Читать книгу A Whirlwind Marriage - HELEN BROOKS, Helen Brooks - Страница 7

MARIANNE got back to the apartment at six-thirty and the Mortons were due to arrive at seven. Zeke met her in the cream-and-grey hall, its immaculate walls devoid of any pictures that would deflect from the gracious lines of the curved moulding at the junction of the ceiling and wall, and he was angry. Very angry. As she had expected him to be.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he bit out tightly, his mouth a thin line.

‘With Pat.’ She walked past him towards the bedroom, praying that the trembling in her stomach wouldn’t communicate itself in her voice.

She had made some serious decisions this afternoon—somehow seeing Pat again had crystallised so many things in such a short time—and she had to be calm and composed when she discussed them with Zeke. Anything less and he would accuse her of running on nothing but emotion again.

‘With Pat.’ Zeke was white with rage, his eyes charcoal with the temper he was trying to contain. ‘And you didn’t think to call and say you’d be late? It didn’t occur to you I might be worried something had happened to you?’

‘What?’ She swung round as she reached the walk-in wardrobe at the far end of the room and her eyes were wide with shock. It hadn’t occurred to her he would be worried, she realised with some dismay, merely that he would be angry she wasn’t waiting at home with his pre-dinner cocktail ready as usual and a welcoming smile on her lips.

‘It didn’t, did it?’ He had read the answer in her guilty face, and his voice had a harsh, gritty sound. ‘Dammit, Marianne, what’s the matter with you!’

‘Me?’ The resolve to remain equable and dispassionate was being put severely to the test.

‘Yes, you,’ he barked furiously. ‘We’ve got the Mortons arriving any moment and as far as I can see nothing is ready—’

‘I couldn’t care less about the Mortons!’ That was all that concerned him at heart, she told herself silently. He hadn’t really been worried about her, just his precious dinner party.

‘Obviously.’ It was bitingly cold. ‘I, on the other hand, do.’

‘Of course you do,’ she agreed bitterly. ‘They come under the heading of “Work”, don’t they? Which takes them into a completely different category to the rest of us poor mortals.’ Like Liliana. He needed her expertise for the new project and so the redhead was important to him—far more important than a stay-at-home wife with no career or obvious virtues Buchanan Industries could use.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He strode over to her, whisking back the door of the wardrobe and gesturing violently at the contents as he said, ‘Get changed quickly and compose yourself.’

‘I’m perfectly composed, thank you very much.’ She drew herself up to her full five feet six inches, her voice icy.

‘Then get this off and do something with your hair.’

It was his disparaging voice as he glanced at her hair—which admittedly was windswept and tousled from the blustery, cold October evening outside the central heated cocoon of the warm apartment—rather than his hand flicking at her jacket which caught Marianne on the raw.

‘Don’t do that,’ she snapped tightly, her own hand pushing his away. ‘Don’t touch me.’

‘Don’t touch you?’ He was astounded; it showed in his dark face and the flare of colour across the hard chiselled cheekbones. It was probably the first time the great Zeke Buchanan had ever had that said to him by a woman, Marianne told herself with a touch of silent hysteria. It was certainly the first time she had ever said it.

‘Yes, don’t touch me,’ she repeated grimly. ‘I’m not one of your possessions, Zeke, whatever you might think. I’m your wife.’

If she had thought he was angry before he was livid now, and as Marianne watched his eyes become coal-black with fury she felt frightened of the demon she had unwittingly unleashed. ‘Dead right you’re my wife,’ he grated slowly. ‘So why don’t you start acting like it and do what you’re damn well told?’

‘You arrogant—’ As her hand came up to strike him he caught her wrist in one swift movement, and then, without warning, he pulled her abruptly into his arms, crushing her against him as she struggled and fought.

‘You’re my wife, I’m your husband, so what the hell is this all about?’ he ground out savagely. ‘What’s got into you all of a sudden?’

And then, before she could answer, he had taken her mouth in one of the scorching kisses he did so well, a kiss which immediately ignited a response deep in the core of her.

It had always been like this; he only had to touch her and she melted for him. She had always been defenceless against his expert sensuality, she thought desperately. But she had to resist him; she had to make him understand how it was.

‘Dammit all, I want you, Marianne.’ His voice was a smothered groan against her mouth, his arousal hot and hard against her softness. ‘I’ve been half out of my mind waiting for you.’

Her fingers fluttered helplessly for a second, but then her hands were at the back of his head as she urged his mouth to a deeper penetration, the sensations only he could produce whirling through her body as his lips ravaged the soft sweetness of her inner mouth.

She was moulded into the hard line of his body, her head thrown back against his muscled arm and her body pliant beneath his dominant frame. He was removing his clothes and hers as he laid her on the warm, thick softness of the bedroom carpet, still covering her face with burning kisses, and then they were naked and she could run her hands over the powerful, hair-roughened chest as he bent over her, his eyes wild and glittering.

He continued to kiss and caress her in spite of the hot urgency of need his body was betraying, and piercing pleasure shot through her as his lips moved down her throat and found the rosy tips of her breasts, the nipples hardening into jutting peaks under the ministration of his tongue.

She was more than ready for him when he entered her, her head turning from side to side in an agony of ecstasy and her hair spread out in a glorious silver cascade of silk that shimmered and rippled with their passion.

He held her close to him once it was over, until their pounding heartbeats quietened and steadied, and then he said, glancing at his watch and with a touch of amusement in his voice ‘We’d better get dressed unless we want our guests to find us in flagrante delicto. And there’s still nothing prepared.’

‘I’ve booked a table at that new Italian place John and Katy raved about last week,’ Marianne said quietly as she sat up in one fluid movement.

She suddenly felt like crying, and she kept her face turned away as she hurried through to the shower, noticing from the wet towels strewn around that Zeke must have showered when he first came home. For the first time since she had met him she was regretting she had made love with him. They needed to talk, everything couldn’t always be made right in bed, she told herself feverishly as she allowed the warm water to wash away the feel of his hands and mouth on her hot skin. He had to understand that she couldn’t carry on as they were for another day. She was losing sight of who she was and it was terrifying.

‘I’ll make up a fresh cocktail shaker while you finish getting ready.’ Zeke’s voice was dark and lazy as he came into the bathroom and talked to her through the glass of the shower cabinet, and for a moment Marianne felt a flood of anger that was all at odds with the image she was going to have to present throughout the evening looming in front of her.

He sounded satisfied, complacent, she told herself tightly—as well he might. He had Liliana drooling over him all day and his wife to satisfy his needs at night—he had it made! She checked the thought in the next moment, recognising it wasn’t completely fair. He hadn’t forced her tonight, she had met him every inch of the way, so she couldn’t very well blame him for her weakness, she admitted miserably. But that was the trouble—she was weak where Zeke was concerned. And it had to change—for both their sakes. She would end up hating him if they carried on like this.

She was aware of the Mortons arriving as she sat drying her hair a few minutes later at the dressing table, but she still took her time in getting ready. Zeke’s barbed observation about her hair had hit hard, for some reason, probably because she was picturing a sleek, beautifully coiffured auburn head in her mind’s eye.

Once her hair was dry she coiled it in a smooth, shining knot on top of her head, before teasing out a few curling tendrils about her face, and then applied her make-up with swift expertise.

The dress she had chosen to wear was a deceptively simple midnight-blue little number, with short sleeves and a high neck, but it fitted her like a glove in all the right places and the colour accentuated her eyes and gave her silver-blonde hair an added lustre. And somehow, for myriad reasons—only a few of which were plain to her—she needed to look her best tonight.

The evening went far better than Marianne had expected on the whole. Gerald Morton she had met before, and thought somewhat arrogant and opinionated, and without realising it she had assumed—erroneously, as it happened—that his wife would be a timid little mouse of a thing. But Wendy Morton was no mouse. She turned out to be a lawyer of some standing, with a manner not unlike Pat’s, and her wicked sense of humour added to a tongue that could be acid on occasion kept the conversation fairly buzzing. Marianne found that she liked the older woman very much, and that Gerald actually improved on further acquaintance; not least because she realised he needed to be assertive and confident to avoid being swamped by his feisty wife.

‘Gerald tells me you and Zeke have only been married a couple of years.’ They had just ordered desserts, and the two men had fallen into the trap of talking business, much to Wendy’s obvious disapproval. ‘Do you intend to make your home permanently in London?’ Wendy asked conversationally. ‘You certainly have a super apartment.’

‘Thank you.’ Marianne hesitated. She could prevaricate or change the subject but everything in her balked at that tonight. ‘I don’t want to stay in the apartment for very much longer,’ she said carefully. ‘It was Zeke’s bachelor pad before we married and I don’t really like it. I’d prefer a house on the outskirts.’

Wendy nodded interestedly. ‘Do you work?’ she asked mildly.

Zeke was still talking to Gerald, but a sixth sense told Marianne he was listening to the women’s conversation, and that more than anything else loosened her tongue. ‘Not at the moment,’ she said evenly, ‘but I intend to look into the possibility of doing a degree course in biology and chemistry with a view to eventually working in a hospital lab.’

‘Really?’ Now Wendy was genuinely interested. ‘My sister did exactly that and she’s never regretted it. She has done a great deal of work with leukaemic children; you must have a chat with her some time.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Marianne eagerly. ‘Thank you.’

They spoke some more, and although Marianne didn’t think Wendy could detect the black waves coming from across the table, she most certainly could.

The desserts were served, and, delicious as Marianne’s poached pears with lemon caramel were, she found she had to force them down. She and Zeke were going to have a row—a great, almighty giant of a row—once they were alone; she just knew it. But she had tried, over and over and over in the last months, to tell him how she felt—about the apartment, going to college, the way he kept her wrapped up in cotton wool and separate from the rest of the world—oh, so many things. And he had brushed her aside or treated her like a child who didn’t know its own mind. Or both.

She couldn’t go on like this any longer, feeling a prisoner in that beautiful, cold, soulless glasshouse Liliana had created for him. And he knew how she felt about the elegant redhead, yet he’d still asked Liliana to take on the project, knowing it would involve them working in each other’s pockets for days on end.

Her parents’ marriage hadn’t been like that. Theirs had been an equal partnership, with giving and receiving on both sides; she knew her father had valued her mother’s opinion and talked everything over with her. She wanted to be loved like that.

She raised her eyes suddenly on the last mouthful of dessert and looked straight across the table at Zeke, and the narrowed grey eyes were waiting for her.

She stared at him, considering him almost as though he were a stranger. He’s magnificent! Her brain told her what she really didn’t want to hear. She would never, ever meet another Zeke; no man could follow him. It wasn’t just the dark good looks, or the brooding magnetism that still had the power to make her weak at the knees, the brilliant force of his personality or the dangerous, almost savage quality to his sensual attractiveness. It was the other side of him, too, the tender, coaxingly soft side that only she saw which in itself made it all the more precious.

He loved her. In his own way he did love her, she told herself silently, but whereas he was all her world she was only one small segment of his. She had to decide whether she was prepared to put up with the status quo or insist on change—change that could mean she would lose him altogether. And there was Liliana—and plenty more Lilianas, no doubt—waiting in the wings should this go against her. She had to remember that.

But she still wanted more than this…this cage he’d manufactured around her. If he really loved her he would understand that, wouldn’t he?

The waiter arriving with their coffee broke the eye contact and Marianne almost slumped back in her seat before she brought herself up straight. She had to be strong; she couldn’t let him intimidate her in any way, this was too important. This situation with Liliana, it had somehow brought to a head everything that had been fermenting under the surface for months.

She had expected Zeke to go for the jugular the moment the taxi dropped the Mortons off at their attractive mews house in Kensington, but after the goodbyes had been said, and they were on their way again he merely settled back in the seat, drawing her arm through his. ‘Tired, sweetheart?’

Marianne’s reply was lost in his leisurely kiss, a kiss that had her dizzy and flushed and warm by the time he’d finished. She had never met anyone who could kiss like Zeke. She had never met anyone who was such a master of manipulation as Zeke! She took a deep breath and prayed for the right words. ‘Zeke, we have to talk. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I can think of better things to do, but if you insist…’ He smiled at her, a slow, sexy smile, and she hoped he couldn’t see the effect it had on her. ‘Wait till we get home, okay?’ he drawled softly. ‘We can have a brandy and talk all you want.’

He smelt delicious—Zeke always smelt delicious; it was one of the first things she had noticed about him—and as Marianne rested her head against his broad shoulder she found herself praying she wouldn’t capitulate to his charm as she had done so many times in the past. It wasn’t that she had set her heart on being a career woman to the exclusion of everything else—she wanted children, Zeke’s children, and a family home and slippers in front of the fire; of course she did—but in this day and age it didn’t have to be one or the other.

He kissed her again once they were in the lift, and she closed her eyes, her arms snaking up round his wide muscled shoulders and her hands tangling in the spiky short hair at the back of his head. His hands swept over her breasts, her thighs, before coming to rest on her neat rounded buttocks as he urged her against his hard maleness until she could feel every inch of his powerful arousal.

‘You’re incredible, do you know that?’ he murmured against her lips. ‘I can never get enough of you.’

The lift slid to a halt and she pushed him away slightly as sanity returned. ‘Zeke—’

‘I know, I know.’ He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners as his thick short lashes swept down, hiding his expression from her. ‘You want to talk first.’

They entered the apartment with his arm round her waist and their bodies touching, but once in the drawing room Marianne purposely seated herself on a blue brocade chair rather than on the sofa, her hands neatly together in her lap and her back straight.

Zeke poured them both a brandy from the gracious cocktail cabinet in one corner of the room, his face faintly amused as he took in her posture.

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was prim as she accepted the heavy crystal brandy glass from him, and she swilled the dark golden contents around for a moment before taking a small sip.

‘So?’ He seated himself on the sofa opposite her after taking off his suit jacket and slinging it on a chair, undoing the first few buttons of his shirt and loosening his tie as he settled back comfortably in the seat. ‘Talk, my sweet. Talk.’

‘My sweet’. It wasn’t so very different from ‘sweetie’, was it? Marianne thought, Liliana’s condescending manner in the forefront of her mind as she stared back into the dark, handsome face opposite her. They both thought she was someone to be patronised in their different ways.

The thought made her voice brittle as she said, ‘I can’t carry on living as we are, Zeke, you must realise that.’

‘Why?’ It was cool and even but not aggressive.

‘Because I don’t like it, for a start,’ she said bravely, her determination slightly aided by the Dutch courage she had imbibed throughout the meal.

‘This little talk couldn’t have something to do with the fact that you’ve spent most of the day with Pat and most of the evening with an equally formidable woman, could it?’ Zeke asked with insufferable pleasantness. ‘Both of whom regard men as infinitely lesser beings?’

‘No, it couldn’t,’ she snapped back quickly. ‘And they don’t, anyway.’

‘They do from where I’m standing.’

‘Then you must be standing in the wrong place.’ Oh, this wasn’t going at all as she had planned, Marianne told herself silently as she watched his face darken. ‘Look, Zeke—’ she took a deep breath and forced her voice down an octave or two ‘—I’m a grown woman and perfectly able to determine what I think without any help from Pat or Wendy. You must have realised things haven’t been good between us for some months now?’

‘The hell I have!’ he said with controlled grimness.

How selfish men could be. As she looked into the breathtakingly attractive face frowning at her Marianne’s heart was thumping at the confrontation. He had effectively ignored her cries for help—both verbal and silent—for months now, wrapped up in his little empire as always. He had been quite happy for her to remain isolated and frustrated as long as his world ticked on as normal. She had been here in her position as the perfect wife as far as he was concerned, cooking his dinner, entertaining his friends and business colleagues, putting his interests before her own and—because she loved him so much—waiting patiently for him to start making a few decisions on things that affected them.

Maybe it would have been different if they had had children? Her heart gave a pang as it always did when she thought of babies, Zeke’s babies. And then again it might have been worse. Perhaps she had to face the fact that there was something integrally wrong in this marriage. Anyway, whatever else, she had been patient long enough.

‘Are you still upset because I gave the contract to Liliana?’ Zeke asked now, a softer note in his voice. ‘Marianne, I needed the best person for that particular job—it’s very important to me—and Liliana is the best interior designer around. That’s all there is to it.’

No, that wasn’t all there was to it, she thought painfully. Oh, why couldn’t he see?

‘Liliana is just a part of it, that’s all,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s much more than that.’

‘What, exactly?’ He leant forward as he spoke, and even at this crucial moment her senses leapt at the dark, virile power that radiated out from him.

‘This apartment, for one thing.’ She waved her hand to encompass the beautiful room. ‘We were going to look for a house together once we came back from our honeymoon; you know that. I’ve never wanted to live in the middle of London and you promised me we’d find a family house on the outskirts somewhere, something that was really ours. But it’s always “tomorrow” or “next week”.’

‘This is ours,’ he said quickly, a note of surprise in his voice.

‘No, it isn’t,’ she said steadily. ‘It never has been. It’s yours, just yours.’ With Liliana’s spectre forever popping up like the evil genie.

‘Okay, we’ll look next week if you—’ He stopped abruptly as her wide azure eyes forced him to hear what he was saying. He ran a hand through his short black crop of hair in an impatient gesture as he rose irritably, walking across to the cocktail cabinet and pouring himself another stiff brandy. ‘Marianne, I’m up to my eyes in this new development, but why don’t you start looking and narrow it down to just two or three for us to look at together?’ he said evenly as he turned to face her again. ‘And if we both like something enough I promise you we’ll take it, okay? I accept we should have moved sooner.’

‘You do?’ She stared at him, hope springing up in her heart. ‘And you promise we’ll move?’

‘I promise.’ And then he smiled his rare, sexy smile as he added, ‘I even promise you can have the last say; you’re going to be there more than me so that’s only fair.’

She should have challenged him on that—their home was to be a new beginning, just as important to him as it was to her, besides which when she started working for her degree and went on to a career it was likely she wouldn’t be at home any more than Zeke—but with him smiling at her like that after the trauma of the last minutes, when she had thought the altercation was going to turn into an argument of momentous proportions, all she felt was overwhelming relief.

She rose to her feet, flying across the room and into his arms as she said excitedly, ‘Tomorrow! First thing tomorrow I’ll start looking! Oh, Zeke!’

And then, as he gathered her into him, his passionate kisses taking them both into a blaze of hungry sexuality where the only thing that mattered was the satiation their lovemaking would bring, nothing else seemed important.

Later, once they had showered and gone to bed—only to love some more before settling down to sleep, entwined in each other’s arms—Marianne lay awake for some time after Zeke’s steady breathing told her he was asleep. A real home of their own would be a new beginning, and she would make it work, she told herself determinedly; she would. She couldn’t live without Zeke, she didn’t want to live without him, and he had met her halfway over this. That was a portent that they’d be happy…wasn’t it?

It took Marianne six weeks of looking, as far away as Reading on the one hand and Watford and Chelmsford on the other, but eventually, in the third week of a bitterly cold November, she came across the house which immediately knocked all the others off her list.

Ironically, considering she had had particulars from umpteen estate agents, it was her father who had put her on to the place. She and Zeke had spent the previous Sunday with him, and when she had mentioned they were looking for a family house—preferably on the outskirts of London somewhere, but with modern motorways distance wasn’t too much of a problem—Josh Kirby had nodded thoughtfully.

‘Funnily enough I might know of somewhere to suit you,’ he’d said quietly as he’d carved the enormous Sunday joint. ‘Old Wilf Bedlows—you remember him, Annie, came to your wedding?—is retiring early; only chatted to him on the phone the other week. He was the only wealthy one among us at medical school; his parents were consultants, so I understand, and as their only son he inherited the family home when they died. Rather than sell it he moved his family in because it was such a beautiful place. Anyway, the kids are grown up and his wife suffers with bad arthritis so they’re leaving England for warmer climates. Portugal, I think, or it might have been Spain.’

‘And they want to sell their house?’ Marianne had asked somewhat wearily. She felt as though she had been rushing from one end of the country to the other for decades, and Zeke hadn’t been very sympathetic when she’d had a grumble the night before. Still, at least they weren’t arguing—they didn’t see each other enough for that since she’d been house-hunting!

‘That’s the idea, although Wilf’s reluctant to put it on the open market, I think. He was born there and I think he’s loath to sell to just anyone. He’s very attached to the old place.’

‘I’m not just anyone.’ She’d suddenly had a good feeling about this.

‘No, you’re not,’ her father had agreed with warm smile. ‘I’ll give Wilf a ring after lunch, if you like, and Zeke can talk to him.’

‘I’ll talk to him,’ Marianne had said firmly. ‘I’m the one in charge of the house-hunting.’

‘Right.’ Her father had raised his eyebrows at Zeke, who had shrugged amiably, and then both men had shared an indulgent, male bonding type of smile. Marianne hadn’t minded; she was determined to find a house and then start on the next phase of her life, and if it could be done pleasantly all well and good. The iron fist in a velvet glove approach had its uses.

Wilf Bedlows’ Victorian white-washed house overlooked a leafy common on the London side of Hertfordshire, and when Marianne arrived to look at the property on a frosty November morning the weak sun was making the frost glitter like diamond dust on the bare trees and frozen grass.

She sat for some time in the warm, comfortable BMW Zeke had bought for her when they had first got married, just looking at the large sprawling house from her vantage point on the quiet country road running parallel with the common. She loved it already.

Wilf and his wife made her very welcome, and their passion for their home was plain from the beginning, each room reflecting the love and enthusiasm they had poured into the property.

When Marianne entered the large, sloping-roofed porch an immediate feeling of peace and tranquillity surrounded her; the two white Lloyd Loom chairs and small cane table suggested the porch would be a delightful suntrap in the summer.

The hall was impressive: mellow tones of ancient oak dominated the vast space, the staircase, doors and wooden floor all reminiscent of another era. And so it continued all through her tour of the house.

Each of the five bedrooms had its own en suite bathroom, the master bedroom overlooking the two acres of ground at the back of the property which were set with informal flowerbeds, flowering bushes and mature trees. Elegant lawns meandered down to the site of a small, exquisitely restored little chapel, surrounded by a bower of roses which Wilf’s wife assured her made a sweet-smelling retreat in the summer months.

The large drawing room, family sitting room, dining room and breakfast room were all enchanting, and the big kitchen—complete with bunches of dried flowers and baskets hanging from the walls and ceiling, which gave the red-tiled surroundings a distinctly Mediterranean feel—had a gallery above it which had been enclosed to make a large, sun-filled study.

It was a family house—warm, vibrant, alive and welcoming—and by the time she left after a delicious lunch Marianne had arranged to bring Zeke down to view that same evening.

She hardly knew what to do with herself on the drive back to the apartment, her heart singing and her mind full of colour schemes and new furnishings. Pale green and a warm, buttery yellow for the drawing room—she had always loathed Zeke’s icy blue and gold—and the sitting room would have a floral theme, with its French windows opening on to the garden. The kitchen—the kitchen would remain exactly as it was. She loved the kitchen. She loved all the house! Oh, she was so happy.

She called Zeke’s office as soon as she got to the apartment, but Sandra, his very able middle-aged secretary, was apologetic. ‘He’s had to fly up to Stoke again, Mrs Buchanan,’ she said quietly. ‘It all happened rather suddenly, a little while ago. He did try to call you but you’d already left Hertfordshire and he couldn’t contact you on your mobile.’

‘I forgot to take it with me,’ Marianne said flatly, feeling a slight sense of anticlimax before she told herself not to be silly. If they couldn’t go to see the house together this evening they’d go tomorrow; it really wasn’t a big deal. And he might be back in time anyway. Zeke had his own helicopter which he used for short trips like this one; he was forever nipping here, there and everywhere. It went with the territory.

Zeke phoned at six o’clock and he sounded harassed. ‘I’m not going to be able to make it back tonight,’ he said through what sounded like a babble of voices at the other end. ‘There’s still a long way to go before we clinch the deal. I’m sorry, Marianne.’

‘It’s okay.’ She bit back the disappointment and made her voice bright as she said, ‘The house was wonderful, Zeke. It’s the one; I’m sure of it.’

‘The house?’ And then immediately, ‘Oh, yes, of course, the Bedlows place. You liked it, then?’

‘I love it,’ she said a little flatly.

‘Good.’ The noise rose in a wave and then died down, and it was in that moment Marianne heard a familiar voice say, ‘Zeke? Are you coming, darling? I’m famished,’ before the babble began again.

Liliana. Marianne stood, the phone pressed to her ear and her body frozen, and stared straight ahead across the room. Liliana was there with him.

‘Look, it’s chaotic now. I’ll phone you later, when we get back from the restaurant.’

She heard Zeke’s voice but the power to respond was just not there. ‘We’. He’d said we. Him and Liliana.

‘Marianne?’

She barely knew what she was doing when she replaced the receiver, but then in the next instant she had whipped it up again, lying it down beside the phone with numb fingers.

Liliana was in Stoke with him. He had taken Liliana with him. After all she had said to him about how she felt about the other woman he had chosen, deliberately, to take Liliana with him on this trip. And now they were staying overnight.

She began to pace back and forth, her mind spinning. Had she made a mistake? It was possible. It was possible. She was clutching at straws and she knew it. Perhaps her mind had played a trick on her. You heard of such things. He wouldn’t have taken Liliana with him; there was no need. The project he had employed the redhead for had nothing to do with the development in Stoke. She must have made a mistake.

She glanced at the address book at the side of the telephone and then picked it up slowly. She shouldn’t do this; she really shouldn’t do this, she told herself sickly as she found Sandra’s home number. She should wait until Zeke came home and then ask him calmly and coolly; that was what she should do. But the way she was feeling right now she’d be a gibbering idiot by tomorrow night.

She dialled the number.

‘Hallo, Amy Jenkins speaking.’

‘Hi, Amy,’ Marianne said carefully to Sandra’s twelve-year-old daughter. ‘Is your mother there? It’s Marianne Buchanan.’

‘Just a minute and I’ll get her.’

Marianne’s heart was thudding so hard she was pressing her hand to her breastbone when Sandra’s concerned voice came on the line. ‘Mrs Buchanan? Is anything wrong?’

‘I’m sorry to bother you at home,’ Marianne said evenly, ‘but I’ve found a financial file regarding the Stoke project which Zeke has left here. Knowing Zeke it’s probably because he doesn’t need it, but I wondered if the financial guys have gone with him anyway?’ She was safe in this; Zeke had left the file in his study, but she knew he had extracted relevant data the night before because she had brought him a cup of coffee just in time to hear him muttering about ‘the useless amount of rubbish cluttering up this file!’

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Buchanan, I’m sure it’s all right,’ Sandra said soothingly. ‘We’d have heard by now if he needed anything.’

‘Did any of the financial team go with him?’ Marianne pressed quietly. And then she took a gamble that made her shut her eyes tightly as she said, ‘Although I suppose there wasn’t a lot of room with Miss de Giraud going, too.’

‘Oh, there would have been room, but Mr Green had gone the day before,’ Sandra explained helpfully. ‘I think Mr Buchanan expected that everything would run smoothly and the solicitors could iron out any little hiccups between them, but of course it hasn’t turned out like that.’

‘No, it appears not.’ Talk naturally. Be upbeat. ‘Not to worry, then, if Mr Green’s there. I hope you didn’t mind me calling?’

‘Of course not, Mrs Buchanan. How’s the house-hunting going?’ Sandra asked cheerfully. ‘Seen anything you like yet?’

They talked briefly for another minute, and then, after thanking Sandra again, Marianne finished the call. But again she placed the receiver next to the telephone. If Zeke rang back she didn’t want to talk to him; she didn’t even want to hear his voice.

She sank down on to the thick carpet as her trembling legs gave way and remained there for some minutes, in too much agony to even cry, her face as white as lint but her eyes burningly dry.