Читать книгу A Husband's Revenge - Lee Wilkinson, Lee Wilkinson - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

CLARE’S brain stirred into life slowly, unwillingly. Lying stretched on her back, eyes closed, she was aware of softness and warmth, of a physical comfort that went hand in hand with a kind of bleak mental anguish.

Bodily she was at ease, but her mind was a teeming mass of disturbing, shadowy thoughts. When she tried to hold onto them, to coax them into the light, they vanished like wraiths, leaving only a set of hard, handsome features indelibly printed there.

Jos. Her husband.

Her heart began to beat at a fast, suffocating speed. She recalled him coming to the hospital. Bringing her home. Kissing her. Innocuous enough memories except for the powerful black undercurrents which, like some deadly whirlpool, threatened to drag her down and drown her.

Undercurrents which, if she could only remember, would almost certainly explain why she had taken off her rings and walked out in the first place.

But had she just stormed off in a temper, as he’d tried to imply? Or had she meant to go for good?

If she had meant to leave him, surely she would have taken a case? Certainly she would have had a handbag. Some money...

Eyelids still closed, to help her concentration, she tried to think, but her memory would go back no further than awakening in the hospital.

Sighing, she opened her eyes to semi-gloom. Abruptly the sigh turned into a gasp. The sight of Jos lounging in a chair by the bed, his eyes fixed on her face, made her jerk upright.

His mere presence brought a surge of dismay and excitement that took her breath and made her heart start to race again.

As though he’d run restless fingers through it, his hair, peat-dark, not quite black, was slightly rumpled, his jaw was smooth, clean-shaven, his lean face, with its fascinating planes and angles, heart-stoppingly attractive.

He was casually dressed in light trousers and a dark green cotton-knit shirt open at the neck, exposing his tanned throat, and with the sleeves pushed up his muscular hair-sprinkled forearms.

Pulling the duvet high, though her nightgown was perfectly modest, she demanded hoarsely, ‘How long have you been there?’

His clearly delineated mouth curved slightly. ‘Most of the afternoon.’

The idea of him sitting watching her sleep was disturbing, to say the least. Slowly, with an effort, she smoothed her face into a careful, unrevealing mask, before asking, ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

Rising to his feet, he crossed to the wide window and drew aside the curtains, flooding the attractive blue and white room with light, before answering, ‘I wanted you to wake up naturally. I thought perhaps...?’ He allowed the question to tail off.

‘It’s no use...’ She heard the desolation of her own despair. ‘I can’t remember anything prior to waking up in the hospital.’

Suddenly he was by her side again, looming too close. Tilting her chin, he examined her face, taking in the translucent skin stretched tightly over the wonderful bone structure, the paleness of her lips, the lost look in the long-lashed violet eyes.

His touch closed her throat and made her mouth go dry. Unconsciously, she ran the tip of her tongue over parched lips.

Something flaring in his green eyes, he followed the small, betraying movement. She froze, terrified he was going to kiss her, wanting him to kiss her...

He, who seemed never to miss a thing, obviously noted her reaction and smiled a little. Releasing her chin, he touched a bell by the bedhead before sitting down again. ‘When you say “anything”...?’

It took her a moment or two to recover. Then, forehead creased in thought, she said slowly, ‘I remember the ordinary everyday things of life. How to read and write, add up and subtract...that kind of thing. It’s personal memories that have gone...’

Were those memories so dark, so disturbing, that her subconscious wanted them blanked out? Had she needed to lose herself and the past in order to survive some emotional trauma?

Or was this feeling of being threatened by past and future alike merely symptomatic of her amnesia? When her memory returned would she find she was a perfectly ordinary woman with a perfectly ordinary marriage?

But suppose it never returned?

Fighting down a rush of blind panic at the thought, she went on, ‘I don’t know anything about myself. If I’ve got a middle name or what my maiden name was... I don’t even know how old I am.’

‘Your middle name is Linden, your maiden name was Berkeley and you’re twenty-four. You’ll be twenty-five on September the third. A Virgo,’ he added, with a derisive twist to his lips.

Before Clare could react to what seemed to be a sneer, there was a tap at the door, and it opened to admit a dark-suited dignified man, carrying a tray. Pulling the metal supports into position, he placed it carefully across her knees.

Bending his balding head deferentially, he said, ‘I’m delighted that madam is safely home.’

‘Thank you, er...’ She hesitated.

‘This is Roberts,’ Jos informed her. Then, to the manservant, he said, ‘I’m afraid Mrs Saunders still hasn’t recovered her memory.’

Roberts looked suitably grave. ‘Very upsetting for both of you, sir.’

After deftly removing the lid from a dish of poached salmon, he opened and shook out a white damask napkin. ‘Mr Saunders thought a light meal... If, however, madam would prefer chicken, or an omelette...?’

‘Oh, no... Thank you.’ Then, sensing a genuine wish to please, she remarked with a smile, ‘I’m sure this will be delicious.’

Roberts departed noiselessly.

‘A butler instead of a housekeeper?’ Sipping her tea, Clare spoke her thoughts aloud. ‘I get the feeling you don’t care much for women?’

‘In one area at least I find a woman is indispensable.’ His mocking glance left her in no doubt as to which area he referred to. ‘I also employ a couple of female cleaners. But I happen to prefer a male servant to run the household.’

Head bent, hoping to hide her blush, she asked, ‘Has Roberts been with you long?’

‘He came with the penthouse.’ Then, with no change of tone, he added, ‘Your salmon will get cold.’

Uncomfortably, she asked, ‘Aren’t you eating?’

‘I had a late lunch a couple of hours ago, when it appeared that you were still in shock and were going to sleep the clock round.’

She glanced at her bare left wrist before asking, ‘What time is it now?’

‘Nearly four-thirty.’ Lifting her hand, making the huge diamond solitaire flash in the light, he asked, ‘Do you remember what happened to your watch?’

‘Do I usually wear one?’

‘Yes. So far as I know, always.’ Letting go of her hand, he urged, ‘Do eat something or you’ll upset Roberts.’

Feeling suddenly ravenous, Clare began to tuck in with a will. Glancing up to find Jos’s eyes were watching her every move, she hesitated.

‘Don’t let me put you off,’ he said abruptly. ‘You must be starving. It’s over twenty-four hours since you were knocked down.’

Glancing once again at her empty wrist, she suggested, ‘Perhaps I left my watch behind when I... with my rings...’

He shook his head emphatically. ‘You wouldn’t have left it behind.’ Dark face thoughtful, he went on, ‘When you arrived at the hospital you had no handbag with you. Didn’t you think that was strange? Don’t most women carry a bag?’

Putting down her knife and fork, she agreed, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘It’s my belief that when you were knocked down, by the time the cabby had pulled himself together and got out, your bag and watch had been stolen. It’s a pretty rough area... Have you any idea what you were doing there?’

‘No.’ Then, harking back, she asked curiously, ‘What makes you so sure I wouldn’t have left my watch behind?’

He rose to his feet and, lifting the tray from her knees, set it aside before answering, ‘Because it was a twenty-first birthday gift from your parents.’

‘My parents?’ Her heart suddenly lifted with hope. ‘Where do they—?’

‘They’re dead,’ he said harshly, resuming his seat. ‘They died in a plane crash in Panama a few months ago.’

‘Oh...’ She felt a curious hollowness, an emptiness that grief should have filled. ‘Did you know them?’

After an almost imperceptible hesitation, he said, ‘I knew of them.’

‘Can you tell me anything about them?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Anything that might help me to remember? Our family background... where they lived?’

This time he hesitated so long that she found herself wondering anew if he would prefer her not to remember.

Then, as though making up his mind, he said, ‘Yes, I can tell you about your family background.’ His face hard, his green eyes curiously angry, he went on, ‘Your father was Sir Roger Berkeley, your mother, Lady Isobel Berkeley. He was a diplomat and she was a well-known hostess, prominent in fashionable society.’

Clare could sense an underlying tension in his manner, a marked bitterness.

‘You were born and brought up in a house called Stratton Place, a mile or so from Meredith.’

‘Meredith?’

‘A pretty little village not too far from London. A lot of rich people live there—bankers, stockbrokers, politicians... You went to an expensive boarding-school until you were eighteen, then a Swiss finishing-school.’

He sounded as if he resented their wealth and position, and she wondered briefly if he’d come from a poorer environment. But that didn’t tally with his voice and his educated accent.

‘You were an only child—and a mistake, I fancy.’ Chilled both by the concept and Jos’s deliberate cruelty, she asked, ‘How could you know a thing like that?’

He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I’m judging by the type of woman your mother was, and the fact that you were pushed off to boarding-school at a very early age...’

Clare felt impelled to defend the mother she couldn’t remember. ‘But are you in a position to judge? If you didn’t really know her...’

‘I know all I need to know. When your father was posted to the States she joined him in New York. The society gossip columns had a field-day. Men swarmed round her like flies, and she soon got quite a reputation as a goer...’ There was contempt in the deep voice. Softly, he added, ‘You’re very like her.’

Every trace of colour draining from her face, she sat quite still. Surely she couldn’t be the kind of woman he was describing?

Watching her expressive face mirror her consternation, he allowed a scornful little smile to play around his lips.

In response to that smile, she lifted her chin. No, she refused to believe it. Some fundamental self-knowledge told her he must be wrong.

‘I can’t answer for my mother,’ she said calmly, ‘but I’m sure I’m not like that.’

‘You’re the image of her in looks...’

‘That doesn’t necessarily make me like her.’

As though she hadn’t spoken, he went on, ‘You both have the kind of beauty that can drive any man wild.’

Clare shook her head. ‘When I woke in the hospital I had no idea what I looked like. The nurse gave me a mirror. I’m not even pretty.’

‘You’re far more than pretty. You’re fascinating. Wholly bewitching.’

But the way he spoke the words made them a damning indictment rather than a compliment.

A shiver ran through her. ‘I didn’t bewitch you,’ she said with certainty.

His voice brittle as ice crystals, he contradicted her. ‘Oh, but my darling, you did.’

She didn’t believe it for one moment. Almost in despair, she asked, ‘Why did you marry me?’

‘Why do you think?’

‘I don’t know. If I’m like my mother—’ She broke off in confusion.

‘You mean it wouldn’t have been necessary?’ He smiled like a tiger. ‘If I’d only wanted a casual affair, it wouldn’t have been.’

He spoke with such certainty that her blood turned to ice in her veins.

‘But I wanted a great deal more than that...’

Without knowing why, she shivered. ‘So what did you want?’ Perhaps she needed to hear him put it into words, like some coup de grâce.

His mouth smiled, but his eyes were cold as green glass. ‘I wanted to own you body and soul.’

She shivered again. Then slowly, almost as if in accusation, she said, ‘You didn’t love me.’

With no reason to dissemble, he told her matter-of-factly, ‘I never pretended to. On the contrary, I went to great lengths not to mention the word “love”, so there would be no possibility that you could have any illusions, be under any misapprehension...’

Filled with a lost, bleak emptiness that was far worse than anything she had yet experienced, she accepted the fact that he had never loved her and she must have been aware of that.

Then why had she married him?

Recalling the overwhelming effect his kisses had had on her, one reason immediately sprang to mind. Yet surely common sense would have prevented her marrying a man simply because he attracted her physically?

Unless that attraction had developed into an infatuation and, more like her mother than she wanted to believe, she’d been unable to help herself...

‘And neither was I...’ Jos was going on, his voice like polished steel. ‘I knew perfectly well why you agreed to marry me.’

Shrinking inwardly at the realisation that her sexual enslavement must have been obvious, she waited for him to crow.

Incredibly, he said, ‘I was wealthy, and you wanted a rich husband.’

At that moment all she could feel was relief. The fact that he didn’t realise how obsessed she must have been went some way towards salving her pride.

‘Someone who could give you the right kind of lifestyle.’

‘It’s my impression that I already had that.’ Somehow she kept her voice steady.

‘Ah, but you didn’t. When you left your smart finishing-school, for some reason—you never told me exactly what—you struck out on your own. You rented a small cottage in the village and took a job in a real estate office while you waited for the opportunity to catch a suitable husband.’

‘Did I tell you that?’ she asked sharply.

‘You didn’t need to.’

‘And I suppose by “suitable” you mean...?’

‘Stinking rich.’ He spoke bitterly. ‘Because of the kind of life your parents led—jet—setting, champagne parties, lots of entertaining-they always lived above their income, and I suppose you must have realised there’d be nothing left when they died. Therefore, you needed to hook a man with money.’

The picture he was painting of her was a far from pleasant one. Pushing back a tendril of dark silky hair, she objected, ‘If I was an ordinary working girl, what chance would I have had of ever meeting any rich men?’

‘Hardly ordinary. You still had that air of good breeding, that finishing-school gloss, and Ashleigh Kent, the firm you worked for, was an up-market one, dealing mainly with wealthy clients wanting country estates and the like. In fact that was where I met you—when I was over in England on a business trip.’

‘And you blame me for hooking you?’ That explained at least some of the hostility she sensed in him.

To her amazement, he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t blame you for that. It would be different if you’d used your wiles to try and captivate me, but you didn’t, did you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted huskily. ‘I don’t know what I did, how I acted...’

‘Like a perfect lady.’ His lips twisted into a smile that wasn’t a smile. ‘You intrigued me from the first moment I laid eyes on you. Though you were obviously attracted to me, you looked at me with such composure, such cool reserve.’

Whereas a lot of women, she guessed, would drool over a man with his kind of looks and that amount of blatant sex appeal.

Slowly, she said, ‘You seem pretty sure I was looking for a rich husband...so if I didn’t, as you put it, use my “wiles” to try to catch you...’ She hesitated. ‘Why didn’t I?’

‘When I first asked you to have dinner with me, you refused without giving a reason. I found out later that you already had Graham Ashleigh—who was worth quite a bit—in your sights.

‘Though I didn’t think the...shall we say attachment... on your side, at least, was too serious, and I had a great deal more to offer financially, it still took me over a week to persuade you to go out with me.’

He sounded annoyed.

Her smile ironic, she suggested, ‘Perhaps I was just playing hard to get.’

Privately she thought it far more probable that she’d been chicken—scared stiff by all that overpowering masculinity.

He shook his head. ‘Somehow I feel that playing hard to get isn’t your style... It certainly wasn’t your mother’s.’

She flinched at his deliberate unkindness.

‘But that’s enough delving into the past for the moment,’ Jos said decidedly. With a short, sharp sigh, he rose to his feet and stretched long limbs. ‘Now I suggest a breath of air. If you have no objection to New Yorkers en masse, Saturday afternoon is a good time to take a stroll in the park. Feel up to it?’

His tone was neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly, and, only too happy to leave the confines of the bedroom, she agreed eagerly. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’ Then, unwilling to get out of bed while he was there, she added, ‘If you’ll give me a few minutes...?’

His smile sardonic, he said, ‘I’ll use the dressing room to change.’

As soon as the door closed behind him, Clare got out of bed and made for the sumptuous bathroom. Whether it was due to the food or to the prolonged sleep, she was pleased to find that the worst of the weakness had gone and she felt much better.

After cleaning her teeth and taking a quick shower, she donned a terrycloth robe while she looked for some fresh undies and something to wear.

A look at the clothes hanging in the walk-in wardrobe suggested that her tastes were quiet and classical rather than flamboyant. For which she was truly thankful.

Trying to rid herself of the feeling that she was rifling another woman’s things, she took out a grey and white patterned dress, a white jacket and a pair of high-heeled sandals. Rather to her surprise, everything fitted her perfectly.

When she was dressed she brushed the tangles from her shoulder-length hair. Seeming to be naturally curly, it settled in a soft, dark cloud around her face.

Wrinkling her nose in the mirror at the bruise on her temple, she looked for some tinted foundation to mask it. There was a range of light cosmetics in a pretty, daisy-strewn bag—cream, cleansing lotion and lip-gloss. No sign of any foundation or mascara. Perhaps with dark brows and lashes and a clear skin she didn’t use any?

In a side pocket of the bag she came across a narrow flat packet, and froze. Each pill was packed separately and marked with a day of the week.

But that didn’t necessarily mean she was like her mother, she told herself firmly. After all, she was a married woman—even if she didn’t feel like one...

Hiding her nervousness, her uncertainty, beneath a veneer of calm, she squared her shoulders and went to find Jos.

Everything was quiet and in perfect order. Too perfect. It struck her that the penthouse, with its impersonal opulence, was more like a luxury film-set than a home.

Without her knowing why, the thought made her sad.

In the living room, the long glass panels had been slid aside and he was standing on the terrace looking out across the green leafiness of Central Park. He’d changed into a lightweight suit, the jacket of which was slung over one shoulder and held by a crooked finger.

Clare could have sworn she had made no sound on the thick pale carpet, but, as though some sixth sense was at work, he turned to face her.

Though she didn’t know him, he was no longer a stranger. Outwardly, at least, he was achingly familiar, and she could have picked him out unerringly from a thousand other tall, dark men.

His hair, brushed straight back from a high forehead, formed a widow’s peak, his skin was tanned and his eyes were a clear, brilliant green between thick lashes. He looked tough and intelligent and heart-stoppingly handsome, with the kind of animal magnetism that would have made even an ugly man completely irresistible.

At her approach he held out his hand.

As if under a spell, she put hers into it.

He used the hand he was holding to draw her close, and, smiling into her eyes, bent his head.

Her nostrils were filled with the faint, masculine scent of his aftershave, and, feeling his warm breath on her cheek, she trembled inside while, eyes closed, lips parted, she waited transfixed for his kiss.

But the kiss never came.

When she lifted heavy lids he had drawn back. He was still smiling, but his smile was mocking, derisive.

She didn’t need that smile to tell her he was amused by her reaction. Feeling as though she had been slapped in the face, she snatched her hand free and turned away.

Why was he playing with her like this? To remind her that he could? To put her at a disadvantage? For his own entertainment? Or a combination of all three?

Chilled and alarmed, she began dimly to realise something of the power he had over her.

But until her memory returned, and she knew exactly how things stood between them, all she could do was stay calm and resist his potent attraction.

He put on his jacket and, a hand at her waist, accompanied her across the hall and into the lift. Though she was tall and wearing high heels, standing by her side he still seemed to tower over her.

Glancing down at her set profile, he remarked blandly, ‘You’re looking rather...militant. Something to do with a need for self-preservation?’

She studied his face with calm deliberation, then said, just as blandly, ‘And you’re looking rather conceited. Something to do with a mistaken belief in your own powers of attraction?’

To her surprise he laughed, and said appreciatively, ‘You’re starting to sound less like some forlorn waif and more like yourself.’

A moment later the lift slid to a halt and they emerged into the glittering foyer, now thronging with people.

His hand beneath her elbow, he escorted her through the main doors and out onto Fifth Avenue. That famous street was teeming with life and vitality, and had, Clare thought, an air of being en fête.

The early evening was hot and sunny, and the park was full of people. Bright summer dresses and colourful umbrellas blossomed everywhere; candy wrappers and soft drink cans littered the paths, radios blared, babies bawled, children played and perspiring joggers jogged.

It was a scene full of noise and gaiety, and Clare loved it.

Jos tucked her hand through his arm and, as he matched his pace to her slower one, they strolled in silence.

After a while, her thoughts busy, she remarked, ‘You mentioned we met when you came over to England on a business trip. How did we get to know each other?’

Face guarded, green eyes suddenly wary, Jos answered, ‘I’d approached Ashleigh Kent with the intention of buying a house...’

She frowned. Why would he want a house in rural England when he lived in New York?

‘You were the representative they sent to show me around.’

A chill feathering over her skin, Clare stopped walking and stood stock-still. As a dim crystal ball, her mind produced a faint, intangible impression of a bare hall, open to the rafters, with dark galleries running round three sides, and a man standing looking up to a pair of high, narrow windows which threw lozenges of light onto the dusty stone flags three floors below.

Head bent, slim fingers pressed to her temples, she tried to seize the elusive memory that hovered almost within her grasp.

Just when she thought she had it, it vanished like a spectre. Suddenly convinced it held some terrible significance, she gave a low moan and began to tremble violently.

Jos took her shoulders. ‘Clare, what is it? What have you remembered?’

‘Nothing. I...I thought I had, but then it was gone.’