Читать книгу He's My Husband! - Lindsay Armstrong, Lindsay Armstrong - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

THE marriage counsellor was a man in his middle to late thirties.

Nicola Harcourt looked doubtful, and sat down reluctantly. She’d begun to regret this impulse almost as soon as she’d stepped over the doorstep, but now more than ever. A comfortable, middle-aged woman was whom she’d envisaged talking to, a mother figure, perhaps, definitely not a man, and a youngish one at that.

‘How may I help you?’ the man asked, and smiled ruefully at her obvious wariness. ‘I’m the Reverend Peter Callam.’ He looked at her enquiringly.

‘I think I’ll stick to first names, if you don’t mind. I’m Nicola.’

‘That’s fine with me, Nicola. Does it help to know that I’m a minister of religion and I’ve had specific training in helping troubled marriages?’

‘Oh.’ Nicola’s expression cleared a little. ‘Well, yes,’ she conceded, then shrugged. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure I should be doing this.’

‘When one is desperate it’s a very good idea to talk things over with a third party who can take an impartial view—’

‘I’m not desperate,’ Nicola broke in to say.

‘Then you’re concerned your husband would not appreciate your doing this?’

Nicola grinned. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t But that doesn’t really bother me.’

Peter Callam took a moment to study her and to form the impression that this Nicola was unusually attractive. Twenty-one at the most, he guessed, with fair shining hair in a smooth straight fall to below her shoulders, she had deep blue eyes with an exotic fringe of lashes expertly darkened, a straight little nose and a chiselled mouth innocent of any lipstick.

There was also a patina not only of health in her smooth, glowing skin and bright eyes, but wealth in her beautifully cut clothes: a short grey and white checked A-line dress under a charcoal linen jacket with a grey stripe, black leather platform shoes with high chunky heels that emphasised a pair of long golden legs, a black leather tote bag and a pair of designer sunglasses resting on top of her head.

Her only jewellery was a narrow gold wedding band on her left hand.

He frowned slightly and decided to take the direct approach. ‘If you’re not desperate then why are you here?’

Nicola moved in her chair. ‘I am, in a way. The thing is...’ She paused, shook her head and sighed. ‘I want to leave my husband, who is not the slightest bit in love with me anyway.’

The marriage counsellor clasped his hands on the desk. ‘You mean he’s fallen out of love with you? He has other women—he abuses you?’

Nicola blinked, an expression of surprise chasing through her deep blue eyes. ‘He never lays a finger on me. He’s...rather nice—when, that is—’ she paused to chew her lip, a rather endearing trait Peter Callam found himself thinking, despite himself ‘—he’s not being perfectly horrible to me.’

‘Ah.’ He sat up. ‘Mental cruelty can be as bad as the physical kind, and certainly grounds for some kind of intervention.’

Nicola wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s not that kind of mental cruelty,’ she said with a spark of amusement. ‘He...we’re not really married. I mean, we are, but it was a marriage of convenience, so we live separate lives in the same house kind of thing.’ She stopped, then added prosaically, ‘We’ve never slept together.’

‘I see. Why did he marry you, then?’

‘I’m good with his kids.’

The marriage counsellor gazed at her bemusedly. ‘And that’s the only reason he married you?’

Nicola moved again, uncomfortably this time. ‘Oh, well,’ she murmured, ‘I might as well be hanged for a sheep. This is completely confidential, I presume?’ She eyed him with some hauteur.

‘Completely.’

‘Well, he’s also my trustee. He was my father’s partner, and when my father died-my mother died when I was two—he took over the reins, so to speak. And when I—er—got myself into a very awkward situation with a man two years ago he said—he suggested —a marriage of convenience. I inherited rather a lot of money, you see, which made me the target of—well, I won’t go into that, but...’ She gestured.

‘And now you want out?’

‘Would you care to be married for your child-handling abilities and only to keep you out of trouble?’ Nicola asked with a lift of an eyebrow.

‘Probably not, but it seems to me all you need is to get yourself a good lawyer and get your marriage annulled on the grounds of it never being consummated.’

Nicola eyed him. ‘It’s not that simple. For one thing, my husband is the best lawyer in town. For another, the provisions of my father’s will don’t allow me to touch my inheritance until I’m twenty-three. And, because my husband is also my trustee, he’s not only my husband but my—jailer, if you see what I mean.’

‘He holds the purse strings, in other words?’

‘Precisely. You’re fairly quick on the uptake, Reverend,’ she said, with that glimmer of humour in her eyes again.

And I can’t quite imagine the man who wouldn’t want a peach of a girl like you, Nicola, the Reverend Peter Callam thought, and flinched inwardly. He said, ‘I’m at a bit of a loss, however, Nicola. I generally try to patch marriages up, not break them down, but...are you saying he’d cast you out without a cent if you refused to stay married to him until you’re twenty-three?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ Nicola replied darkly, then grimaced. ‘No, of course he wouldn’t, but he just won’t believe that I can take care of myself. He treats me as if I were one of his kids at times.’

‘These children—don’t they have a mother?’

‘Yes, they do. She was his first wife. They got divorced a few years ago. They had a very turbulent marriage; she’s a classical pianist and extremely beautiful—but quite mad, if you want my opinion,’ Nicola said candidly. ‘And, because she spends a lot of time overseas on concert tours, the children spend a lot more time with their father—which is where I come in.’

‘You know their mother well?’

‘I’ve known her all my life. I like her, despite the fact I think she’s as mad as a hatter.’

‘How many children are there?’ Peter Callam asked cautiously, feeling a sudden kinship with Alice in Wonderland.

‘Two. A girl of six and a boy of five. They’re very naughty and very lovable.’ Nicola’s lips curved into a warm smile.

‘So you wouldn’t like to traumatise them—would I be right in assuming that?’ he said slowly, but with a keen little glance at Nicola.

She sat forward suddenly. ‘What I would really like is to get out of this farce of a marriage as amicably as possible. I’d like to see them all happy—the children, B...my husband, and their mother.’

‘The first wife?’ Peter Callam blinked. ‘But surely—?’

‘Surely, yes,’ Nicola said, and looked briefly saddened.

Then she went on. ‘The thing is, they may not be able to live together, but I’m sure he doesn’t want to get seriously involved with anyone else—and that’s why I’m so suitable. I run his house, look after his children, I’m his hostess when he needs one, and any...’ she paused and shrugged ‘...physical needs he has are taken care of by a series of sophisticated mistresses whose eyes,’ she said with great feeling, ‘I’m seriously tempted to scratch out at times!’

‘He parades his mistresses in front of you?’

‘No, he doesn’t,’ Nicola said impatiently. ‘But I’m not a fool. I’m sure they must exist. He has an awful lot going for him.’

‘All the same, why would you want to scratch the eyes out of these possibly mythical mistresses if you’re so determined to leave him?’

The question fell into a pool of silence, and Nicola paled slightly but didn’t attempt to drop her blue gaze from his. Then she said huskily, ‘The thing is, I fell in love with him—that’s why I agreed to this marriage. I thought, in my youth and immaturity—’ She grimaced. ‘I thought I could make the fairy tale come true and supplant M...his first wife in his heart. But he never did fall in love with me and he never will. Now do you see, Reverend?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry, Nicola,’ he said compassionately. ‘But—’

‘No.’ She lifted a hand. ‘If you’re going to offer me platitudes and tell me not to give up hope, don’t bother. I’ll be twenty-one in two short weeks’ time; I’ve been married to him for two years—I know when I’m beaten.’

Nicola stopped and smiled slightly. ‘I’m not being very fair to you, am I? But, if it’s any help to you, it’s been a bit of a help to me to actually say all this—get it off my chest.’ She looked wry.

‘Thank you,’ Peter Callam murmured. ‘But I’m still confused. How long does he plan to keep you in a marriage of convenience? Because I’m wondering whether he deserves your love, this man, if he’s—forgive me—that insensitive apart from anything else, when he knows how you feel, but—‘

‘Oh, he doesn’t know,’ Nicola said blithely.

‘He doesn’t?’ Peter Callam blinked.

‘You don’t think—’ She broke off and laughed. ‘I may have been young and immature, but I wasn’t so immature as to let him see I was madly in love with him.’

‘I see.’

‘Well, wouldn’t you have?’

‘Hidden my real feelings?’ Peter Callam said slowly. ‘I...’

She chuckled after a moment. ‘It’s an awkward one, isn’t it, Reverend? But I can assure you that if you have an ounce of pride, when you’re presented with a very definite marriage of convenience, despite all your dreams, you do tend to hide things.’

‘I believe you, Nicola. Yet,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘despite this show of spirited rebellion—’ he raised an eyebrow and after a moment she nodded ruefully ‘—all along you were hoping he’d fall in love with you?’

Her eyes sparkled humorously again. ‘I don’t fight him all the time. Sometimes we get on like a house on fire.’

‘Sounds as if he takes good care of you, then.’

‘He does. It’s not the kind of care I want taken of me, though.’

‘Why is that, do you think?’

Nicola considered. ‘Not because he’s nurturing a secret passion, unfortunately, Reverend,’ she said at last. ‘It’s because of my father. Not only were they partners, but he had great admiration for my father—he wouldn’t be where he is today without Daddy’s help. I think he looks upon it as a way of repaying a debt to my father.’

‘Nicola—’ Peter Callam sat forward intently ‘—this is the last kind of advice I normally give, believe me, but if you do love this man, if you seriously think he’s worthy of your love, there is a time-honoured way of getting a man to reveal himself. Not only to others, but to himself.’

Nicola blinked. ‘How?’

‘If he thought you were interested in someone else, that might just...do the trick.’ I don’t believe I said that, the Reverend Callam thought, no sooner had he said it, but this golden girl touched him; he couldn’t deny it.

Nicola wrinkled her brow. ‘Make him jealous? That doesn’t sound very Christian, if you don’t mind me saying so, Reverend.’

Peter Callam flinched again, then he had to laugh. ‘You’re right, but desperate situations require desperate means at times. Not that I would advise you to actually—’

‘Commit adultery?’ Nicola suggested with some irony.

‘Most certainly not. Um...does anyone know how things stand? His first wife, for example?’

‘No one really knows, although some people might suspect. I’m not sure what Marietta thinks. She’s usually amazingly, even embarrassingly forthright, but she just—’ Nicola shrugged ‘—wished me luck and carried on as if it was a fait accompli. I suppose, if you look at it another way, it’s also her children I’m good with,’ she added ruefully.

‘But you suspect she may still be in love with him?’

‘I think there’s a kind of fatal attraction between them and there always will be.’

‘I still feel you shouldn’t walk away from this marriage without one last test,’ he said stubbornly.

‘You probably don’t think I can take care of myself either,’ Nicola observed.

‘I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be preserved from fortune-hunters until you’re twenty-three, Nicola. It’s no great age. And you never know.’

Nicola stood up and regarded him quizzically, as if to say, I might have known. What she did say was, ‘Look, don’t you worry about it, Reverend. I always knew there wasn’t going to be an easy solution. Not that that will stop me from trying to find one. But thanks for listening. I feel a bit guilty about taking up your time. I’m sure there are much more worthy causes and desperate women you could really help.’

Peter Callam stood up and handed her a card. ‘My time,’ he said quietly, ‘is always available to those in need, even if it’s only to listen.’

Nicola stared at him, then smiled at him radiantly. ‘It’s people like you, Reverend, who restore one’s faith. Thanks a million.’ With that, she left.

Brett Harcourt drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel of his sapphire-blue BMW convertible as he waited at a traffic light. The hood was down, although, for Cairns, it was a cooler day than the fierce heat of summer. He was late for an appointment, and every traffic light, this one included, had gone against him at the last minute—and this one took an age to change, he well knew.

Then he frowned as his gaze rested on someone coming out of the Lifeline offices opposite him—his wife. But she didn’t cross the road in front of him, although for her the light was green. Instead, she stopped on the pavement and just stood there, obviously lost in thought.

As usual, although she might be miles away mentally, she was turning a few heads, he observed dryly. Men slowed as they walked past, then looked back. Girls and women looked too, no doubt marvelling at the simple elegance of her clothes, the beautiful, lithe body beneath, the gloss of her skin and hair, maybe wondering if she was a top model or a film star.

But what the hell has she been doing at Lifeline? Brett Harcourt wondered. Looking for some new and devious way to give me the slip? Unless she’s decided to include good works in her repertoire of unusual activities...

He was about to hail her when he realised the light had changed and the traffic behind him was getting restive. He swore beneath his breath and moved off fast. But he noticed out of the corner of his eye as he did so that she didn’t even look up.

As for Nicola, she came out of her reverie and decided to treat herself to lunch in town.

She left her car where it was parked and walked to the Pier, where she chose Pescis, an Italian waterfront restaurant, overlooking the Marlin Marina. Not that there was a lot left of the marina. A cyclone earlier in the year had washed away the pontoons, leaving only the piles.

But it would be rebuilt, for it had famous associations, the Marlin Marina, with people like the late Lee Marvin, who had come to Nicola’s home town of Cairns, in far North Queensland, to set out in pursuit of the fabulous black marlin in the tropical waters of the Coral Sea.

Pescis was always busy, and today was no exception, but she found a table on the veranda and ordered a light lunch—chopped cooked tomato and basil on toasted bread.

While she waited for it, and sipped mineral water, she fiddled absently with her wedding ring and thought back over her interview with the Reverend Peter Callam—but, more particularly, on the impulse that had made her go in the first place.

I suppose it was because I can never talk to Brett about it, she mused. Not that I’ve tried for a while, but it always ended up in an argument... I must have been mad...

She looked down at the gold ring on her left hand. It had never been accompanied by an engagement ring—she’d insisted she didn’t want one, that it would be a bit ridiculous, because they could hardly call themselves engaged when they were to get married within a bare week of Brett proposing the marriage of convenience quite out of the blue to her. And, finally, weren’t engagement rings a token of love?

She’d asked her husband-to-be this with a dangerous little glint in her blue eyes, which he’d observed placidly, then he’d shrugged and murmured that it was up to her. But he’d gone on to say that their wedding would not be a hole-and-corner affair if she had that in mind as well.

‘But surely you don’t want all the trimmings?’ she’d protested. ‘I certainly don’t.’

‘What would you like?’ he’d countered. ‘Don’t forget we need to make some kind of a statement, after what’s happened to you and what people are saying.’

‘Well...’ She’d coloured. ‘Something quiet and dignified.’

A look of amusement had flickered in his eyes, causing her to say rashly, ‘I’m quite capable of being dignified, Brett.’

‘Oh, I believe you, although I sometimes prefer you when you’re not, but...’ He’d shrugged.

Her eyes had widened—and, she recalled, sitting now on the veranda, watching the green waters of Trinity Inlet, which formed Cairns Harbour, that had given her another cause to hope.

So she’d made no further objections, and she’d married Brett Harcourt in a simple but beautiful, ballerina length dress of ivory stiffened silk, with a matching pillbox hat crowned with flowers, no veil and short gloves. The ceremony had taken place in the garden of his home, before a marriage celebrant, and the handful of guests had all been of his own family. His children had been present, but, at three and four, had had no real idea of the significance of the occasion.

They’d been wild with delight, however, when she’d moved in permanently from that day.

She finished her lunch with a sigh and remembered that, when making her marriage vows, she’d been uncomfortable and barely audible. Then she’d taken hold and told herself that at least she was in love with her tall, worldly husband, so it couldn’t all be a sham. But of course now, in hindsight, that was what it still was and always had been.

‘All quiet on the western front?’

‘Oh!’ Nicola started. It was that evening, and she was seated at a large and beautiful maple desk in the den, dealing with the household accounts. There was an open chequebook in front of her and a sheaf of bills. It was eight-thirty, the children were in bed asleep, Mendelssohn was playing on the state-of-the-art sound system—and she hadn’t heard Brett come home.

She pushed a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles up on top of her head and regarded him severely. He had a glass of whisky in one hand and was pulling off his tie with the other. ‘You were supposed to be home for dinner.’

‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I got held up.’

‘You don’t have to apologise to me. Your children are another matter, however. You promised to watch The Wiggles with them.’

‘Damn, I forgot.’ Brett Harcourt raked his hand through his dark brown hair. ‘Don’t they put out videos? I could watch a Wiggles video with them.’

‘This was a special concert—televised live.’

‘So I’m well and truly in the sin bin?’

‘I would say so. And you could find yourself in the sin bin with your liver if you make a habit of dining on Scotch.’

Brett Harcourt had hazel eyes that could be extremely enigmatic at times, much to Nicola’s chagrin. They could also be coolly insolent and worldly—another thorn in her flesh. But there were times—and she often wondered if she didn’t find this the most infuriating—when they laughed at her, although he maintained a perfectly straight face. Such as now.

He said gravely, ‘This is my first and last one for the day. It’s been a hell of a day and I got my secretary to order some dinner for me. Have you taken up good works, Nicola?’

She blinked at him. He sat down on the corner of the desk and let that hazel gaze drift over her. She’d changed into a large white T-shirt printed with gold and silver shells, and a pair of yellow leggings. Her hair was twisted up and secured by a big plastic grip. Her feet were bare. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘You sound as if you’re trying to reform me. You even sounded wifely, which is something you avoid at all costs, you must admit.’

The slightest tinge of pink ran beneath the smooth skin of her cheeks, but she said coolly, ‘With good reason, Brett. I’m a wife in name only, aren’t I?’

‘How often have you reminded me of that, I wonder?’ he murmured, this time smiling openly.

‘As often as I try to remind you that you’re a husband in name only, and that you needn’t think you can run my life,’ she responded evenly.

‘I didn’t think I did that.’

Nicola stared at him and tried to mask her impatience, which never worked with Brett.

‘Well, do I?’ he asked reasonably. ‘Tell me about any of your activities I’ve ever put a stop to. Tell me that you don’t come and go as you please, arrange your days as you please—’

‘But if I suddenly decided I wanted to go to...Tibet, that would be a different matter, wouldn’t it?’ she returned tautly.

‘Decidedly,’ he agreed lazily. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea at all.’

She stared at him frustratedly. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘I know we agreed—after you got yourself virtually kidnapped by a man who was a notorious womaniser—that this would be a safer way to go, Nicola.’

‘I was only nineteen,’ she said through pale lips.

‘You’re only twenty now—all right—’ he shrugged as she opened her mouth to protest ‘—almost twenty-one. But I can’t help wondering whether you’ve acquired the wisdom you so noticeably lacked then.’ His eyes mocked her. ‘Wild talk of Tibet doesn’t seem to go hand in hand with maturity. And that brings me to something else—what were you doing at Lifeline today?’

Nicola gasped. ‘How...? He didn’t!’

‘I felt sure there would be a “he” involved,’ her husband said dryly.

She jumped up. ‘Having a man around is one thing you can’t accuse me of, Brett! Since...since it happened—and I had no idea he was going to lure me away under false pretences and all the rest—’ she shuddered with disgust ‘—I haven’t had anything to do with men! You make it sound as if I go around inviting their attention.’

Brett Harcourt raised a wry eyebrow. ‘You don’t have to, Nicola. They attach themselves. So. What’s with Lifeline? And why were you looking so very pensive?’

‘If you’ve been having me followed, Brett...’ she said through her teeth.

‘You’ll...?’ he queried before she could go on.

The desire to make another wild statement gripped her, but she fought it, causing his lips to twist as he watched her with interest.

‘Were you?’ she ground out at last.

‘No. I merely happened to be stopped at that particular traffic light as you came out. Now, if you have decided to add good works to your music—’ he indicated the beautiful harp that stood in the corner of the den ‘—your flying lessons, your desire to speak Indonesian and your pottery, I’m all for it—but...’ He paused. ‘Something tells me it’s not so.’

Nicola took a deep breath. ‘I do play that harp, I do speak Indonesian, I love pottery and I enjoy flying—are you trying to belittle me for any specific reason?’ she asked with a quizzically raised eyebrow.

He shrugged, smiled slightly and ignored the question. ‘I’m not disputing that. In fact, I’ll go further and say that you’re highly intelligent as well as artistic, and your flying instructor reckons you’re a natural. It still doesn’t explain Lifeline.’

Nicola paced around the room and darkly contemplated the fact that it was impossible to hide most things from Brett—it always had been. Which made it rather surprising to think that she’d been able to hide the most important thing of all from him.

She paused beside the harp and ran her fingers gently across the strings in a glissando, to make a golden bell of sound, then stilled it with her palm and turned to look at him.

He was still sitting on the corner of the desk, idly running his tie through his fingers—quite a colourful tie, with red, navy and jade diamonds on it etched in a bone colour that matched his shirt.

But even sitting he was obviously a tall man, who happened to be twelve years her senior with a mind that was razor-sharp. He also had aquiline features, an impressive build and, although he wasn’t precisely handsome, once you got to know him you couldn’t help but be aware that he had a rare charm when he chose.

And when he didn’t choose there was the aura of a powerful intellect combined with a strong physique that gave notice of a man who got his own way frequently.

All in all an irresistible combination, and not only to me, she thought gloomily. To most women—and, even although they’ve been divorced for four years, still to Marietta, she suspected...

‘Nicola?’

She focused her gaze on her husband and shrugged. ‘I went to see a marriage counsellor, that’s all.’

It gave her a fieeting sense of satisfaction to see that she had momentarily stunned him. Then he said a shade grimly, ‘A man?’

‘Yes, he was a man—that threw me at first as well, but—’

‘Nicola.’

‘But he’s also a minister, and he was very nice, Brett, you don’t have to worry on that score.’

‘And what did he advise you to do?’

‘Well, you’re really going to enjoy this,’ she said with simple satire. ‘He advised me to stay put.’

For a moment she wondered if her eyes were playing tricks on her, because she could have sworn she saw him relax slightly. Then he said, ‘Not what you wanted to hear, I’m sure.’

‘No,’ she agreed, and shrugged. ‘That doesn’t mean to say I’ll stick to the letter of his advice.’

‘Nicola, I—’

‘Don’t, Brett,’ she said with a sudden, weary little gesture. ‘I have no plans to go anywhere at the moment, but that doesn’t mean to say I’m reconciled to anything.’

He seemed about to say something, then apparently changed his mind and murmured with a humorous little glint, ‘So I can expect you to be here for your twenty-first birthday?’

‘Yes.’ She shrugged.

‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’

‘I’m not but I’ll probably come round.’ She studied him unenthusiastically, then a faintly malicious glimmer lit her blue eyes. ‘By the way, don’t imagine you’ve escaped The Wiggles.’

‘Why not? I mean to say,’ he amended hastily, ‘I never intended to. I did forget.’

‘And then breathed a sigh of relief, no doubt But we didn’t watch them.’

Brett Harcourt looked at his wife narrowly. ‘How come?’

‘Well, knowing how much you love them, I persuaded your children to let me tape the programme so that we could all watch it together some time tomorrow. Which is a Saturday, in case you’ve forgotten, and one of the two days of the week you keep inviolate from work or whatever.’

‘You—did that to me?’

‘Yes, Brett, I did,’ she responded gravely, then started to laugh. ‘They’re very good, you know.’

‘If you’re a kid. Four young men who’ve tapped into the kindergarten set and made a fortune, I imagine,’ he said meditatively. ‘Oh, well.’

‘You could thank me for averting a crisis. Sasha was distraught when you didn’t turn up.’

‘Sasha is every bit as histrionic as her mother,’ Brett Harcourt said a shade grimly.

‘And getting more and more like her by the day,’ Nicola agreed with a reminiscent little grin.

‘How about Chris?’

‘Oh, I think he’s going to be a chip off the old block.’

He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you.’

‘In what way?’

Nicola considered. ‘He’s clever—and practical. He said to Sasha, when she was throwing herself on the floor in floods of tears, “Don’t be so silly, Sash. If we tape it we can fast-forward all the advertisements.”’

Brett chuckled softly. ‘Definitely a man after my own heart. What did she say to that?’

‘Well, she’s no fool either,’ Nicola mused with secret laughter lurking in her eyes. ‘She said she liked the advertisements, they gave you a chance to go and get drinks and things, and she couldn’t stand the way men imagined they were driving a speed car when they had a remote control in their hands—flicking from one channel to another, fast-forwarding things and so on.’

‘You’re kidding. She’s only six.’

‘All the same, in more juvenile terms, that’s what she said! Six is old enough to be struck by male failings, apparently. You, for example, are a nightmare to watch television with for just that reason. So is Chris.’

‘Good Lord!’

‘So, there you go.’ Nicola sat down and pulled the sheaf of bills towards her.

‘We’ve been invited out to lunch on Sunday, by the way,’ Brett said after a moment.

‘Anywhere interesting? Can we take the kids?’

‘Of course. The Masons—I believe you met them at the Goodes’ dinner party a few weeks ago.’

Nicola wrinkled her brow. ‘Oh, yes, I remember. He’s a big, bearded bear of a man and she’s small and cuddly and given to being embarrassingly frank.’ She looked amused. ‘Isn’t he the new District Court Judge?’

‘The same. They’ve invited us to their house at Buchans Point. They have a pool as well as the beach. The kids should enjoy it.’

‘Sounds nice.’ Nicola threw down her pen to yawn heartily. ‘I think I’ll finish these tomorrow.’

‘Tired?’ he asked casually as he watched her tuck her feet beneath her.

‘I don’t know why.’

‘The rigours of marriage counselling?’ he suggested.

‘I think the rigour was on the other foot, if anything.’ She grimaced. ‘He was quite bemused.’

‘Let’s hope he’s quite discreet,’ Brett said.

‘He assured me he was.’

Brett stood up and stretched. ‘Because I doubt whether you’d enjoy featuring in the gossip columns any more than I would, Nicola.’

They stared at each for a long moment, until he added, ‘Don’t forget, that was the other object of this exercise—to protect your fair name from being dragged through the mud.’

‘And on that properly grateful note—’ she got up and curtseyed ‘—I’ll take myself to bed, sir!’

He said nothing, but his eyes were suddenly cynical and cold.

Don’t say it, Nicola warned herself. But, as so often happened, she failed to take her own advice—although she did manage to sound fairly clinical instead of rashly impassioned. ‘There are times when I hate you, Brett.’

‘I know.’ He picked up his glass and drained it.

‘Doesn’t it ever bother you?’

He set the glass down on the desk, stared at it for a moment, then raised his eyes to hers. There was so much amusement in them now, she caught her breath at the same time as a little frisson ran down her spine. A frisson of awareness that she despised herself for but couldn’t help, because Brett Harcourt did that to her even when he laughed at her.

‘No, Nicola. You remind me of Sasha, actually. She often hates me when she doesn’t get her own way. Why don’t you go to bed? You not only sound tired and cross, you look it.’

She opened her mouth, then bit her lip and walked past him. But he put out a hand and closed it round her wrist. ‘Good thinking,’ he said with soft satire, then genuinely laughed at her expression. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry! Of course you don’t remind me of Sasha, that was tit for tat, but there is nothing on earth for you to be in a state about.’

They were very close-close enough for Nicola to see the little golden flecks in his eyes and feel that frisson of awareness grow into something stronger as his lean, strong fingers moved on the soft skin of her inner wrist.

‘If you say so, Brett,’ she murmured colourlessly, and removed her gaze from the line of his shoulders beneath the bone-coloured shirt, hoping and praying at the same time that he had no idea what the strong column of his throat and those broad shoulders sometimes did to her—evoking an erotic little desire to explore them with her fingertips and follow that trail with her lips.

He released her abruptly. ‘I do. Goodnight, Nicola.’

But something stopped her from moving immediately, something that made her look at him fleetingly, into his eyes, to discover that everything—the amusement and everything else—had been leached from his expression so that it was like looking at a blank wall.

‘Goodnight, Brett,’ she said then, quietly and evenly, and slipped away.

Brett Harcourt stood in the same spot for some moments and wondered, as he’d found himself wondering from time to time over the last two years, if his wife was essentially naive and genuinely had no idea how attractive and desirable most men found her. Because it was true that he couldn’t accuse her of appearing to have much interest in men at all, although he’d been right about her effect on them.

But was it something she still had to grow into? he mused. Or had this marriage of convenience been even more successful than he’d thought, from the point of view of keeping the daughter of a man he’d admired immensely safe? But safe in an ivory tower?

He stared at nothing for a moment, then shrugged.