking laugh and rocked back on the heels of his suede loafers. That was the last thing he’d expected her to say.

Joanna resented his reaction. ‘I’d be concerned about anyone in similar circumstances,’ she declared, avoiding the lazy beauty of his eyes. ‘Just because I felt sorry for you—’

Matt grimaced then. ‘I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me,’ he told her shortly. ‘I’ve had a surfeit of that already.’

Clicking her tongue impatiently, she stepped up to the end of the line. ‘Why don’t you just go, Matt?’ she demanded, glancing about her. ‘You’re just wasting your time here.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he countered, and Joanna gave him an exasperated look.

‘All right, then,’ she said tightly, turning her back on him. ‘But you’re going to have to wait. I haven’t even registered yet.’

‘So you said.’

Matt sounded thoughtful, but after a few moments she heard the unmistakeable sound of him walking away. Oh, well, she thought, telling herself she was relieved. It was what she’d wanted. She wouldn’t have liked him leaning over her shoulder while she filled in the forms.

When someone touched her arm a few moments later, she swung round, firmly believing Matt had decided to return. But instead it was someone called George Szudek. The Hotel Manager, or so it said on the badge he was wearing on his lapel.

He was a stocky individual, with a bald head and a full beard and moustache. He greeted her with a smile and gently urged her across the lobby to the open door of his office.

‘Mrs Novak,’ he said politely, guiding her into the room. ‘I believe I can be of some assistance to you and your husband.’

CHAPTER FIVE (#u6d9af615-42d8-5a39-a8f0-e4c88b3ee088)

JOANNA REALISED SHE should have anticipated something like this when Matt disappeared. Because, of course, her husband had been waiting for them in the manager’s office.

Matt had been standing by the windows, looking out on the manicured golf course at this side of the hotel. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his pants, his shoulders broad beneath the heat-dampened silk of his shirt.

And despite herself, Joanna felt a pang, not unlike the pang she’d felt when Matt and his father had first walked into the Bellamy Gallery all those years ago.

David had been hosting another of those evenings for new artists, and apparently one of his flyers had found its way into the lobby of the Novaks’ hotel. Matt had told her his father had persuaded him to come; light relief after a day of boardroom politics. But he’d told Joanna that as soon as he’d seen her he’d been very glad he had...

* * *

Joanna looked round the gallery with a feeling of pride. The place was full, patrons and visitors milling about, helping themselves to a glass of wine or a canapé, offering silent and not so silent opinions of the paintings on display.

And she’d arranged it all, she thought with pride. She’d sent out the invitations, arranged for flyers to be placed in hotel lobbies, made the event sound so attractive that any visitor to the capital might be intrigued by its originality.

The young artist they were showcasing, Damon Ford, was a minor celebrity in his own right after winning a gold medal in athletics at the last Olympics.