Читать книгу Never A Bride - Diana Hamilton - Страница 4

‘I‘M AT the London apartment, so it won’t be long before I can see you. Yes, Jake’s away... No, no I haven’t told him. We’ll discuss it when I see you. Must go now, darling, but see you soon, I promise.’ Claire Winter replaced the receiver, a tender smile softening the classical loveliness of her features before she felt her scalp tingle with warning, felt the skin on her face go stiff. She slowly turned on the silk brocade-covered sofa, her aquamarine eyes shocked by the accuracy of her precognition as they homed in on Jake’s narrowed grey gaze.

‘You’re in Rome,’ she babbled, and immediately hated herself for her inaccurate inanity, despised herself even more when her stupid remark gave him the excuse to hitch up one dark sardonic brow and drawl mockingly,

‘Kind of you to put me right. I actually thought I was in Mayfair.’

She watched him lever himself away from the door-frame where he’d been leaning, listening... How much of her telephone conversation had he heard...? And God, but he was beautiful. Every time she looked at him she was struck anew by his male magnificence. He was the dark stranger who haunted every woman’s secret dreams, a fantasy of masculine perfection come to life.

And he knew it. He had more sex appeal than was good for him, so his arrogance over the opposite sex was understandable. Every woman he met drooled over him, fell at his feet. Even her own mother looked at him with a definite sparkle in her eyes and she, more than most, had good reason to be wary of anything in trousers. He had the looks, the wealth, the power and personality to turn the sanest woman’s head.

She was firmly on her feet now, perfectly in control, presenting the image he expected—no, demanded. Cool, expensive, exquisitely groomed, her silky black hair cut stylishly short, the black and white heavy silk two-piece she was wearing emphasizing the elegant lines of her tall, slender body.

‘I didn’t expect you for at least another couple of days.’ She schooled her voice to coolness but couldn’t disguise the trace of accusation; it came through despite her best efforts and Jake picked it up, obviously, because he said drily,

‘So I gathered. Who were you phoning? Or is that a question a husband shouldn’t ask his wife?’

‘Liz,’ she answered, perhaps too quickly. Something made his narrowed grey eyes glitter. He didn’t believe she’d been talking to her mother.

Watching him walk further into the beautiful main room of their London apartment, shedding the jacket of his exquisitely tailored grey suit, she lifted her chin, her eyes stubborn, giving no hint of the alarm she felt at the way her heart was behaving so unusually. It was thundering around inside her chest, frightening her.

‘And how is she? Well?’ He hooked a finger in the knot of his tie and dragged it away from the collar of his crisp white shirt. ‘I find myself with two unexpectedly free days. Perhaps we should visit her? I could persuade her to divulge whatever it is you haven’t been able to bring yourself to tell me yet.’

So he had heard. And the unmasked derision in the look he sent her made her face turn to fire. And she felt too disoriented to invent something on the spur of the moment so she chose to attack, her slender fingers reaching unerringly for the folded newspaper on the rosewood coffee-table. She had opened it, spreading the newsprint on her lap far too many times throughout this long, quiet Sunday, knowing she shouldn’t yet unable to prevent it, like probing an aching tooth with her tongue.

The paper fell open to the right page, out of habit, she supposed, her eyes darkening as the now all too familiar photograph of her husband leap out of the grey print, his arms around a woman who was achingly, unfairly beautiful.

‘Stripping assets of the romantic kind?’ The letters of the caption danced beneath Claire’s eyes. ‘Multi-millionaire Jake Winter caught playing away from home with the darling of Roman society, the irresistible Principessa Lorella Giancetti.’

‘The paparazzi must have had a field day,’ she clipped, flicking the photograph with a pearly oval fingernail, her eyes frowning as she watched a tiny smile curl at the corners of his hard, beautiful mouth while he scanned the page, anger battering at the wall of her chest.

‘Jealous, Claire?’ Mocking grey eyes held hers for a second before lowering, drifting down over her elegantly clad body, the mockery still to be glimpsed, though shadowed by thickly tangled black lashes, because he was comparing her slender, definitely understated curves with the voluptuous ripeness of the principessa‘s body which was almost flowing out of the expensive skimpiness of the glamorous evening dress she’d been pictured wearing.

‘No.’ She made the denial both mentally and verbally. ‘Disappointed. Before we married we made certain commitments. One of which, if I remember correctly, promised complete discretion in the possible area of extra-marital affairs. This—’ she flicked the newsprint again ‘—can’t, by any stretch of the imagination, be called discreet.’

‘No.’ His frown was sudden and ferocious as he agreed. ‘I apologies.’ He tossed the paper aside, rocking back on his heels, the whippy muscles of his long, lean body held together with a tension that had to be down to the unpalatable fact of discovery, Claire decided with weary cynicism as she set about collecting his discarded jacket and tie, settling into mundane domesticity rather than meet his eyes. Eyes that stalked her every movement, as the ripple of awareness down her spine attested.

‘Apology accepted,’ she stated, her fingers curling into the soft mohair and silk fabric of his jacket. The warmth of it. His warmth. It made her voice shiver unaccountably as she tacked on quickly, ‘I suggest we forget it.’ Then she took herself in hand. She was nervous, that was all. And why shouldn’t she be? She had turned the tables, fending off his questions, his disbelief, with the printed evidence of his own misdemeanors. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t turn back to his own attack.

‘Can I get you something to eat? To drink?’ It was too late to go out to a restaurant and she’d had her own sparse supper hours ago. There was little food in the apartment. She hadn’t expected him. He unfailingly let her know where he would be, and when, so that she could be there for him, getting everything organized, oiling the wheels of his busy life. This evening’s deviation, colluding with that piece in the Press, his eavesdropping on that private phone conversation, had thrown her.

His lack of response forced her to turn, and she masked her reluctance with the lie, ‘You look tired.’

He didn’t, of course. He never did. Restless, energetic, he was never happier than when he was on the move, making things happen. At the age of thirty-seven and looking ten years younger, he was a millionaire several times over, his fortune made from asset-stripping—buying up large, moribund companies all over the world, splitting them into smaller, leaner, profitable components, selling some of them off as soon as they were viable but keeping the pick of the bunch, personally overseeing every last one of them. He had the energy, dynamism and enthusiasm of ten ordinary mortals and the enviable ability to switch off immediately.

As he was doing now. He was utterly relaxed as he sprawled out on one of the two matching sofas which flanked the hearth—the genuine Adam surround setting off a state-of-the-art coal-effect gas fire.

‘I ate on the plane, but I could use a drink.’ Relaxing, his eyes closed, he looked completely composed, but there was a tightness in his voice that made her drag her lower lip between her teeth. Was he still thinking about that phone call, turning it over in his mind? Hadn’t the photographic evidence of his own indiscretions thrown him off the scent?

Time to attack again, perhaps, before he started asking questions, demanding answers she wasn’t ready to give him.

Unusually, her fingers were shaking as she poured two fingers of the single malt he preferred into a glass and added just the right amount of bottled spring water. Her composure—one of the things he frankly admired about her—had been leaching away over the last few days. She was going to have to take herself in hand, think things through to find a logical, inevitable conclusion and act on it. That was something else she was good at. Usually.

And would be again. Starting as of now.

She hovered above him, patiently getting her breathing under control. His thick dark lashes lay heavily on those high, jutting cheekbones, softening them, and, like this, relaxed, the hard, arrogant line of his mouth was transformed into a thing of pure male beauty. Eminently kissable. Which, no doubt, the principessa had discovered, to her endless delight.

The lancing pain that sent her heart into spasm was an unwanted revelation. She hadn’t believed herself capable of such a reaction. They had been married for almost two years and she had often wondered how many women he’d bedded. No one could doubt his virility—it shouted through every line of his lean, tough body, blazed in the depths of his knowing grey eyes. But he had promised discretion—they both had—and he had broken his word. Maybe pain was a shattered promise, she thought bleakly, her hand tightening around the glass.

Leaning forward, she touched the cool surface to his artlessly open palm and watched him snap to full alertness in the disconcerting way he had. His hand closed around the glass, deliberately trapping her fingers, and she felt the little color she did have in her pale ivory skin wash out of her face.

He never touched her. He had always been almost painfully careful not to, not even accidentally. Not even when their coolly constructed ‘perfect marriage’ was on public display.

If she struggled to free her hand the whiskey would go all over the place, and there was no room for such indignities in their relationship. Aquamarine eyes battled with incisive grey until she saw the sudden flare of hard mockery and lowered her lids and he transferred his glass to his other hand, releasing hers, asking grimly, ‘Do you dislike being touched, per se, or is it only by me?’

‘I don’t think that question deserves a response, do you?’ she uttered calmly, forcing herself to retreat with slow and careful dignity to the opposite sofa and not fly headlong from the room as every cell in her body urged her to do. But as she sank into the comfortably upholstered depths nothing on earth could prevent her snapping out acidly, ‘I’m surprised you cut your Italian trip short. Wasn’t the principessa as irresistible as she’s made out to be?’

She was appalled at herself. They never quarreled. Never came near it. She didn’t know what was happening. And when he announced, with languid grace, ‘I couldn’t possibly comment, my dear,’ she wanted to hit him. Wanted it with an intensity that shook her to her soul.

‘What’s bugging you? I’d have marked you down as a woman who could handle a slice of unpleasant publicity with a sophisticated shrug of one superlatively elegant shoulder.’ He took a reflective sip of his drink, his narrowed eyes never leaving her. ‘We were pictured leaving the opera. If you’d been there—you were invited, remember—it wouldn’t have happened. And you would have enjoyed it. La Traviata. Juanita del Sorro sang Violetta. She was quite superb.’

‘I’m quite sure she was.’ Only by forcing herself to respond could she stop her teeth from audibly grinding together. Was he saying his public lapse from grace was all her fault? How dared he?

And of course he had expected her to be in Rome with him. Although he did a fair amount of business there they didn’t own an apartment in the city for her to turn into a home on the hoof. They always used the same small, privately run hotel near the Piazza Venezia where she acted—as was her part of the bargain—as PR officer, private secretary, mistress of the wardrobe, companion and sounding board. Everything she had been happy to be for the past two years.

The visit to Rome had been scheduled for months and she’d been looking forward to another all too brief trip to her favorite city until that phone call from the UK. Thankfully Jake had been out, so she’d had the Manhattan apartment to herself. If he’d been in she wouldn’t have been able to avoid his inevitable questions. She would have had to tell him the truth. And although she knew she owed it to him, that honesty within their relationship had been something they’d both decided on, right from the start, she knew she couldn’t face it, not quite yet.

And when he’d turned up, all fired up with the successful completion of yet another brilliant business deal, she’d dealt with the pressing emergency and had come up with a believable excuse for backing out of the Rome trip.

‘It’s the first time I’ve ever let you down, Jake, but would you mind if I skipped Rome? Say if you do. But suddenly I feel tired.’ She’d felt drainingly guilty at his swift look of concern and had had to force herself to add, ‘I could spend an extra, quiet day here, fly back to England and have the London apartment ready for when you get home from Rome.’

She had needed a few days’ grace, time to face up to the consequences of telling him the truth and what would be the inevitable ending of their marriage. But he’d returned two days ahead of schedule, and she didn’t know why, but she still hadn’t worked up enough courage to tell him. Just thinking about it made her ask now, suddenly in deadly earnest, ‘Jake—you and the principessa—is it serious?’

It had been part of the bargain, the let-out clause. If either of them, at any time during their paper marriage, met someone, felt serious enough about them to want a real marriage, then the other wouldn’t stand in their way. There would be an annulment, followed, if Jake was the one who wanted out, by a healthy financial settlement. If she invoked the clause she would forfeit the settlement, but she could live with that now. She wouldn’t give the lack of the kind of lifestyle she’d enjoyed during her marriage a second thought.

‘Of course not.’ He sounded as if he was on the point of yawning. And, moments later, did. He stood up, stretching, the fabric of his shirt pulled tight against his strong, lean torso. ‘I’m for bed. I’m surprised you weren’t tucked up hours ago, considering how desperately tired you were supposed to be.’

She ignored that, the acid tone, everything. She didn’t know why she felt so buoyant, as if she’d won a reprieve, when she should be feeling thwarted. If he’d told her he’d fallen in love, at last, found a woman he genuinely wanted to spend the rest of his life with—for all the right and natural reasons—then that would have created a way out for her.

She didn’t understand herself. She managed a cool goodnight and took herself off to her own peaceful room, and decided she was being dog-in-the-manger about it. She didn’t want him to walk out on her. That was what it boiled down to. If their marriage ended—and it had to, of course—then she needed to be the one to do it. A matter of pride, perhaps?

She fell asleep not liking herself very much but feeling strangely comforted.

However, any feelings of comfort, undeserved or otherwise, flew straight out of the window the very next morning.

Jake, as always, was up before her, his energy making her feel tired. Breakfast was prepared—eggs and fruit and coffee.

‘All I could find. The cupboard is bare. Not to worry.’ He flashed her the sudden white grin that had the mega-watt power to make unwary females quake at the knees. ‘I’ve been making phone calls. Eat—’ he gestured to the table in the immaculate high-tech kitchen ‘—before the eggs get cold, and I’ll tell you what I’ve arranged.’

In this mood, he made her feel as if she was in the middle of a whirlwind. Not a morning person herself, she’d taught herself how to handle his restless energy by simply letting it wash over her head until she’d dragged herself together sufficiently to cope with it. She would watch him with sleep-drugged eyes, rarely taking in much of what he said. But this morning he shocked her into full and definitely unpleasant wakefulness as he told her, ‘As I said, I’ve made a couple of calls. As soon as we’ve eaten we’ll drive up and visit with Liz and Sal. I know you speak to your mother regularly—’ his eyes pinned her to her seat ‘—but she’s looking forward to seeing you. Us. And tomorrow we’ll go on from there to Litherton. I’ll leave you in Emma’s capable hands until I join you for Christmas. She’ll see you get all the rest you need. And feed you up. You’ve lost weight recently.’ His dark brows rose, as if inviting her to explain why, and she suddenly felt desperately conscious of her body, even though it was adequately concealed by her heavy peacock-blue satin robe.

She put down her fork, her throat clogging up. He wasn’t stupid—far from it. He knew something was going on. He’d walked in on that phone call and didn’t believe her swift assertion that she’d been talking to her mother. So he was going ahead, making sure he found out—or forced her to tell him.

There was no doubt about his genuine wish to visit Liz, see that she was comfortable, had everything she needed, find out from Sally Harding, her mother’s companion, if the elderly lady was as well as she always assured them she was. For Jake had been wonderful with her mother. Liz had never been physically strong and the hard life she’d had meant that her health had suffered, and her future care and downright cosseting had been offered as part of Jake’s side of the marriage bargain they’d made. It, and it alone, had been the factor that had made Claire agree to tie herself to what was, in fact, a purely business arrangement.

But there was more to the visit than that. He was suspicious, and had decided to manage and manipulate her. He’d try to get to the truth through Liz, and if he didn’t—or not completely—he had made other contingency plans. Shut her away at Litherton Court, the Winter family home, where his younger sister, Emma, would keep an eye on her until he turned up for the usual family Christmas.

Christmas was two weeks away.

She straightened her spine, lifted troubled sea-blue eyes to his and said quietly, ‘I have something to tell you.’