Instinctively she knew he wouldn’t thank her for it.

Leila cast around for a response. ‘Your mother must be very impressed at all this.’ Her gesture took in the architect-designed penthouse in a building that was the last word in London exclusivity.

And maybe that explained the soulless feel of the place. Apparently Joss didn’t have the time or inclination for anything as domestic as furnishing his home. This looked as if it had been decorated by a very chic, very talented designer who wanted to make a bold statement rather than a home.

‘My mother isn’t alive.’ Joss’s gaze grew hooded as he let the silence between them grow. ‘I don’t have a family.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘The absence of relatives at the wedding didn’t alert you?’ His tone was abrupt and Leila cursed herself for not noticing. Given the number of Gamil’s invitees, the imbalance should have been glaringly obvious. Except she’d been on tenterhooks wondering if she’d finally managed to escape his clutches. Most of the day had been a blur of fear and elation.

‘No. I…’

Her words petered out in face of Joss’s frown. From his steely expression it was clear he considered her abominably self-absorbed.

‘Nor do I want a family. I have no interest in continuing the family name.’ His eyes bored into her, their intense glitter pinioning her. ‘And I don’t see any point bringing more children into a world that can’t feed the mouths we’ve already got.’

He looked pointedly at her plate, still laden with Mrs Draycott’s carefully prepared treats.

Leila’s stomach cramped at the thought of all that intense cloying sweetness. After her recent meagre rations she hadn’t a hope of eating all this rich food. That had to be part of the reason she’d felt unwell yesterday, trying to force down the elaborate wedding feast under Gamil’s watchful glare.

But, short of revealing to Joss the real reason for her lack of appetite, there was nothing she could do but eat. Joss might not be cast in the same mould as Gamil but she’d take no chances. He was bossy, powerful and authoritarian. She’d learned to her cost that domineering men couldn’t be trusted. There was no way she’d trust Joss with the story of Gamil’s brutality and her own helplessness against him. Who knew how he might use that against her?

Besides, the memory filled her with shame. Logic told her she’d done all she could to withstand Gamil’s abuse, but part of her cried out in self-disgust at the fact she’d been a victim.

Reluctantly she reached for a tiny cake. Inhaling its rich honeyed scent, she felt a wave of nausea hit her and she hesitated.

‘I happen to know Mrs Draycott went to a lot of effort to make something special for you.’

Leila felt the weight of Joss’s scrutiny as she bit into the delicacy.

Bittersweet memories drenched her with that first taste. Of a time when she’d taken happiness for granted. Her mother laughing in their Paris kitchen with their cook’s enormous apron wrapped twice around her slim form. Leila’s father, debonair in evening jacket, sneaking a cake from a cooling rack and having his hand smacked, so he wreaked his revenge with a loud kiss on his wife’s lips. Memories of childhood birthday parties and smiles.

‘It’s good,’ Leila murmured and risked another bite.

Too soon the memories were dislodged as bile rose in her throat. Her stomach churned in a sickening mix of distress and unsatisfied hunger.

She made to rise. ‘Excuse me, I need—’

‘The bathroom?’ Joss’s tone was rusty with anger and she swung her head up to find him scowling down at her. ‘Why? So you can dislodge any trace of food from your system?’

Leila shook her head, stunned by his anger.

‘I’m feeling a little unwell, that’s all. I—’

‘You’re making yourself unwell, don’t you mean?’

‘No!’ She surged to her feet. ‘I don’t mean that at all.’ She was tired of having people put words into her mouth and overseeing her every move. She was weary and out of sorts and—

‘Tell me, Leila.’ His voice was lethally quiet as he stalked across to block her exit. ‘Is it bulimia or anorexia?’

Joss was determined to sort this out now.

His fragile patience for pampered princesses grew threadbare. And somewhere, deep inside, was a thread of real fear, the knowledge of precisely how dangerous an eating disorder was.

It did no good to tell himself Leila wasn’t his concern. He couldn’t turn his back.

‘It’s neither!’ Her head reared back in what looked like genuine shock. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my eating habits.’

He surveyed her slowly, pleased to see her sick pallor had abated, replaced by spots of high colour in her cheeks and fire in her eyes.

It struck him that his wife was beautiful when roused.

‘Then why have I never seen you consume more than a bite? Why are you sick after eating?’

He stepped nearer, close enough to inhale her fresh scent, and she angled her head high. He’d give her this: she didn’t back down from confrontation. His skin sizzled as she surveyed him. A pulse of something like desire beat hard in his belly.

If he’d known Leila could be so…animated, he might have thought twice about marriage. He’d wanted a demure, stylish hostess, not a spitfire. But the coiling heat in his lower body made a lie of the thought.

‘Do you always jump to conclusions?’ One fine eyebrow arched high on her smooth forehead, giving her a supercilious, touch-me-not air that made him want to level the barriers between them and give her a taste of raw, earthy pleasure. The force of that need shocked him.

‘Do you always avoid questions for which you’ve no answer?’

Her nostrils flared as if she kept tight rein on a quick temper. Unbidden, interest stirred. He’d always liked passion in a woman—in bed, not emotionally.

The thought brought him up sharply.

Leila was his wife. He was not going to bed her. He was not going to risk the possibility of messy, emotional scenes with the woman he’d just tied himself to.

She folded her hands in a show of patience that might have fooled him but for the heat still simmering in those luminous eyes. Despite his better judgement he found himself enjoying the contrast.

‘I haven’t been eating rich meals lately. The food at the wedding feast was designed to impress but it wasn’t to my taste.’

‘You’ve been dieting? Didn’t your father warn you about becoming underweight?’ His mouth thinned at her stupidity. Didn’t she value her health?

‘Stepfather.’ Instantly she pursed her lips as if regretting the correction. ‘And no, he didn’t have a problem with my diet.’

Again that puzzling flicker of almost-expression crossed her face, as if she suppressed something. Something Joss was determined to uncover.

‘And now? You can’t tell me the cakes aren’t to your taste. I saw the look on your face when you took that first bite.’ She’d closed her eyes as if overcome by bliss. The sight of such unadulterated sensual pleasure had been arresting, drawing him towards her and heating a coil of masculine anticipation low in his groin.

Leila shrugged. ‘It was lovely but, as I said, my diet has been very plain, very…restricted. This was just too much of a good thing.’

Joss clamped down the surge of admonition on his tongue. He knew she hid something. But her shock at his accusation seemed genuine. For the moment he’d have to reserve judgement.

‘And now? Do you still feel sick?’

She tilted her head, her eyes widening. ‘You know…’ she paused as if considering ‘…I don’t!’ She looked genuinely pleased.

‘Good. You need to build up your appetite.’

‘I do?’

He nodded, already resuming his seat and picking up his coffee. He was savvy enough to realise it would take a while to get to the bottom of whatever ailed Leila. ‘I’m going away on business but when I return and we start entertaining you won’t be able to run to the bathroom through every meal.’