Читать книгу The Marriage Proposition - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 5

‘AND tonight,’ Angela said triumphantly, ‘we’re going to the Waterfront Club.’

Paige, who’d been brushing her hair, stopped and gave her friend a steady look.

‘Isn’t that Brad Coulter’s place?’ she queried.

‘Well, yes.’ Angela picked up a bottle of scent from the dressing table, sniffed it abstractedly and put it down again. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘I certainly hope not.’ Paige paused. ‘Unless you’re taking your matchmaking talents for a run-out.’

‘Brad, my sweet, is an attractive and eligible man, and he’s clearly smitten. So where’s the harm?’

‘You seem to have forgotten one small detail,’ Paige said evenly. ‘I happen to be a married woman.’

Angela snorted. ‘Try reminding your husband of that. Some marriage—when you don’t even live in the same country.’

Paige shrugged. ‘That’s the way it suits us. At least until the divorce comes through,’ she added drily.

‘Well, there you are,’ said Angela.

‘However that doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything to upset the applecart in the meantime.’ Paige resumed work on her hair. ‘The grounds will be two years’ separation. Clean, tidy and final. And nothing for the scandalmongers to get their teeth into.’

Angela raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you claiming that Nick has been equally discreet?’

Paige put the brush down, and began to rub lotion into her hands. ‘I’ve never made any claims on Nick’s behalf,’ she pointed out. ‘He leads his own life.’

‘You can say that again.’ Angela’s tone was waspish. ‘If he wasn’t prepared to waive his bachelor ways, why on earth did he ask you to marry him?’

‘He had his reasons.’

‘And why the hell did you agree?’

Paige smiled at her in the mirror. ‘I had mine, too.’

‘You make it all sound so rational,’ Angela grumbled. ‘And yet you were only together for—how many weeks?’

‘Just over seven, if my memory serves me,’ Paige said reflectively.

‘It’s hardly the kind of thing you forget,’ Angela returned, and Paige’s lips tightened.

‘No. But it’s the kind of thing you want to escape from with as little hassle as possible.’

‘I suppose so.’ Angela frowned. ‘On the other hand, in such a brief time you didn’t really give it a chance to succeed. Have you thought about that?’

‘Believe me, the marriage had failure written into it from day one. But it was a mistake which can be put right, simply and painlessly. However, in the meantime I prefer attractive men—however eligible—to keep well away, until the dust has settled.’ Paige replaced the cap on the hand lotion. ‘And that includes Brad Coulter.’

‘My sweet, you’re going home tomorrow, and everyone visits the Waterfront at least once during their stay on St Antoine. It’s one of the rules.’ Angela’s tone was persuasive. ‘And it’s hardly an intimate dinner à deux. Jack and I will be with you, after all.’ She paused. ‘And I know that Brad’s reserved a special table for us.’

‘Besides, as you all live and work on St Antoine, you can’t really afford to upset him,’ Paige supplied resignedly. She pulled a face. ‘I don’t really have a choice in all this, do I?’

‘Now you’re making me feel guilty.’ Angela glanced at her watch. ‘Hell, it’s time I was getting ready too.’ She squeezed Paige’s shoulder. ‘And look gorgeous. Competition is fierce at the Waterfront.’ She winked cheerfully, and vanished.

As the door closed behind her friend, Paige unpinned her determined smile and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the dressing table and cupping her chin in her hands as she studied herself.

The trouble is, she thought, I’m not actually a competitor, and even if I was I doubt if I’d be battling for Brad Coulter. Or anyone, for that matter.

Because all I really want is my freedom.

Angela had spoken about her brief marriage as if it had been a love match that had somehow come off the rails.

What on earth would she have said if she’d known the truth about Paige’s ill-starred foray into matrimony? That it had been nothing more or less than a business deal. A form of words to enable Nick Destry to take his seat on the board of Harrington Holdings.

Her great-grandfather had no doubt thought he was being very clever when he’d made it a legal requirement for only members of the family to serve on the board. But then he’d been born into an era of large families. He had probably expected future generations to be equally fruitful, and equally successful at keeping intruders at bay, she decided objectively.

In his time, too, financing for the company had been easier to obtain. A series of gentlemen’s agreements conducted in London clubs. All very cosy and agreeable.

She supposed the deal struck with Nick Destry’s merchant bank had been much the same—except that Nick was no gentleman. And cosiness and affability had not been included in his make-up. Nor had fidelity or a sense of decency, she reminded herself tautly.

Apparently he’d made it clear from day one that he was unimpressed by the company’s record in recent years, and that he would only negotiate the finance they needed in return for a measure of control. When old Crispin Harrington’s ruling on family membership had been pointed out to him, he’d shrugged.

‘I’m unmarried and you’ve got a single daughter,’ he’d told Paige’s father with cool insouciance. ‘We’ll have a ceremony to make it legal, then the lady and I can go our separate ways.’ A pause. ‘I presume divorce won’t affect my status on the board?’

And, gasping, Francis Harrington had admitted it wouldn’t.

Divorce, Paige thought, was not a contingency that would ever have occurred to her great-grandfather—or not where the Harrington name was concerned, at least. Other people might lead that kind of erratic life, but it could only be deplored and pitied. Certainly never emulated.

He must be spinning in his grave at this very moment, Paige thought, grimacing.

But then her own head had whirled when the scheme had first been tentatively proposed to her.

‘I’ve made it quite clear to Destry that the decision is entirely yours,’ her father had said anxiously. ‘That there’ll be no coercion of any kind and that the entire arrangement must be strictly temporary, leaving you free to get on with your own life after the statutory period.’

Paige had sat very still, her hands folded in her lap. She had looked at her father, but she hadn’t seen him. The image in her head had been a very different one—a dark, impatient face, with a high-bridged nose and strong, hard mouth. Not handsome, but with an intrinsic dynamism that surpassed conventional good looks. And charm, when he chose to exert it.

That mouth could soften, she’d thought detachedly. Twist ruefully into a smile to make your bones melt—if you were susceptible to such things.

A tall, lean body, wide-shouldered and narrow-hipped that looked equally good in City suits and casual gear.

A low voice with a cool drawl, that could also resonate with hidden laughter.

As a package, it couldn’t be faulted.

And she hadn’t wanted any of it.

She looked at herself, slowly and with consideration. Took in the light brown hair with the elegant blonde highlights, the wide cheekbones, the green eyes with their curling fringe of lashes. The cool, almost tense lines of her mouth.

And he, she thought flatly, hadn’t wanted her either. Checkmate. Death to the king.

She should have said no there and then. Every instinct she possessed had screamed at her to curtly refuse to lend herself to something so blatantly opportunist—and medieval.

Her father had expected her to reject the idea. She’d seen it in the defeated slump of his shoulders. The faint greyness which had replaced the usual ruddiness of his complexion. And this had scared her.

She’d said, her voice faltering a little, ‘Are you telling me this is the only way you can get the finance you need? That a seat on the board is the price?’

Her father had not met her gaze. ‘The bank requires a measure of control for this kind of injection of capital.’ He’d sounded as if he was repeating something he’d learned by rote. ‘They reserve the right to impose conditions. This is one of them. And, because of Crispin’s absurd rule, this is the only way it can be achieved.’

He’d paused. ‘But no one is going to make you do this, Paige. It must be your own decision. And if you refuse—well, we’ll find our funding elsewhere. Somehow.’

She had said flatly, ‘I suspect if it was that simple you’d have done so already. Right?’

There had been another silence, then he’d nodded.

‘Then I’ll do it.’ She had made her tone firm, even positive. ‘After all, it’s only a form of words. A signature on a different sort of dotted line. And as soon as the legal requirement’s been fulfilled we can divorce. End of story.’

Except that it had only been the beginning …

She paused, aware that her heart was thudding suddenly. That she’d allowed herself to stray towards forbidden territory. And that she needed to stop right there.

Restlessly, Paige got up from the dressing stool and walked barefoot across the room, out through the tall glazed doors on to the balcony, the folds of her white silk robe swishing round her long legs as she moved.

The sun was setting, and the Caribbean was pulsing with crimson and gold.

Leaning on the wrought-iron balustrade and staring at the sea, Paige thought, not for the first time, that Jack and Angela’s hotel was one of the most idyllic places she’d ever visited. It occupied one of the prime sites on the island, which undoubtedly helped.

She’d met Angela on their first day at convent boarding school, and they’d been friends ever since. While Paige had gone in for magazine journalism, Angela had become a nurse. She’d met Jack when he’d been admitted to her ward with a badly broken leg, and Paige had been astonished when Angela told her, liltingly, a few weeks later, that she was marrying Jack and going back to St Antoine with him to help run the Hotel Les Roches. She was still frankly amazed to see how easily her friend had adapted to her new life.

The hotel had been the home of Jack’s family for several generations. With the closure of the sugar plantation which had been their livelihood, his father had begun the work of extension and renovation which would transform the old mansion into accommodation that would combine luxury with informality. And Les Roches had been fabulously successful ever since.

She’d had a wonderful holiday, Paige told herself, but she wouldn’t be altogether sorry to go home. These warm tropical nights could be dangerous, and Brad Coulter had been spending far too much time at the hotel lately—even for a close friend of the proprietors.

Anyone else in her position, she thought, would have enjoyed a no-strings flirtation and gone home smiling at the end of it. So why couldn’t she?

It couldn’t be because she felt obliged to remain faithful to her marriage vows. Nick certainly felt no such compulsion. In fact the whole church ceremony had been a cynical charade, and she couldn’t imagine why he’d insisted on it—unless it had been to placate his elderly grandmother who, as well as being his only living relative, was French and a confirmed traditionalist.

Fortunately, she also lived in France, and so would not be aware of how little time her grandson and his bride had actually spent together—even under the same roof. Because, although she would no doubt regard a mariage de convenance as a sensible solution to a difficult problem, she would still demand that appearances be maintained.

But Nick was not one for appearances, Paige thought, biting her lip. Nor was he any good at pretending …

She stopped abruptly, aware that this was another strictly no-go area.

She should concentrate on the positive side of the situation, she decided bracingly. Remind herself that the months and weeks of their separation were ticking away to zero. And freedom.

She turned back into her room with a slight shiver. Sunsets always made her melancholy. And tomorrow it was back to the grindstone.

The dress she chose was a black silky slip with narrow straps, cut cleverly on the bias. She hung a teardrop pearl on a fine gold chain at her throat, and the matching drops in her ears. Her sandals were high-heeled and stylish.

Not to die for, she thought, reviewing herself critically in the full-length mirror. She would never be that. But, all the same, looking good.

The Waterfront had been built on a promontory overlooking St Antoine’s most sheltered harbour. It was a large single-storey building, as local regulations demanded, and provided conference facilities, a health club, and its own discreet casino. In addition it had two excellent restaurants, one of them open air with a thatched roof, overlooking the water, with cabaret in the high season and live music for dancing all the year round.

Brad Coulter was waiting for them in the foyer. He was a stockily built man with a ruggedly handsome face. His blue eyes lit up when he saw Paige.

‘You look wonderful.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Angie, have you persuaded her to stay a while longer?’

‘Not so far, I’m afraid.’ Angela shook her head ruefully. ‘She seems determined to catch that plane tomorrow. Some nonsense about having to earn her living.’

‘She could do that here.’ Brad smiled at her.

‘I don’t think so.’ Paige shook her head, glancing around her, absorbing the ambience of luxury combined with good taste. ‘You don’t need a PR person. This place clearly sells itself.’

‘There are other positions—other roles we could discuss, maybe.’ He was still holding her hand, and Paige detached herself gently.

‘It’s a nice thought, but I’m not really looking at the moment. Thanks.’

‘Well, let me at least show you around,’ Brad suggested. ‘Let you see the layout.’

‘Good idea,’ Jack said heartily. ‘We’ll see you in the bar presently.’

And Paige, with murder in her heart, allowed herself to be led away.

In spite of herself, she found she was enjoying the tour. Brad was clearly proud of what he’d achieved, and rightly so. And he had firm ideas about his plans for the future, she realised with frank appreciation.

‘Sure I can’t tempt you to stay here?’ he asked, his eyes searching as he poured them both a drink in his private office.

‘Absolutely convinced.’ Paige took the glass from him with a murmur of thanks. ‘In fact, I’m not sure I shouldn’t be recruiting you instead, for Harrington Holdings. We could do with your kind of vision.’

His brows lifted. ‘Things not going so well?’

She shrugged. ‘We’ve had a so-so year. More than our fair share of problems.’ She paused, pulling a mock-guilty face. ‘And, as you can see, I’m a lousy PR girl, because I shouldn’t even be talking like this. I ought to be saying that everything in the garden is lovely.’

‘Well, there are no journalists present, and your secrets are safe with me.’ He looked at her enquiringly. ‘So, if your heart’s not in it, why do you work in public relations? Maybe the time is right for a change of career.’

‘I’ve already had one. I started out on a women’s magazine, working in features.’

‘You got tired of that?’

‘By no means. I was persuaded that I was needed elsewhere. And my family can be very persuasive.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then perhaps I should try a little coaxing myself.’

She was aware that he’d moved closer along the big white leather sofa they were sharing.

She stiffened, her hands clasped together in her lap, her whole body language a warning to him not to stray any nearer. She offered him a taut smile. ‘I’m really not open to any kind of inducement at the moment. I have problems of my own to sort out.’

‘I know you’re married,’ he said. ‘Angie told me. But she also said it hadn’t worked out. So that needn’t be a barrier. I’m divorced myself, and it isn’t the end of the world.’ He paused. ‘Unless you’re still carrying a torch for the guy?’

‘Absolutely not.’ Her voice sounded clipped and very clear. ‘We weren’t together long enough to light one.’

‘That doesn’t mean a thing.’ The blue eyes were shrewd. ‘Sometimes it can just take one look across a room full of other people.’

Was that how it had been when he saw her? she wondered, and hoped not with all her heart. Because only self-deception lay that way, as she had reason to know.

‘For me, it would take far more.’ She stared rigidly down at her untouched glass.

‘Well, I’m a patient man,’ he said. ‘I can wait.’

Paige bit her lip. ‘Brad, you’re really nice …’

‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘I feel a rejection coming on.’

‘But you don’t know me—or anything about me other than things that Angie’s said.’ She attempted a laugh. ‘And, I warn you, she’s biased.’

‘That’s precisely why I want you to stay a while longer. To give us both a chance to find out if this thing could be going somewhere.’ He paused. ‘Paige, I was hit hard when my marriage broke up, and I won’t pretend otherwise. But I’m over it now, and ready to move on. When I saw you, I thought for the first time that this could be the time, the place and the girl.’

She said quietly, ‘I’m flattered. In fact, I’m honoured. But the fact is I’m simply not free, personally or professionally, to make any definite plans for the future. Not yet. I really need to sort out my life back in England.’

‘I’d like to say—keep me in mind. But the Caribbean’s a hell of a long way from Britain.’ His expression was wry.

Paige laughed. ‘Not since jet planes were invented, surely? I thought the worst part of the journey was actually the ferry trip from Sainte Marie,’ she added, wrinkling her nose. ‘I’m not a brilliant sailor, so I’m not looking forward to the return journey.’

Brad stared at her. ‘You mean you didn’t use Hilaire? Then you must. He runs the local air taxi service, which is about as much as our tiny airfield can cope with. I’ll call him now.’ He rose and went over to his desk. ‘What time is your flight? He’ll get you there with time to spare.’

‘Oh, please,’ Paige said, swift alarm rising inside her at the prospect of further damage to her credit card. ‘There’s no need—really. I’ve got my ferry ticket and—’

‘But you’ll be much happier with Hilaire,’ Brad interrupted firmly, punching in the numbers. ‘You won’t stay and let me show you a good time—or give you a job—so please let me do this small thing for you. When does your plane leave?’

She told him reluctantly. She didn’t wish to be beholden to him, but sometimes it was easier just to give in gracefully rather than go on with an argument she suspected she wouldn’t win.

The trouble is, she thought ruefully, I’m not used to receiving kindnesses.

The Harrington clan on the whole tended to be takers rather than givers. And Nick …

Well, Nick gave nothing, she thought, as sudden unwelcome pain twisted inside her.

‘That’s all arranged,’ Brad said cheerfully, replacing the receiver. ‘I’ll send my car for you at noon to take you to the airstrip.’ He studied her, frowning. ‘Are you all right? Have I been putting on too much pressure? I don’t mean to.’

‘No,’ Paige assured him quickly. ‘Everything’s fine. I—I’m very grateful—really.’ She stood up. ‘Jack and Angie will be wondering where we’ve got to. Maybe we should join them.’

‘Of course,’ he said instantly. ‘I’m being selfish. It’s just so good to have you to myself for a little while.’ He came across to her and put his hands gently on her shoulders. ‘May I say goodbye now—in private?’

She smiled fleetingly, muttered something acquiescent as he bent towards her. His lips were warm and firm. The kiss was pleasant and not unduly prolonged.

‘Well,’ Brad said, as he let her go. ‘It’s a start.’

No, Paige thought with regret. It’s not.

She wished so much that it could be otherwise. That his kiss had lit some spark that would have prompted her to accede to his urging and stay. Explore a relationship with him, maybe become half of a couple.

Jack and Angie would have been so pleased—and so smug, she reminded herself wryly.

But it wasn’t to be, and that was all there was to it.

‘How did it go?’ Angie whispered as Paige sat down beside her.

‘He’s really sweet,’ Paige temporised.

‘But you’re still going back tomorrow.’ Angie’s face fell. ‘Jack said you would.’

‘He has wisdom beyond his years.’ Paige squeezed her friend’s arm affectionately. ‘But I’ll be back to stay some other time, if you’ll have me.’

She glanced around her. The tables, set with pristine white linen and gleaming silverware, were stationed round the edge of a large dance floor. The band, a four-piece combination, were playing quietly, but no one was dancing yet, although all the tables were fully occupied. Soft-footed waiters were moving among the diners, and there was a hum of conversation and laughter punctuated by the popping of corks.

Coloured lights were festooned across the thatched roof, and each table also had a candle burning in a pretty glass shade, surrounded by a garland of bright flowers.

‘It’s really lovely here,’ Paige commented. ‘And very crowded. I thought this was the off season.’

‘A couple of big yachts docked in the marina this morning. Jack says it’s Alain Froyat, who owns a string of European magazines, and Kel Drake, the film producer.’ Angie shrugged. ‘Apparently there’s been a weather warning, so they’ve decided to play it safe. And their guests have all come ashore to dine and lose some of their accumulated wealth in Brad’s casino.’

‘A weather warning?’ Paige frowned. ‘Do you mean a hurricane?’

‘Oh, it probably won’t be that bad. But we can get the odd tropical storm at this time of year.’ She pursed her lips. ‘And that might delay your ferry.’

‘That’s not a problem.’ Paige’s tone was rueful. ‘Apparently I’m going to Sainte Marie in style—courtesy of Brad, and someone called Hilaire.’

‘Holy smoke,’ said Angie. ‘I’m impressed. Hilaire must have had to toss out the odd millionaire to make room for you.’

Their table was in the corner of the restaurant nearest the beach, to take advantage of the breeze from the sea. Only there didn’t seem to be one. The air was very warm, and very still. In fact it had almost a brooding quality, Paige thought, watching the reflection of the moon on the calm water. Maybe the skippers on those yachts had known what they were doing when they’d looked for a secure haven. For a moment she was aware of a faint shiver of uneasiness, but dismissed it. She would be halfway home by the time bad weather struck, she told herself resolutely. If indeed it did.

The food was delicious—pumpkin soup followed by red snapper, and a spicy chicken dish served with fragrant rice, all of it accompanied by vintage wines. Dessert was slices of fresh pineapple marinated in liqueur, and a wonderful home-made coconut ice cream.

Brad was an attentive host, keeping the conversation general and light-hearted, and, to Paige’s relief, making no further comment about her imminent departure.

Now that the pressure was off, it was turning into a really enjoyable evening, she decided, as coffee and brandy were served.

The band was playing something soft and dreamy, and Jack and Angie got up to dance. Paige watched them slowly circling the floor in each other’s arms, Jack smiling adoringly into his wife’s eyes and Angie lifting her hand to stroke his cheek.

They’ve got it right, Paige thought, suppressing a pang of envy so fierce it was almost painful.

‘Shall we join them?’

Paige started. Brad was watching her enquiringly, his brow slightly furrowed.

She sent him a bright smile. ‘Why not?’

He was a good dancer, holding her lightly and not too closely. As they moved he exchanged greetings with the people at the tables they passed, or acknowledged someone’s presence with a smile and a nod.

‘You’re good at this,’ she told him.

His grin was rueful. ‘I’m in business, and the rich can be touchy. You can’t afford to ignore anyone. And when someone like Froyat hits town you’ve no idea who might be travelling with him, so it can be perilous.’

‘I bet.’ She was smiling as she glanced towards the big table he was indicating. A sea of faces, all animated, chattering to their neighbours. All relaxed and having a good time.

All, that was, except one. A dark face, cool and sardonic, swam out of the crowd. A man who wasn’t talking to anyone around him, who was even momentarily oblivious to the young and pretty blonde who was draped across him, her arm round his neck. A man who was staring right at her, his eyes narrowed and appraising.

The smile froze on her lips. She felt the breath catch in her throat, the sudden grim thud of her astonished heart against her ribcage.

No, she thought desperately. It can’t be. It can’t …

‘Are you all right?’ Brad’s voice was concerned.

‘Yes.’ Her voice was hoarse, unlike her own. ‘I mean—no. At least …’ She paused. ‘Do you think we could sit down, please?’

‘Of course.’ His arm went round her, supporting her, and she was grateful for it as they made their way off the floor. Because her legs were shaking under her.

‘Can I get you something?’ Brad put her gently into her chair. ‘What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

No ghost, she thought. But someone only too real, who was, by some terrible mischance, right here on St Antoine.

She said quickly, ‘I think it’s the weather.’ She fanned herself with her hand. ‘It’s got so oppressive suddenly.’

She sipped the glass of iced water he poured for her, and assured him that the slight faintness was passing. That she’d be fine if she could just sit quietly for a few minutes. And that she’d really prefer to be on her own.

‘There must be people you should be talking to,’ she urged. ‘Go and do your social thing while I pull myself together. I feel such a fool …’

‘I’d rather not leave you.’

‘Then you’ll make me feel worse than ever. Please, Brad. I might even go for a quick stroll along the beach—clear my head properly,’ she added with determined brightness.

Or I might run away and never be found again …

‘Are you sure you’d rather be alone?’ He was doubtful—reluctant.

‘Absolutely. Anyway, Jack and Angie will be back in a minute.’ She smiled at him, willing him to walk away. ‘And when you come back I’ll be fine again. Rarin’ to go, in fact.’

She sounded hyper—like a crazy woman—but it seemed to work. She didn’t watch to see what table Brad was heading for, because she didn’t want to know.

She drank some more water, staring at the flicker of the candle-flame behind the glass. What was that old saying? ‘Speak of the devil and he’s sure to appear.’ Only a few hours ago she and Angie had talked about Nick Destry—and here he was.

Unless her imagination was playing tricks—had conjured him up to torment her. Her mind was spinning—in overdrive. Could it be that? Had the trauma of the past months caught up with her at last?

All she had to do was look up—look across the room—and she would know for certain if he was real or some hobgoblin of fantasy. Only she didn’t dare.

Under cover of the tablecloth, her hands clenched impotently into fists. What the hell was the matter with her? she railed inwardly. Why was she reacting like this? Nick wasn’t a mad axe-murderer, out for blood. He was the man she’d married for business reasons and whom she was planning to divorce as soon as it was legal. This was not a problem. Unless she allowed it to be.

It’s just shock, she told herself. All these months of studiously avoiding each other, and here they were in the same nightclub on the same small Caribbean island. Just one of life’s horrible coincidences.

And her secretly nurtured hope that she might never need to set eyes on him again had always been a non-starter—totally unrealistic.

I should have taken a leaf out of Brad’s book, she thought. Smiled and nodded, as if we were passing acquaintances. Instead I let him see me leave the floor in disarray.

She felt her chest tighten, and got to her feet. She hadn’t been serious about that walk along the beach, but it suddenly seemed like a good idea. And she wasn’t running away, she told herself. Just—regrouping.

Stone steps led down to the sand, bleached silver in the moonlight. Paige paused on the bottom step, slipping off her sandals. The warm night lay on her like a blanket, the palm trees that fringed the crescent of sand unmoving as she walked down to the curling edge of the water. Her breathing was still hurried and shallow. She had to fight to control it. To rein herself in to normality, and acceptance of the fact that fate had played her an unpleasant trick.

Although Nick wouldn’t be too pleased to see her either. He was the one who rubbed shoulders with millionaires. She was the wage slave back in England.

But that had been her own choice, she reminded herself restlessly. He’d offered a generous financial settlement in return for her compliance. She need never have worked again. But she’d refused his money.

All through those bitter days she’d kept repeating to herself like a personal mantra, I want nothing from him. Nothing.

When she’d reluctantly accepted the job at Harrington Holdings she’d done so at a reduced salary. After all, she was no longer living in London with its enormous rents. Her parents had wanted her to move back into the vast family home, as her brother Toby had done with his wife, but instead she’d found a small one-bedroomed cottage in a neighbouring village, feeling that at least a measure of independence was preferable.

And she’d managed to do some freelance magazine work, keeping the door open for her eventual return.

It had been a seriously difficult year in so many ways, she reflected. Quite apart from her personal wretchedness, her work with the company had been more like damage limitation than public relations. Since Toby had taken over the running of the organisation, following her father’s illness, there had been nothing but problems, it seemed. And as for that stupid girl he’d married …

She stopped right there. She was the last person in the world entitled to sneer at anyone’s choice of marriage partner after the mess she’d made of her own life.

An incoming wave splashed gently round her bare feet and she shivered slightly. But the chill of the water was nothing in comparison to the ice within her.

She felt blank—numb. But she had to think—decide what to say just in case Nick decided not to keep his distance. She supposed he was a passenger on Alain Froyat’s yacht. But he wouldn’t be there simply for enjoyment, in spite of the pretty blonde he’d been wearing as a scarf. Without doubt there was some big finance deal going down. Something that would make the Maitland Destry bank ever more profitable, and send Nick’s personal wealth soaring even higher.

Not that it was any business of hers, she reminded herself tautly. Neither Nick’s financial standing or his latest girlfriend could be allowed to concern her even marginally.

She’d kept her side of the bargain, and now she wanted the whole sorry charade brought to a conclusion.

Closure, she thought, on a marriage that should never have taken place. I must have been out of my mind to lend myself to such a farce.

Her footsteps slowed. It was time she was getting back to the restaurant. She would tell Angie she had a headache and wanted to go back to Les Roches. She certainly didn’t want Brad coming to find her and being carried away by the whisper of the waves, the moonlight falling across the water. He might even think she’d gone out on to the beach to lure him on.

She hadn’t heard him coming, but then he’d always had the ability to move like a cat.

Yet when she turned he was there, just as she’d known—she’d feared—he would be. Blocking her way. Bringing her to a breathless, tingling halt in front of him. With no means of escape.

He said softly, in that mocking drawl she hated, ‘Good evening, Mrs Destry. Or should I say, “Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania”?’ And he began to laugh.