Читать книгу The Price Of A Wife - HELEN BROOKS, Helen Brooks - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

‘JOSIE? There’s a man over there who’s been staring at you for a good ten minutes. Do you know him?’

‘Where?’ As Josie turned, her wide, green-flecked eyes following Penny’s glance across the crowded, noisy room, her face wasn’t even faintly interested. She was used to men staring at her; it came with the territory. As one of the highest paid and most successful promotions executives in London, she knew she presented something of an anomaly to the average male—and one that wasn’t always welcome in the male-dominated environment in which she worked.

Fine-boned and tiny, at five feet one, and with a mass of gleaming Titian-coloured hair, creamy skin and large expressive eyes in a golden honey shade liberally flecked with green, she wasn’t exactly what they’d expected to see if her reputation had gone before her... and it invariably had.

Over the last ten years, since she had first entered the promotions rat race as a nervous but ambitious eighteen-year-old fresh from college, she had established herself as an astute and level-headed businesswoman with a flair for knowing exactly what appealed to the public. Her job was her life; she gave it one hundred per cent commitment and the rewards had been enormous.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Penny muttered impatiently to herself as the crowd surged and moved, the buzz of conversation fierce and loud. ‘Now. Look over there, next to the group from Chantals. He’s still looking this way and you can’t miss him.’

‘Which...?’ Josie’s voice trailed away as she met the full force of a pair of very intent, narrowed eyes set in a hard, tanned face that was all male and quite expressionless. The man was big, very big, darkly imposing and terribly out of place in this crowd of affected, pretentious sycophants who had arrived by invitation for the grand opening of Josie’s latest work project: a flamboyant, madly expensive art gallery in a city already full of art galleries. That much at least registered before she turned sharply away, her stomach lurching.

‘Well? Do you know him?’ Penny asked curiously, her mild brown eyes alight with interest. ‘I know I don’t. If I’d met a hunk like him before I wouldn’t have forgotten.’

‘No, no, I don’t know him.’ Josie’s voice was cool and noncommittal, and not at all as she was feeling inside. She couldn’t remember the last time a man’s glance had affected her like this. She felt ridiculously disturbed and flustered—threatened, almost? She shook the thought away abruptly, furious with herself for allowing it to enter her mind in the first place.

Nerves. This was all just nerves, she told herself firmly. The same ‘first night’ agitation she suffered with all her projects until she knew she had got it right. There was no need to let her imagination run riot, useful though that particular attribute was in her line of work.

She drew herself up to her full five feet one and smiled at her assistant, who was a good six inches taller than herself. ‘We need to circulate, Penny, admire a few pretty feathers and give the old sweet talk. I’ll see you by the main door when the champagne and strawberries are served at seven, OK? We’ll have done our duty by then and things will be winding down.’

‘Fine.’ Penny nodded obediently, her good-natured face setting in a practised smile as she plunged into the mêlée.

‘Josie?’ The owner of the art gallery, a successful and wealthy entrepreneur, who had his finger in more pies than Jack Homer, touched her softly on the arm as she turned. ‘Brilliant success, girl—well done.’ He nodded cynically at the richly dressed, somewhat theatrical assembly. ‘Not exactly my type, if I’m being honest, but you sure pulled in all those who needed to be seen here for the gallery to have credibility.’

‘That is what you paid me to do, Mr White.’ She smiled carefully, her voice and face pleasant but reserved.

The small balding man in front of her had made it plain on more than one occasion that he wanted more than just her business expertise, but she was used to dealing with the Mr Whites of this world, and there was a surplus of them in the city. She was polite, courteous and very adept at deflecting even the most obvious come-on, but underneath the graciousness there was hard-won composure and a firm control that settled even the most ardent suitor when it became necessary. Like now.

‘Quite so, my dear, quite so.’ He patted her arm again, his round face already shiny with perspiration. ‘How about a little drink to celebrate all your hard work when this lot have gone? I’ve got a suite for the weekend in—’

‘I don’t think so.’ She moved an inch or so away, her expression still smiling but her meaning clear. ‘I’ve got a good deal of preparation to do tonight for a meeting tomorrow morning.’

‘You work too hard.’ His tongue flicked reptilean-like over his lower lip, and she just managed to repress a shudder. ‘You ought to have the weekends free to enjoy yourself.’

‘I don’t work every weekend, Mr White,’ she said coolly, ‘just when it’s necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it looks as if Mr Puzo is at a loose end and needs company...’ She turned and walked purposefully over to an influential artdealer, engaging him in conversation until Mr White had drifted away.

At exactly seven o’clock she started to make her way to the door, but stopped abruptly when a sudden break in the crowd showed her who Penny was talking to. That man again. She stared at him, her eyes taking in every little detail of his appearance while she could view him unobserved as he concentrated on Penny.

She had felt his eyes on her more than once as she had circulated the room, had been vitally aware of his dark presence as he had stood somewhat aloof from the rest of the throng by one of the deep, recessed windows. But she had been careful not to let her glance meet his. Why, she didn’t quite know.

Who was he? Her smooth brow wrinkled with curiosity. The guest list had been both exclusive and fashionable, and she had made it her business to be aware of the history of each personage represented there. However, most of the names had had ‘and partner’ written next to them, so she had no means of knowing either who he was with or anything about him other than what she could see. And she had to admit what she could see was... disturbing.

There was a formidable authority about him, a hard, masculine aura that sat on the big body almost challengingly. His hair was black, jet-black, and cut very short, as though he had no time to waste on any sort of excessive grooming, and he was expensively dressed. There was a smooth designer cut to the dark grey suit he was wearing that stood out like a sore thumb against the gaudy wild clothes the art world indulged in.

He looked... She bit her lip, suddenly annoyed with herself as the simile flashed into her mind. But he did. He looked like a dangerous black panther amid a host of vain, preening cockatoos, and the ‘and partner’ label sat badly on such a man. She couldn’t imagine him ever being an appendage to anybody, but who, who was he with? And who was he? And what was the colour of his eyes? His eyes?

She flushed as hotly as if she had voiced the question out loud. Why on earth did she care about the colour of his eyes anyway? She had made up her mind years ago about the road down which she would travel, had to travel, and her plans didn’t include any sort of romantic involvement—light or otherwise. She was being ridiculous, crazy. Perhaps Mr White was right; perhaps she had been working too hard lately. She’d certainly never had this trouble with her imagination before.

‘Josie, darling... Wonderful little reception, you clever girl, you...’

She turned very slowly as she forced a social smile to her face, recognising the voice of one of the female executives from a rival firm. She didn’t dislike Charlotte Montgomery—in fact they shared the same sense of humour, which had smoothed more than one difficult situation in the past—but she knew the other woman had been working hard to secure this particular project, and magnanimity was not one of Charlotte’s virtues.

‘You have obviously got the right touch with Mr White; you’ll have to let me in on your secret some time...’ The words were lazy and without real malice, although their meaning was clear.

Josie knew Charlotte meant nothing personal—she just had to have a little twist of the knife to state her annoyance at losing out to the other woman—but this time Josie didn’t like the innuendo. She had had enough sly digs along the same lines from male colleagues in the past, when her work had been superior to theirs, and she had expected more from Charlotte. Both of them were in highly paid jobs, doing good work and surviving on their own initiative and flair despite high odds, and she had thought—naïvely, perhaps, she acknowledged now—that Charlotte would respect that and leave the sexist talk to the men.

Well, she was blowed if she was going to defend herself. In fact...

‘Well, you know how it is, Charlotte.’ She gave the other woman a brilliant smile as she spoke. ‘The old casting couch still has its uses.’

Charlotte acknowledged the game, set and match with a slight curve of her thin red mouth, but then her light blue eyes widened considerably at something just over Josie’s left shoulder.

‘Miss Owens?’ The male voice was very deep, with a slight husky edge that was undeniably attractive. ‘Your assistant tells me you are due to leave soon.’

She turned to face him slowly, knowing who it was even before her gaze moved up and up to meet the hard-boned face. Silver-grey. His eyes were silver-grey, she thought irrelevantly, like ice-cold honed steel.

‘I...’ He must have heard that last remark, she thought helplessly. How could she explain it had been a play on words, that Charlotte had known it was the very opposite to how it had sounded? ‘I...’ And then she took a firm grip on herself, years of training coming to her aid. ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ she said formally as she held out her hand politely. ‘I’m Josie Owens.’

‘Yes, I know.’ He smiled coolly but it didn’t reach the mesmerising eyes. ‘Luke Hawkton. How do you do?’

His grip was firm and hard and strong, very much like the man himself, she surmised as she found her small hand engulfed in his, only to be released almost immediately.

Hawkton? Luke Hawkton? She had heard that name somewhere before, but for the moment the connection escaped her. It had clearly been just the name she had heard; if she had seen a picture of this man she would have remembered. It was an arresting face, not handsome or even good-looking in the normal run of things, but the cruel sensual mouth and hard, determined jawline spoke of dominant strength, as did the high cheekbones and cold, black-lashed eyes, and there was something about the whole that was far more magnetic than any stock attractiveness.

His dark aura was a subtle emanation of restrained power and authority, but there was something else, a sensual undertone, that brought tiny little flickers shivering down her spine. He was all male, utterly sure of himself, and she had no doubt that he could be as ruthless as the lithe, hard-planed panther she had mentally compared him to earlier. A man to be avoided at all costs, in fact.

‘Miss Owens?’ She suddenly became aware that she had been staring at him almost vacantly for a good fifteen seconds, and that the faintly slanted silver-grey eyes held a thread of amusement in their cool depths. ‘I asked if I could have a word with you,’ he prodded smoothly.

‘Of course.’ Charlotte hadn’t moved from the spot, and now Josie turned to include the tall blonde as she spoke. ‘This is Charlotte Montgomery, a colleague of mine,’ she said with a wave of her hand, but the silver eyes barely brushed Charlotte’s face. He gave her a polite nod and then took Josie’s arm in his hand and guided her away to a far corner of the room before she realised what was happening, leaving Charlotte gazing after them thoughtfully, her blue eyes narrowed.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Hawkton?’ Josie forced all apprehension out of her voice but it was difficult not to feel intimidated by the big masculine figure in front of her. Being so tiny, she had never felt drawn to large, obviously virile men, preferring a slim, more aesthetic type of male to complement her slender fragility rather than a macho man, but she had certainly never felt threatened by a man’s bulk before.

But it wasn’t just that. It was something indefinable about him—insotent, challenging... And something in her own make-up, probably connected with the red hair, she thought with a silent spurt of amusement, was instantly antagonised as well as defensive.

‘I came here today to see you.’ The words hit her with a little shock that she had the sense to hide from the intent gaze.

‘Really?’ She managed a cool and, she hoped, very professional smile. ‘With what purpose, Mr Hawkton?’

The hard mouth twisted in a small smile and she thought she detected approval in his narrowed eyes as he crossed his arms and leant lazily against the cream linen-covered wall behind him. ‘You’re very petite,’ he said softly as his gaze wandered over the whole of her, from the top of her mass of curly red hair, tied high on her head in a restrained knot from which the odd tendril curled tightly, down to her small feet shod in expensive Italian leather court shoes that were nevertheless wonderfully comfortable and practical for a busy day like this one had been. ‘Is that why you keep all that marvellous hair balanced on your head like that?’

‘Not at all.’ Keep calm; don’t rise to his bait, she told herself flatly as she kept the smile in place by sheer willpower. Like most small people, she didn’t particularly like her lack of inches being pointed out—and certainly not by a big brute like this man! ‘I wear my hair like this because it is practical, Mr Hawkton, that’s all,’ she said quietly, with a touch of ice in her voice now that the sharp ears detected immediately.

‘I’ve offended you. I’m sorry.’ He straightened with a smooth twist of his body. ‘You’re sensitive about your height?’

‘No, I am not.’ She eyed him fiercely, her temper rising in line with the colour of her cheeks. What was it with this guy anyway? She had only known him for about sixty seconds and he was asking her the sort of personal questions even her closest friends wouldn’t presume to ask.

‘Good, because it’s captivating,’ he said surprisingly, and there was a look in the silver eyes that told her he meant exactly what he said. ‘Quite captivating. Especially when taken in conjunction with the red hair and beautiful eyes. What colour are they exactly?’ he asked as he leant down and looked straight into her open gaze.

She snapped her head back as though she had been bitten, narrowingly missing knocking a tray of glasses full of champagne out of one of the waiter’s hands. ‘Look, Mr Hawkton, I’ve got things to see to,’ she said tightly, the honey-gold eyes that he had admired flashing green sparks. ‘I happen to be working here, and—’

‘I know.’ He didn’t seem in the least put out by her abruptness. ‘That’s why I came today.’ He smiled lazily.

‘I—’ She stared at him for a moment as her thought process suffered a slight hiccup. Hawkton... Hawkton? She knew she ought to know the name.

‘But I mustn’t keep you,’ he said smoothly as he watched and, she was sure, enjoyed her confusion. ‘Perhaps we could have a word later, before you leave?’

She nodded tightly. ‘Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’

His nod and amused, glittering eyes were an insult in themselves, and she knew her cheeks were burning as she turned from him. The creamy skin that came along with the dark red hair showed even the slightest tinge of colour, and there was more than a tinge today, she thought despairingly. She should have asked him who he was instead of reacting to the conversation like a scalded cat. At least that would have given her a clue to his identity.

She had a brief word with the catering staff to make sure that the champagne would flow until the last guest left when the doors closed at nine, checked that Evans, the security man, was fully aware of all the arrangements, and then signalled Penny to join her as she stepped into the office behind the main gallery. They had only planned to be at the opening for a brief hour or two, but a last-minute panic had stretched out the hours.

‘You go now, Penny.’ Josie smiled at her assistant as she joined her in the quiet office. ‘You’ve put in more than your fair share. And have a lie-in on Monday morning. I won’t expect to see you until lunchtime. You’ve worked late every night this week.’

‘Oh, thanks, Josie.’ Penny smiled her appreciation as she reflected, and not for the first time, that she was very fortunate in having a boss as nice as Josie Owens. ‘Are you sure you won’t need me for the meeting tomorrow morning?’

‘No.’ Josie shook her head as she slipped off the desk on which she had been sitting and walked to the door. ‘It’s just a background fill-in on some new contract Mike and Andy are desperate to secure. I haven’t even glanced at the bumph they threw at us all this morning.’

Mike and Andy were the co-directors and owners of the promotions firm, compulsive workaholics who were positively neurotic about snatching new deals from under the noses of their many competitors in the promotions field. Both men worked seventy- and eighty-hour weeks and expected their six executives, of which Josie was one, to do the same when necessary.

In spite of their extremely high salaries the other five executives, all men, considered themselves ill-used, but Josie didn’t. Her work, her small circle of close friends, her beautiful flat in Chelsea and her cat, Mog, were her life. Fate had made it clear, thirteen years ago, that she couldn’t expect more.

She and Penny left the office together and already the crowd had thinned. Josie signalled to one of the three art gallery staff that they were leaving and received a nod and a mouthed ‘Thank you’ from the middle-aged woman who would be in charge of the daily running of the place, and then she glanced round for Luke Hawkton. She would have to see him before she left, it would be too rude not to, but he didn’t appear to be in the gallery.

And then she saw him, deep in conversation with Mr White, and, almost as though the power of her glance had drawn him, he looked up and straight over to where she was standing, and she knew, she just knew, they had been discussing her. But before she could react, think, even, he had moved swiftly across the space separating them and to her side, his dark face cool and blank.

‘Do I take it you are available for that talk now?’ he asked quietly with a polite nod at Penny, who nodded back, then made her goodbyes and left.

‘Certainly, Mr Hawkton.’ She had to raise her eyes some considerable way to meet the silver-grey gaze, and again the sheer breadth and height of the man sent something hot flickering down her spine, especially when her senses registered a whiff of the most delicious aftershave.

‘Have you finished here?’ he asked smoothly, his face quite expressionless.

‘Finished...?’ She looked sideways at him. ‘I—yes, I’ve done all I can do—’

‘Good,’ he drawled, watching her with narrowed eyes. ‘Then we can talk in comfort, perhaps? There is an excellent little Italian restaurant just a stone’s throw away, so perhaps you would allow me to take you to dinner?’

‘Dinner?’ If he had said he wanted to take her to the moon she couldn’t have been more surprised. ‘B-but—’ Oh, hell, she thought furiously, what was it about this man that made her stutter and stammer like a gawky schoolgirl? She had to pull herself together, and quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hawkton.’ She forced a cool smile and tried for the busy-career-woman brush-off that had always been so successful in the past. ‘I’m afraid I’m busy tonight—’

‘Rubbish.’ It was said so matter-of-factly that for a moment the import of the word didn’t register. ‘Your able assistant—Penny, isn’t it?—told me she had had orders to keep this evening free in case of any disasters here that needed sorting out. Now, I don’t think you are the type of boss to tell the minions something like that and not do the same yourself. There are no disasters; you were about to leave... Need I go on?’

Disasters? If ever a disaster had been facing her this six feet plus of cold steel fitted the bill. ‘I really don’t think Penny had any right—’

‘You are going to be difficult.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘I don’t like difficult women, Miss Owens; I don’t like them at all,’ he drawled slowly, his cool eyes assessing her so thoroughly that she could feel the heat from her skin like a brazier burning from the inside.

‘Don’t you, indeed?’ Suddenly all the gloss and carefully nurtured aplomb of the last thirteen years took a nosedive. Who on earth did this man think he was anyway? She had never met anyone like him in her life before; he took the word ‘arrogance’ into another dimension! ‘Well, perhaps what you like and don’t like are not my problem, Mr Hawkton.’ She smiled icily. ‘And I was being quite genuine when I said I was busy. I have an important meeting tomorrow that I have to prepare for.’

‘And you won’t eat tonight?’ he asked sardonically.

‘I—’ She bit back the hot words that were hovering on her tongue as she noticed one or two interested glances in their direction. Oh, this was ridiculous, crazy. She couldn’t remember being put in a position like this since she was in her teens. ‘Yes, I’ll eat,’ she said, with a calm that was purely surface level. ‘Probably a sandwich, or something, while I work.’

‘I see.’ The silver eyes narrowed still more, and as he crossed his arms, his big chest formidable, she forced her eyes not to waver before his. ‘What a daunting female you are,’ he drawled thoughtfully. ‘Do you frighten away the male population in general, or is it me in particular you have an aversion to?’

‘Don’t tell me I’ve frightened you, Mr Hawkton?’ She managed a mocking smile.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t,’ he assured her with wry amusement. ‘In fact just the opposite, my fiery-haired little sprite. You see, I am a stubborn man, perhaps even inflexible and tenacious at times—’ he smiled grimly ‘—and I have a reputation for always getting what I want. That might be a little exaggerated...’ the narrowed eyes glinted ominously ‘...but only a little. And I have never been frightened by anyone, male or female, in my entire life.’

She could believe it. Oh, she could certainly believe it, she thought silently. Quite why he had caught her on the raw from the very first moment she had seen him she wasn’t sure, but she was sure of one thing at least. Everything about him—his demeanour, the big, hard, aggressive male body, the aura of command and contemptuous authority—grated on her like a nail scratching down a metal surface and brought out the worst in her. It was unreasonable and certainly unfriendly but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t like him. She didn’t like this Luke Hawkton at all, and she knew he knew it.

‘Well, perhaps if you would like to tell me what you wanted to talk about?’ she asked with studied politeness now, as the silence became so charged it crackled. ‘I really do have to get home...’

‘And I wouldn’t dream of delaying you, Miss Owens.’ He was annoyed. He was trying to hide it behind this mask of cool cynicism, but he was annoyed, she thought, with a moment of satisfaction she was immediately ashamed of. She imagined he didn’t have too many women refusing an invitation to dine with him; it was probably a new experience for him and one he clearly didn’t relish. ‘Another time will do.’

‘It will?’ Suddenly, and quite irrationally, she wanted to know what he had been going to say. He wasn’t the sort of man who would stage a casual pick-up; she was sure of that—besides which, he had already intimated that he had come to the opening of the gallery knowing she would be here. But how had he known? ‘Who are you with?’ she asked, with an abruptness she realised bordered on rudeness. ‘Here—now?’

‘Here—now?’ He repeated her words with an insolent smile that had no warmth in its mocking depths. ‘I am alone, as it happens. Does that matter?’

‘But’ She gazed up at him, her creamy skin and dark red hair a wonderful foil for the wide honey-gold eyes with their emerald flecks. ‘I sent out the invitations and—and your name wasn’t there,’ she continued bravely as the silver eyes iced over still more.

‘True...’ He clearly had no intention of embroidering on the one word of agreement, and she didn’t know quite how to continue without turning it into an accusation. He must have had a special invitation, or been with someone who had, to get past the security set-up, she thought flatly. He must have...mustn’t he?

‘Would you like to see my credentials, Miss Owens?’ With a little shock of anger she realised he was laughing at her, albeit silently; the gleam in the silver-grey eyes and the slight twist to the hard, firm mouth spoke of definite amusement.

‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’ She tried for a coolness that didn’t quite come off when matched with the fire in her cheeks. ‘I’m sure you’re bona fide—’

‘How? How are you sure?’ His tone was harder now, sharp. ‘How do you know I’m not a terrorist, or some other undesirable who has tricked his way into this place? There’s a hell of a lot of money on these walls today, after all—several paintings have been borrowed from private collections and are worth a great deal. How do you know I haven’t been planning some sort of heist for weeks?’

‘I—’ Oh, help—he hadn’t, had he? she thought, momentarily panic-stricken, before both the recollection of the security arrangements she had made and her natural common sense reasserted themselves. ‘By several things,’ she answered calmly as their glances locked and held. ‘One, you are wearing one of the little metal tags we had made which are specially coded and numbered against the invitations.’ She indicated a small narrow clip-badge on the lapel of his jacket. ‘Two, there is only one way in through the front door today; the other door at the back of the gallery is bolted and alarmed and I checked it some time ago. And there are several other security precautions which it wouldn’t be advisable for me to reveal that also make it impossible for anyone to gatecrash,’ she added primly.

‘Also, I have heard one or two people speak to you by name, so you are clearly known to them.’ She hadn’t meant to add that bit; it had just sort of slipped out. Now he would think she had been watching him, listening, and that was the last thing she wanted this mass of inflated ego to think, she thought irritably.

‘I’m impressed.’ The dark head nodded reflectively. ‘Yes, I have to say I am quite impressed, Miss Owens. You are all they said and more.’

‘All who said?’ she asked quickly as her stomach tensed.

‘Ah, now, that’s another story, and you’ve already indicated your time is precious,’ he said lazily. ‘I mustn’t keep you.’

The supercilious swine was certainly getting his own back, she thought tightly, but it didn’t look as if his-interest in her was on a personal level, as she’d thought at first. She waited for a feeling of relief that didn’t materialise and put it down to the fact that she still didn’t know why he had approached her.

‘Goodbye, Miss Owens. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.’

He was leaving? And then, before she could do anything about it, he had reached forward and taken her small hand in his, raising her fingers to his lips in a brief salute that nevertheless reacted on her taut nerves like liquid fire as his flesh made contact with hers.

She was aware that she had snatched her hand away with more vigour than tact at the same time as he straightened, his face expressionless as he looked down into her hot eyes.

‘Daunting...’ The murmur was faint, but quivered with a dark amusement that made her want to kick him, hard, although she found herself frozen in front of him as the silver gaze held hers, merely staring up at him with large, expressive eyes. Then he bowed slightly before turning abruptly and leaving the gallery without a backward glance.