Читать книгу The Bride's Secret - HELEN BROOKS, Helen Brooks - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

MARIANNE had never been more relieved in the whole of her life than she was when a childish whoop of glee sounded from the house behind them, and a small body hurtled over to wind itself round Hudson’s legs, drawing away his attention and breaking his furious gaze.

‘Abdul, my little friend...’ Hudson immediately became the benevolent uncle figure, bending down to lift the small boy into his arms as he spoke. And almost in the same instant a man and a woman, the former in westen dress and the latter in a long, flowing jellaba but without a veil, appeared in the open doorway.

The following minutes of greetings and introductions took them into the house—which was as beautiful inside as out. It was wonderfully cool with its marbled floors and shaded inner courtyard complete with tinkling fountain and huge, leafy palms. Admiring their surroundings and making small talk with their hosts, and their small son, Abdul, eased the tension between her and Hudson.

Idris and his wife, Fatima, didn’t appear to think it at all odd that Hudson had brought her along; in fact such was their open-handed hospitality and genuine delight that Marianne began to feel like an old friend, rather than a stranger in their midst.

‘Have you known Hudson long?’ She was sitting with Fatima on a long, low sofa in a shady part of the courtyard, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice flavoured with limes and lemon. The men had departed to Idris’s study to see his new computer set-up, with Abdul still in Hudson’s arms.

‘Idris has known him since they were students together in the States,’ Fatima answered quietly. ‘But I first met Hudson on the day I married Idris, five years ago.’

‘They seem very good friends,’ Marianne observed, taking another sip of the deliciously cold drink. ‘They’re obviously very fond of each other.’

‘This is true.’ Fatima spoke perfect English with a quaint preciseness that was charming. ‘Hudson helped Idris on the death of his first wife—you know Idris was married before?’

Marianne shook her head quickly. ‘No, no, I didn’t.’

‘She was killed in an automobile accident,’ Fatima said quietly, ‘with their two children. The chauffeur also was killed. It was very hard for Idris, and Hudson—how do you say it?—dropped everything. Idris often says he does not know what he would have done if Hudson had not been there. He stayed with him many weeks. Hudson is a very compassionate man, yes?’

‘Yes...’ Compassionate? He might be; she really didn’t know, Marianne thought numbly. Their whirlwind romance had lasted almost two months, and from the day they’d met they had barely been apart for more than a few hours. But...she hadn’t got to know him—not really—not properly. It had been crazy, unreal—they had been locked into their own little world where everything had been vibrant and vivid and magical, and where one glance, one lingering look, had had the power to send her into the heavens. They had barely talked about their respective pasts, and the future had been nothing more than a rosy dream. It was the present that had been real, and they had known their immediate time together was limited.

Hudson had taken a three-month sabbatical from his law firm and had already used a month of that time before he had met her, and Marianne had had a new job waiting for her in Scotland. But on the night he had asked her to marry him—and she had accepted—she had known she would follow him anywhere. It had made the next few hours all the harder.

‘Is it not...?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Marianne came to with a jolt to realise Fatima had been speaking and she hadn’t heard a word. She blushed hotly, forcing herself to give all her attention to the Moroccan woman.

‘I said your job must be very interesting, Marianne.’ Fatima was too sensitive and far too well-bred to show open curiosity, but it was clear she was wondering where Marianne fitted into Hudson’s life, and after a somewhat cagey conversation Marianne was relieved when the men returned and they all went through to the dining room to eat.

The meal was in traditional Moroccan style—everyone seated on sofas around a low table—and before they ate they were given towels and rose-water in order to wash their right hands—the hand Moroccans used to eat from the communal dishes they favoured. Marianne had heard of the custom, but only having eaten at the hotel—which was distinctly European—had never seen it in action.

She found it fascinating to watch the others reaching into a big bowl of couscous, picking up olives and raisins with three fingers, twirling them round in the creamy mixture and then popping them into their mouths. Normally she would have thoroughly enjoyed the experience—the table was full of mouth-watering dishes that smelt divine—but her stomach was so knotted with nerves, she could barely force anything past the constriction, and each mouthful was an effort of will.

Why had Hudson brought her here? The question was drumming in her head all through the meal and the subsequent conversation over coffee. She hadn’t seen him for two years. They both had separate lives now—and if the tall, elegant redhead was anything to go by he hadn’t exactly pined away for her, she thought with a touch of bitterness. He must hate her—he did hate her; he’d made that plain—so why bring her to his friend’s home and act as though she was with him? Why put them both through such torment?

She didn’t understand it and she didn’t understand him, but he made her nervous—very nervous. She had never imagined he was a man who would forgive easily, but this—there was no rhyme or reason to it.

It was after eleven when they left Idris and Fatima, and the soft indigo dusk had given way to a black velvet sky pierced through with hundreds upon hundreds of bright, twinkling stars, the darkness perfumed with the heavy, rich scent of magnolia flowers.

It was a beautiful night—romantic, gentle, the full moon silhouetting the eastern horizon of flamboyant mosques and towering minarets with ethereal charm—but Marianne had never felt so tense and nervous in her life. Just sitting beside Hudson made her as jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof, and she knew he sensed her agitation. Sensed it and was satisfied by it.

‘You are frightened of me?’ The dark, deep voice was silky-soft, but caused her to straighten her backbone as she glanced at the ruthlessly cold profile.

‘Of course not,’ she lied tightly, her voice cold and even.

‘No?’ The query was soft, charged with dark emotion.

‘No.’ She forced her hands, which had been clasped in tight fists on her lap, to relax before she said, her voice as steady and unemotional as she could make it, ‘Why? Should I be?’

‘Most certainly.’ It wasn’t the reply she had expected, and as her eyes widened with the shock of it her heart went haywire.

‘You walked out on me, Annie, and no one had ever done that to me before. I didn’t like it.’ It was the understatement of the year, and delivered in such an expressionless voice that her blood flowed cold. ‘I didn’t like it at all.’

‘I... I explained—’

‘We had an agreement, Annie.’ He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘An agreement you welshed on. How do you think I should deal with that?’ he asked coldly, his eyes on the road in front of them.

She stared at him warily, quite unable to gauge anything from the cool mask he could don at will and which proved so formidable in the courtroom. He was formidable, terrifyingly so.

‘Now look, Hudson—’

‘No, you look!’ It was an explosion, hot and acidic, and as she felt herself shrink in the seat it dawned on her that he was furiously angry—that he had been furiously angry from that first moment of meeting her again. The fact that he had been holding the rage in didn’t comfort her in the least, merely emphasising, as it did, the almost superhuman power and control he could exert over his emotions when he chose to do so. But the fury was still there, just waiting to escape the iron constraint and devour her, she thought shakily. And it had had two years to simmer and burn.

‘You didn’t seriously think I would just say hello and goodbye, did you?’ he asked coldly. ‘You owe me, Marianne McBride-Harding.’

‘I owe you?’ She was scared to death but she was blowed if he was going to bully her like this, and the sarcastic intonation of her name brought a welcome surge of angry adrenalin to melt the chill his intimidation had wrought on her psyche. ‘Think again, Hudson,’ she said tightly. ‘I owe you nothing and you know it.’

‘I’ve thought, Annie, I’ve thought long and hard,’ he grated slowly. ‘I’ve had two years to think, haven’t I? Does the current boy wonder know what a cheating little liar you really are? Or are you stringing him along the way you did me?’

‘Who...?’ And then she realised. ‘Keith? Keith is just my boss—’ Keith? He seriously thought she was interested in Keith?

‘And I’m Father Christmas,’ Hudson said cuttingly.

‘You don’t believe me?’ she asked hotly, aware that he was driving far too fast along the badly lit Moroccan roads but too angry to care. ‘You think I’d lie just for the sake of it?’

‘You find that surprising?’ he rasped scathingly, his lips compressing in one straight, angry line. ‘I believed you once, my faithless siren, but never again. This time the old adage once bitten, twice shy holds fast. Mind you—’ he glanced at her, the movement lightning-fast but savage ‘—I think even you will be hard pressed to explain where you have been all evening.’

She stared at him, too stunned to reply as a hundred and one thoughts chased themselves through the turmoil of her mind. This had been a calculated exercise on his part, she told herself weakly, a cold-blooded, determined effort to make Keith think—Think what? she asked herself painfully as a sickening flood of desolation and despair washed over her. That she had been with Hudson in the biblical sense of the word—slept with him? Surely even Hudson wouldn’t do that...? ‘I shall simply tell him the truth,’ she informed him through lips that were beginning to tremble.

‘A novel experience for you, I’m sure,’ he said mockingly. ‘But you don’t think he will find it a little...farfetched ? You accept a lift from a man you used to know—years ago,’ he emphasised with a bitter twist to his lips, ‘and then, instead of appearing bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as arranged, you are hours late. And the reason? You went to dinner with friends?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Surely even this youthful-looking child will not accept such a story?’ he asked with dark satisfaction.

‘But it’s true,’ she protested angrily. ‘You know it is.’

‘I know it is. Idris and Fatima know it is.’ The hard voice was merciless. ‘But Keith will believe whatever I want him to believe. I met you by chance. I gave you a lift by chance. How could I have set up an evening such as you will describe?’

‘Because...because your friend couldn’t go with you to Idris’s house, and you saw me and asked...’ Her voice trailed away as he shook his black head slowly, his profile without mercy.

‘I came to Tangier alone,’ he said softly, ‘as the hotel will confirm. You have no proof that there is a friend.’

‘But I saw you with people this lunchtime.’ In spite of the dire situation she couldn’t bring herself to mention the redhead specifically. ‘You know you were with—with them.’

‘Pure chance.’ His smile was without humour. ‘Prove otherwise.’

‘But you told Idris and Fatima you were bringing someone,’ she insisted desperately. ‘You arranged it with them.’

‘Yes, I did.’ A brief pause and then, ‘But you do not know their surname, where they live, their telephone number. You will not be able to substantiate your story to the anxious Keith’

‘I shan’t need to give proof.’ She raised her head proudly. ‘Keith will believe me,’ she declared firmly.

‘A man in love is a jealous man, Annie,’ he said coolly. ‘And jealous men are not reasonable at the best of times. And this...this will not be the best of times. Keith imagines he loves you.’

‘You would lie?’ she asked dazedly. ‘You’d really do that?’

‘Without hesitation.’ It was immediate and cold.

‘But I’ve told you, he isn’t my boyfriend.’ She glared at the imperturbable profile, her eyes fiery. ‘It’s all in your imagination.’

‘Then you have no cause to worry that pretty little head, have you?’ he said urbanely. ‘All, as they say, is well.’

But it wasn’t. A picture of Keith’s face as it had been that lunchtime was suddenly there in front of her, and snippets of their conversation echoed in her mind. He had told her she wasn’t over Hudson, at the same time as making it plain he cared about her. The way he had reacted to Hudson—his attitude towards her—it all confirmed her suspicions that Keith wanted more than just a working relationship.

‘Don’t ever try to play poker, Annie.’ The voice was livid. ‘And, as far as I’m concerned. I’m doing the guy a favour. At least he gets a warning, which is far more than I did.’

‘It’s not like that.’ She had never wanted to hit someone so much in her life. ‘I’ve told you, Keith and I are just friends.’

‘Spare me.’

How could she hate someone, really hate them as she did Hudson at this minute, and yet love them so much it was a physical pain in her heart? Marianne asked herself bleakly as she settled back in her seat helplessly. And yet could she blame him for being like this? What would she have been like if the situation had been reversed and it had been Hudson who had walked out on her after that glorious two months they had shared? She would have wanted to kill him. It had been bad enough for her, knowing she had to go. But him...

She stared miserably through the dark windscreen as the car flashed swiftly through the black Moroccan night, her eyes blind.

She had been so happy when Hudson had asked her to marry him that night—ecstatic, wild with joy... She had known, from the first moment of meeting him, that there would never be anyone else for her, but that he’d felt the same had been too wonderful, too glorious to be true. He was an assured, astute man of the world, powerful, commanding, with a reputation that went before him to oil wheels and pave the way in a manner that had left her breathless. People held him in awe—not just for his wealth and formidable influence, but for the razor-sharp, ruthless intelligence that ravaged those foolish enough to try to deceive him.

He was incorruptible and totally honourable—and that in a profession known for its subtle, and at times doubtful, elucidation of the law. He had his own moral code and he stuck to it—whatever pressure was brought to bear by colleagues or criminals. And he had loved her. It had seemed like a fairy tale, a dream, when he could have had any woman he wanted just by lifting his little finger. Beautiful, sophisticated, experienced women who would know all there was to know about pleasing a man.

She had mentioned Hudson in her letters home to her mother in Scotland, unable to hide her happiness, but had been less than pleased when her mother and stepfather had popped up in France the day before Hudson had asked her to marry him. Not that she hadn’t been pleased to see her mother, but her stepfather...

Michael Caxton, an American living and working in Scotland for a big American company, had married her mother after a whirlwind courtship eighteen months before when Marianne had been at university, and from the first moment of meeting him after the marriage she had disliked him. He’d been too handsome, too charming-too much of everything. But her mother had loved him, and, having struggled on her own for five years after the death of Marianne’s father, she had seized the chance of happiness with both hands.

So Marianne had kept her reservations to herself on her visits home, maintaining a surface civility whilst praying that her distrust and misgivings were unfounded. But they hadn’t been, she reflected flatly.

Michael had still been up when she had got home on the night of Hudson’s proposal—her mother, aunt and uncle having long since retired—and she had known somehow, as soon as she’d walked through the door, that his guise of being unable to sleep because of toothache was a lie. His eyes had been too sharp, too cunning.

‘Nice evening?’ It was deliberately casual.

‘Yes, thank you.’ She forced a smile whilst hoping she could escape with the minimum of conversation. He scared her.

‘Getting on well with Hudson, are you?’ he asked smoothly.

‘Very well.’ She looked straight at Michael then to find the pale blue eyes tight on her face. ‘Do you know him?’ she asked quietly as some sixth sense sent cold trickles down her spine. This was all about Hudson somehow; she felt it in her bones.

‘I know of him.‘ Michael smiled but it didn’t reach the unblinking orbs, and she realised then, as a warning bell began to clang stridently in her brain, that his smiles never did. His eyes were the eyes of a shark—empty, cold, dead... ‘Oh. yes, I certainly know of him. He’s a one-man vigilante for law and order in the States, an advocate for the all-American way.’

‘Well, that’s good, surely?’ she replied warily, the fierce joy and excitement that had carried her into the house on wings beginning to die. ‘We need order and laws, don’t we?’

‘Probably... for the masses,’ Michael drawled slowly. ‘Those content to be led all their lives, who want nothing more than a paltry monthly pay cheque that enables them to scrape through to the next month.’ It was clear he didn’t put himself in that category.

‘And you’re not like that?’ She suddenly would have given the world to step back in time an hour and not be there. She was going to hear something she didn’t want to hear; the hairs that were standing up on the back of her neck told her so. ‘You’re different?’

‘How do you think I bought the place in Scotland, Marianne?’

Michael had been living in a hotel when he’d first met her mother, but a few weeks before the wedding he had bought what virtually amounted to a small castle, complete with acres of grounds housing a lake, deer—and had taken great delight in acting the feudal lord.

‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘I haven’t thought about it.’

‘Use your imagination.’ And then as she still stared at him with great, accusing eyes, he snapped, ‘And don’t look at me like that, damn you. You either make it or you don’t in this wodd—there are only two choices—and to make it you take all the help you can get. I’ve...done favours for people, bent the rules a little, oiled wheels,’ he finished softly, his eyes narrowed and hard.

‘But you’re an accountant,’ she murmured naively. ‘How—?’

‘Hudson is going to get offered a case in the next little while, and if he takes it it could prove...uncomfortable for people who have been very good to me. If the dirt starts to fly it’ll come my way too, and a little bit of dirt contaminates everything it comes into contact with—your mother, you—and if you’re with Hudson...’

‘What... what case?’ she asked through numb lips.

‘Things have been hotting up for some time, but eighteen months ago certain people decided I’d better leave the States and lie low—subpoenas have a nasty habit of rearing their heads when you least expect them,’ he continued almost matter-of-factly.

‘Does my mother know?’ She couldn’t believe the conversation was really taking place, not here, in her aunt’s pretty little sitting room. ‘Does she know why you left the States?’

‘Of course not. I never discuss my business with anyone,’ he drawled softly, his voice at odds with the intensity of the chillingly cold eyes. ‘It is...personal.’

‘Then why are you telling me?’ she asked bewilderedly.

‘Think, girl, think!’ The words were harsh before he collected himself and continued in the same soft tone as before, ‘It is clear from what you’ve told your mother that you have some influence with Hudson de Sance, and that is a bonus we could never have arranged if we had tried for years. If de Sance doesn’t take the case it will come to nothing, end of story.’ He smiled meaningfully.

‘You’re asking me to persuade him not to take it?’ she asked numbly. ‘Is that what this is all about? You expect me to do that?’

‘Exactly.’ Now the soft voice was persuasive. ‘It will be best for everyone concerned—you see that, surely? Me, your mother, you—even Hudson. It will not do his sterling reputation any good when it comes to light he’s having an affair with the daughter of one of the men he’s prosecuting. And it would come to light...’

‘I am not your daughter,’ she shot back bitterly.

‘The media won’t see it like that,’ he countered darkly.

‘And it’s not an affair, not like you mean. He...he wants me to marry him,’ she said desperately. ‘He loves me.’

‘Does he? Does he indeed...?’ Michael nodded reflectively. ‘Better and better.’

‘I hate you.’ She glared at him, her eyes blazing. ‘You married my mother purely as a cover, didn’t you? And you’ll dump her as soon as it suits you. You don’t love her, you’re incapable of love. I bet you couldn’t believe your luck when I began to date Hudson—’

‘A gift from the lap of the gods,’ he confirmed sardonically. ‘And definitely not to be ignored. Now, if you’re clever, Marianne, you’ll use this for your own advantage. I can make you a very wealthy woman in your own right, and as Hudson’s wife...’

‘Even if I agreed to this, it wouldn’t be just this one time, would it?’ she said bitterly. ‘You’d put Hudson in a terrible position, use emotional blackmail about me and my mother, threaten to blacken his name through me if he didn’t agree to what you and your friends want. He would never be free of you.’

‘It would be just this once; you have my word,’ he said smoothly, but she saw the look in his eyes and knew she was right.

‘Your word?’ she repeated scathingly. ‘You’re despicable, filthy. I can’t bear that my mother has allowed you to touch her.’

‘Careful, Marianne, be very careful,’ he warned silkily. ‘I can break her and I can break you, and my friends have extensive influence. Just be sensible and all this can be worked out very nicely.’

But she didn’t behave according to Michael’s definition of sensible. She escaped to her room and sat there for hours, her mind desperately seeking a release from the horror, only to come to the conclusion that there wasn’t one. She couldn’t put Hudson through the torment that her revelation would involve—whichever course of action he took. Either he compromised everything he had built his life, character and reputation around—and Michael would make sure he kept on compromising, too—or he would have to fight her stepfather and his criminal friends, and in the process, through his relationship with her, mud would stick to him, too. It was a no-win situation whichever way she looked at it.

Unless she left Hudson now. Disappeared out of his life. Disappeared out of everyone’s life. Her heart pounded furiously, but it was the only way.

She wrote three letters. One to her mother, explaining everything. One to Michael, informing him she was going where no one would find her and that she was telling Hudson nothing except that their relationship was over. And one—the most difficult—to Hudson. And then she packed, left the house before dawn, and once in England made for London, her mind and emotions shattered.

She couldn’t remember much now about the first few months, although she had survived somehow—living in a tiny bedsit and working as a waitress, her mind on automatic most of the time. Later she’d realised she had had some sort of mini-breakdown, but at the time she had just got through each day as it came, the blackness in her soul absolute.

The thing that had shocked her out of the stupor was seeing an old friend from her home village purely by chance, and learning in the middle of a crowded café that her mother and Michael were dead, killed in a car crash the day after they had returned to Scotland. It had been like a blow straight between the eyes.

She had grieved desperately for her mother, hated Michael with a vengeance that had shocked her, longed for Hudson with renewed intensity. But gradually, over the following weeks, she had come to the realisation that she was thinking and feeling and living again—even if the main element to it all was suffering. Agonising suffering.

‘Would you like me to hold your hand while you face the music?’

‘What?’ The dark, silky voice had intruded into the nightmare world with all the softness of cold steel, but as she came out of her reverie she saw her hotel looming up in the distance and a new sort of panic rose. ‘Oh, no, I don’t; of course I don’t,’ she snapped testily—hating him, loving him, feeling as though she couldn’t take much more without howling like a baby.

‘He might wonder why you didn’t phone him to tell him where you were,’ Hudson suggested quietly. ‘I wondered that myself. Why didn’t you?’ The grey eyes flashed her way for one vital second.

Because it simply hadn’t occurred to her, she thought helplessly. She hadn’t thought of Keith once, not once, through the evening; all her thoughts and emotions had been tied up with the tall, ruthless man at her side. ‘It wasn’t necessary,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t answer to Keith or anyone else.’

‘Hmm. independent, eh?’ he drawled easily. ‘Funny, I don’t remember you as quite so militant when you were with me.’

She wasn’t militant, she was melted jelly inside, Marianne thought with painful self-awareness; but the time had long since passed when she could have explained her actions to him. Perhaps if she had known about Michael’s death when it had happened—had gone to Hudson then and told him everything—things might have been different now. But then again Michael’s untimely death hadn’t negated any of her reasons for leaving Hudson. The contact with her would still have been there; the people Michael had been involved with could still have tried to discredit Hudson through her. Whichever way she had looked there had still been no solution.

When she had found out about the car crash she had contacted the family solicitor, and had been amazed to find Michael and her mother had left everything to her in a will they’d made when they had married. Michael’s wealth had been considerable, and she would never forget the absolute shock and amazement on the solicitor’s face when she had insisted on giving everything she had inherited to charity. But to her it had been blood money—tainted, unclean—and she had only been able to breathe freely again when every last penny had gone, even though part of it had been from her mother’s estate.

‘Here we are. And look who’s waiting like an anxious mother hen,’ Hudson said softly, and nastily, as the sports car growled to a stop outside the hotel and Hudson cut the powerful engine.

Marianne looked, and then felt a pang of deep and mortifying guilt as she saw Keith’s worried face—which was made all the worse by the knowledge that Hudson’s cruel analogy wasn’t far off beam.

‘I suppose a goodnight kiss is out of the question?’ Hudson drawled with mocking amusement, his good humour apparently restored at the sight of Keith practically dancing in agitation as he raced down the steps towards them.

‘You’re a rotten swine,’ she hissed furiously.

‘I know...’ His voice carried a wealth of satisfaction.

As Keith reached them and opened the passenger door Hudson left the driver’s seat to stand just outside the car, his brawny arms leaning on the top of the vehicle as he watched Marianne alight.

‘Where have you been?’ Keith’s voice was several octaves higher than normal, his round, boyish face flushed and perspiring. ‘I expected you to be here when I got back this afternoon, and then I thought you’d at least be back for dinner.’

‘I’m sorry—’ Marianne began quickly, but the tirade continued.

‘I’ve been worried to death, and none of the others knew where you were.’ He was ignoring Hudson as though the big figure watching them with such obvious satisfaction didn’t exist. ‘Couldn’t you have phoned or something? Just a few words to say where you were?’

‘It was my fault, I’m afraid.’ Hudson’s voice was like smooth cream, and even a babe in arms would have been able to tell he was enjoying every minute. ‘We... had dinner with some friends.’

How could he make the truth sound so much like a lie? Marianne thought savagely. He’d done that on purpose—that brief pause which had made what followed sound even more unlikely. Oh, she hated him!

‘Isn’t that so, Annie?’ He made the pet name take on soft and unbelievable connotations as he shifted his big body lazily, his eyes glittering in the muted light from the hotel.

‘Yes, yes, it is.’ Well, it was. “They...these friends of Hudson’s had prepared us a meal,‘ she continued helplessly as Keith drew back slightly, disbelief written all over his face. ‘It—it would have been rude...I—I couldn’t really leave,’ she stammered.

‘And they didn’t have a phone?’ Keith asked tightly.

Oh, she wished he’d leave this until they were alone and she could explain properly, Marianne thought desperately, vitally aware of the entertainment value the little tableau was affording Hudson. Couldn’t Keith see he was playing right into the other man’s hands? Apparently he could’t

‘Well? Did they have a phone?’ Keith repeated snappily.

‘I...I don’t know.’ She stared at him unhappily. ‘Can’t we discuss this inside?’ she suggested quietly. ‘Please. Keith?’

‘Yes, they have a phone.’ The deep voice spoke again from the other side of the car. ‘We just didn’t think of it, I’m afraid. Enjoying ourselves too much, I guess,’ Hudson added smoothly.

She’d hit him. She would—she’d hit him. Marianne took a deep breath and prayed for calm. ‘Keith, I really can explain—’

‘We are shooting at five tomorrow morning, Marianne, and I would appreciate you being in the lobby at half past four.’ Keith had drawn himself up to his full five feet nine inches, quivering hot outrage in every line of his pink face. ‘It is important we catch the dawn light, so don’t be late,’ he added sharply.

‘No, of course I won’t, but if I could just explain—’

‘Goodnight, Marianne.’ He strode back into the hotel without looking back, his back stiff and his head upright.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ She rounded on Hudson like a small virago. ‘I’ve never seen him like that. How could you?’

‘Easily; the man’s a fool,’ Hudson said drily. ‘Hasn’t he heard of the concept of fighting for what he wants? Or has everything dropped into his lap so readily he’s nothing more than spoonfed? Faint heart never won fair lady, and all that.’

‘You know nothing about Keith.’ She was angry, furiously angry, at his arrogance. ‘He’s a lovely man—gentle, good-natured—’

‘So is the average cocker spaniel,’ he returned coolly, and in her rage she didn’t notice how his mouth had thinned with her championship of the other man. ‘But the attributes that make a pet dog so worthy would soon pall in a lover, believe me.’

‘He is not my lover!’ she spat heatedly. ‘He never has been.’

‘He’d like to be.’ It was straight for the jugular, and so true she was lost for an answer. ‘And you know it,’ he added grimly as her fiery face spoke for itself. ‘So cut the twaddle.’

‘Is that why you behaved like this tonight?’ she asked hotly. ‘Because you know—?’ She could have kicked herself for the slip, and continued quickly, ‘Because you think he loves me?’

‘I think he imagines he’s in love with you,’ Hudson answered cynically. ‘Which is quite a different thing, as we both know. He doesn’t know you any more than I knew you—he loves the fantasy you project, like I did. With me, I guess it provided a kick to the holiday for you to have a little fling before you returned home to your fiancé, yes? With him, no doubt, it’s good to have the boss panting for you—gives you the edge over the rest of the girls.’

‘You’re disgusting,’ she bit out tightly, masking the pain and crucifying hurt his words had caused with superhuman effort.

‘Realistic is the word.’ He surveyed her coldly with dark, narrowed eyes, his black hair and the shadowed planes and angles of his face bleak in the moonlight. ‘Yes, I’m realistic about you now, Annie. I only get taken for a ride once; you’d better understand that.’

‘I didn’t take you for a ride,’ she protested shakily. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ She stared at him helplessly, her mouth tremulous.

‘No? Then what do you call it when you agree to marry one man, knowing there’s already another tucked away back home you’re promised to?’ he spat out menacingly. ‘Tell me; I’d really like to know.’

‘It wasn’t true, what Michael told you.’ She stared at him, her green-gold eyes reflecting a shaft of moonlight that turned her hair silver. ‘He had no right to say what he did.’

‘Wasn’t true?’ He laughed harshly. ‘Oh, come on, Annie, don’t disappoint me now; you can do better than that.’

‘It wasn’t,’ she insisted quietly. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

Then what was true? That “goodbye, Hudson, thanks for the memories but I’ve decided the life of a lawyer’s wife is not for me” letter you left for me?‘ he asked grimly. ‘You’re telling me that you just got cold feet, that that was the reason you disappeared off the face of the earth for I don’t know how long? Do I look stupid, Annie? Do I?’ he added savagely, his face dark and cold.

How could she tell him? She stared at him as her mind raced. If she told him the truth, the whole truth, he could react one of three ways. It was clear he didn’t love her any more, so he might just acknowledge what she said and walk away.

Or—and here her heart thudded—he might pity her, feel some responsibility towards her, especially if he guessed she still loved him, and ask her to take up where they left off in spite of the fact his feelings had died. If he did that, would the threat to him through her still remain? Probably, she thought grimly. From what she had heard, the sort of people Michael had been involved with had very long memories. And then the last two years would have been for nothing.

Or, thirdly—and she had to admit most likely—he simply wouldn’t believe her anyway; he would think she was making up some fantastic story to cover her deceit. And with Michael’s death all chance of proving what she had to say was gone. Hudson was far more likely to believe her stepfather’s lies—he had had two years to let Michael’s lie work its poison.

There was every reason for saying nothing and none for telling him the truth, except... Except she couldn’t bear him to look at her with such contempt and scorn. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She had missed him so much, so much, and she didn’t know what to do about it...

‘Don’t bother trying to work out what to say.’ He slid back into the car as he spoke, his voice hard. ‘I wouldn’t believe it anyway.’ The driver’s door shut with a savageness that was very final.

Well, that settled her answer. She watched him for a moment with misty eyes as he drove the car over to the small car park surrounded by bushes and flowering vegetation. He despised her, and she really couldn’t blame him. Perhaps if she told him the truth he wouldn’t believe she and her mother had had no knowledge of Michael’s involvement in such heavy crime anyway. He had fought such people all his working life and loathed them and the corruption they represented. Maybe him thinking she had been hiding a fiancé in the background was light in comparison.

She turned quickly as the lights on the car died, walking swiftly into the hotel and picking up the key to her room before Hudson reappeared; knowing she couldn’t face him again that night. But perhaps he was finished with her anyway? He’d made his point, told her exactly what he thought of her and in what contempt he held her; perhaps he would be satisfied with that? She had hurt him, she knew that—the knowledge had sent her half mad at times—but the alternative would have been far worse; it could have destroyed him and his career, she told herself frantically.

She reached her room, entering it quickly and then leaning weakly back against the door in the darkness as the tears began to seep from her closed eyelids. She had done the only thing she could two years ago, and it had been because she loved him, pure and simple. So why couldn’t she gain just the smallest crumb of comfort from the knowledge to help combat the pain that was tearing her apart inside? It wasn’t fair, none of this was fair.

She sank to the floor, her legs finally giving way as the storm of weeping overtook her, her moans like the cries of a wounded animal that had no hope.

She had just been learning to live without him, to accept that her life would never be one of fulfilment in the family sense—as a wife and mother—and now the pain was as raw and lacerating as it ever had been in the early days.

How long she lay there she didn’t know, but when at last she rose, her face sticky and damp, there were no more tears left—only a cold, chilling emptiness in the pit of her stomach as she recalled his last words to her and the look on his face as he had uttered them.