‘They’re masterpieces, too. And there’s one on each side. I want them in my bedroom. Forever.’
‘Do you ever stop thinking about sex?’ she demanded.
‘No. It’s too wonderful for me to ever forget. Do you?’
She was spared having to answer by the arrival of the auctioneer and his assistants. The sale was about to recommence. The bidders were all resuming their seats, so Penny and Ryan followed suit.
Each bidder had been issued with a number card. Theirs was number thirteen, which had proved to be lucky so far. She hoped their luck would hold this afternoon. She was tense with anticipation as the first lots were brought up and quickly auctioned off. Ryan’s words were echoing in her head.
When he had last offered to marry her, she’d been pregnant. He was doing ‘the right thing’—or that was what she had assumed. If she hadn’t lost the baby, she suddenly thought, she would probably have gone back to him.
After all, her plan to soldier on through university and a part-time job, with a baby on her hip, would have been very tough to carry through. In the end she would probably have gone back to him. By now he would have been her husband.
That thought had never occurred to her before, and it made her feel very strange. She was lost in thought for a long while.
Ryan nudged her gently.
‘I’m not bidding for anything,’ she whispered.
‘Maybe you should be,’ he replied.
She looked up and saw that the two big landscapes were on the rostrum. Bidding had already started, and was well underway. She saw the flash of a card—number fifty-seven—in the hands of the peroxide-blonde antiques dealer.
Her heart pounding, Penny held up her own card, and saw the auctioneer’s eyes glance at her.
‘I have twenty-five thousand from the lady to my right,’ she heard him tell the room. ‘Twenty-five thousand pounds. Any advance on twenty-five?’
Penny felt her stomach drop down to her feet. She’d been so busy thinking about Ryan that she hadn’t even noticed the bidding! At that price, the paintings had already far exceeded the auctioneer’s top estimate. And already, the blonde woman was lifting her card.
‘Twenty-six,’ the auctioneer intoned, ‘thank you, madam. I have twenty-seven at the back of the room. Twenty-eight at the front. Twenty-nine at the back. Against you, madam.’
Her mouth dry, Penny looked over her shoulder to see who the bidder at the back was. She caught sight of a raised card—number ninety-two, in the hands of a distinguished-looking Chinese man.
At thirty thousand pounds, the bidding paused. The blonde woman at the front had the bid. Penny tipped her card to the auctioneer.
‘Thank you, madam,’ he said, ‘thirty-one thousand. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four.’
Penny was breathless. The Chinese man and the two London dealers were bidding against each other fast. She glanced at Ryan. He seemed completely relaxed, his grey eyes hooded as he followed the action. If he could have bought a small car for the price of the serpentine columns, he could buy a very big one for this price. But he seemed unperturbed.
At forty thousand, the bidding hesitated.
Penny lifted her card again.
‘Forty-one thousand,’ the auctioneer said, smiling at her, ‘thank you, madam. Any advance on forty-one thousand for this magnificent pair of oil paintings?’
There was a frisson of interest through the room. She and Ryan always attracted attention when they were together, because they were such a striking couple, and today she had bid successfully on a number of keenly contested lots. There were smiles and nods directed her way.
But not from the blonde woman in the front row. She turned and glared at Penny over her shoulder for a moment. Then she waved her card imperiously.
‘Forty-two in the front row,’ the auctioneer said unctuously. ‘Thank you, madam. Forty-three at the back. Forty-four. Forty-five, thank you, sir. Forty-six. Forty-seven.’
It was going up frighteningly fast. Penny found herself gripping Ryan’s hand. She was shaking with tension. ‘What should I do?’ she hissed.
‘It’s up to you,’ he murmured calmly.
Muttering a prayer that this would clinch it, she lifted her card.
‘Forty-eight, on my right,’ the auctioneer noted.
The blonde woman gave Penny another ferocious scowl, and waggled her card.
‘Forty-nine. Forty-nine thousand pounds.’
Penny’s nails dug into Ryan’s hand. She looked at him. He neither nodded nor shook his head.
Penny lifted her card. It felt as heavy as a block of lead.
‘Fifty thousand pounds,’ said the auctioneer. There was a ripple of applause around the room. The blonde woman and her husband both turned to glare at Penny. The man’s face, which was thin and pale, was shiny with perspiration. He dabbed his brow with a handkerchief.
His partner jabbed her card in the air defiantly.
‘Fifty-one,’ the auctioneer declared. ‘Fifty-two at the back. Fifty-three. Fifty-four.’
Penny wanted to throw up. They were bidding at twice the estimate. Was she digging a very big hole for herself?
She looked at the two paintings. They were the finest landscapes she had ever seen outside of a museum. They were perfect for Northcote. And whatever they cost now, she would probably never get a chance like this again.
She lifted her card.
‘Thank you, madam, I have fifty-five thousand on my right. Any advance?’
The blonde woman, looking as though she were sucking on a lemon, brandished her card.
‘Fifty-six, thank you. Fifty-seven at the back. Fifty-eight in the front. Fifty-nine at the back.’
Once again, the bidding faltered. The room was buzzing with electricity. It was a lot of money. But Penny was aware of an odd phenomenon. Beyond her tightly coiled nerves, she felt that the two paintings were looking more beautiful with each raise in the bidding.
She suddenly felt, with a calm certainty, that these two magnificent works were worth every penny, and much more.
She glanced at Ryan. He merely smiled at her. ‘Your call,’ he said quietly.
Penny raised her card.
Through the applause, she heard the auctioneer intone, ‘I am bid sixty thousand by the lady on my right. Any advance on sixty thousand?’
The blonde woman thrust her card into the air.
‘Sixty-one in the front row,’ the auctioneer said, looking enquiringly at Penny. ‘Against you, madam.’
Penny’s arm was too shaky to lift the card, so she simply nodded.
‘Thank you, madam. I have sixty-two thousand pounds on my right. Any advance?’
This time, the blonde woman did not move, but sat with shoulders hunched in defeat.
Penny could not help turning to look at the Asian man at the back. He caught her eye and smiled, but shook his head to indicate he would not bid.
There was absolute silence among the crowd as the auctioneer repeated the final bid, his gavel poised in his hand.
When he rapped the hammer onto the lectern, there was a rush of clapping and excited talk. Penny slumped against Ryan, her head lolling on his shoulder.
‘Please say you forgive me,’ she said in his ear.
‘I’m proud of you,’ he whispered. ‘I love you, Penny Bun. Well done!’
‘Oh, Ryan!’
His strong arms came around her, and he hugged her hard. ‘Are there many more lots on your list?’ he asked.
‘No, why?’
‘Because I can’t wait to get you home—and into bed,’ he grinned.
Ryan was usually so tender with her after their lovemaking, kissing her gently, telling her how exquisite, how desirable she was, making her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. That night, in their hotel room, although he held her and kissed her, he was unusually silent.
At last he spoke quietly.
‘It’s time you fulfilled the other part of your promise, darling.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked sleepily.
‘You should have that check-up, Penny.’
She groaned. ‘But I’m fine! I don’t need to see any doctors!’
‘You should have been for a check-up every few months,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘You can’t keep running away from things.’
‘I don’t run away from things,’ she retorted.
Ryan smiled. ‘You are the perfect woman. Almost. About the only fault you have is…that you run away from things. Now, why don’t we do it this week?’
‘You can’t just pitch up at a neurologist’s office,’ she said. ‘You have to make an appointment and they’re always booked up for months in advance.’
‘Dr Brent-Jones will see you at a moment’s notice,’ Ryan replied. ‘He’s very concerned about you. There won’t be any wait, I promise you that. I’ll call him and make an appointment when we get back to Northcote. We can drive to Exeter together, if you like. Spend a couple of days in Devon. Make a break of it.’
‘You’re coming with me?’ she asked suspiciously, raising her tousled head so she could look at him.
‘Yes,’ he replied firmly. ‘No negotiation on this one, Penny Bun.’
She sighed, sinking back down into his arms. ‘Oh, hell. I suppose Ariadne can manage without me for a few days, if we get Tara in full-time.’
‘You can shut the damned shop for all I care,’ he retorted, with a return to his old imperious ways. ‘We’re talking about your health here, Penny!’
‘All right,’ Penny sighed, capitulating, ‘if it will stop you from bullying me.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’ll call Brent-Jones on Monday morning.’ Ryan kissed her throat softly. ‘I hope I haven’t tired you out? The night is yet young, my beloved!’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE snowfalls had been, if anything, even heavier in the west. It was noon by the time they got to Devon, less than a week later, and the winter sun gleamed fitfully on huge banks of snow by the sides of the roads. There was no sign of a thaw. Indeed, the mass of dark clouds from the sea promised yet more snow soon.
The drive had been beautiful, despite the slushy roads. Ryan had chosen the luxurious Land Cruiser for the poor driving conditions, and they had avoided the crowded motorways, choosing more scenic, less busy routes.
Snuggled into the opulent leather seat, Penny had been enjoying the drive, luxuriating in Ryan’s relaxed company, enchanted by the snowy landscapes of Surrey, Hampshire and Wiltshire that they drove through. There was something so safe about watching such a cold world pass by, secure in the big car, with Ryan at the wheel.
Ryan’s suggestion that they spend a couple of days in Devon had turned into a necessity—Brent-Jones had ordered a brain scan for today, and wanted to see her tomorrow, when he had had a chance to examine the results. She was not looking forward to either the scan or the interview.
They reached their hotel, the Angler’s Retreat, a beautiful country inn outside Exeter. After unpacking and stretching their legs, they went to the restaurant for a light lunch. It was a charming room, with Tudor timbered ceilings and walls, and a welcoming fire in the big, farmhouse fireplace. The walls were decorated with antique rods, nets and other fishing paraphernalia.
The waiter had just brought their food when Ryan’s cellphone rang. He answered the call, spoke briefly, then snapped the phone shut.
‘That was the real-estate people in Tunbridge Wells. The owners of Northcote have accepted my offer.’
‘Oh, Ryan!’ she exclaimed, feeling butterflies in her stomach. ‘So it’s yours!’
‘It will be when I’ve parted with a sizeable chunk of cash,’ he replied. His grey eyes held hers. ‘I committed myself a long time ago, Penny. We’re going to make it beautiful. We’re going to make it live again.’
The waiter served their grilled trout and they started eating, talking about Northcote Hall and the beautiful new things they had bought in Yorkshire, which were due to be delivered the following week. Penny was nervous and excited about the arrival of her treasures.
‘You really need to employ a full-time gardener,’ she told Ryan. ‘There’s already a perfect kitchen garden at the back. And with a little greenhouse, we could have our own fresh vegetables and salads all year long.’
‘You’re right, we could,’ he smiled.
Her appointment with the scanner was not until three that afternoon. They had time to have a leisurely meal. Though Penny did not for one moment feel that there was anything organically wrong with her, she was dreading her return to St Cyprian’s.
She must have shown some of the strain in her face, because Ryan touched her hand.
‘Are you nervous about this afternoon?’ he asked.
‘Not about the check-up,’ she replied. ‘I’m just not looking forward to being in St Cyprian’s again. The place has…’ She stopped short.
‘Very painful associations for you?’ he finished.
‘Yes. And the scanner isn’t very nice. It’s noisy and claustrophobic.’
Ryan kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘I’ll be with you this afternoon,’ he promised. ‘In fact, I promise never to let you come to a hospital alone again.’
Penny tried to make a meal of the delicious grilled trout, but her appetite seemed to have vanished. They went back to their room and lay on the bed, wrapped in one another’s arms without speaking, until it was time to go to the hospital.
St Cyprian’s was a large Victorian hospital with a rather forbidding air, half-cloister and half-prison. The facilities behind the grim granite façade, however, were modern and clinical.
The surroundings were all too familiar to Penny, and she found herself gripping Ryan’s hand so hard that she must have hurt him, though he gave no sign. Their first appointment, before seeing Dr Brent-Jones the next day, was at the radiology unit.
The huge scanning machine had always intimidated her, and she wished Ryan could be there with her. But here she had to say goodbye to him. It did help, however, to know that he was just in the next room, and that if panic overwhelmed her she could run to him. It also helped to hear his voice in her head, promising she would never need to come to a hospital on her own again.
She lay perfectly still, as the technician ordered her—by now, she knew the drill well. The machine slid her into its maw. Though she was not claustrophobic by nature, it was not pleasant to lie in such a confined space. The great curved shell of the gantry was somehow threatening. She kept her eyes closed, and tried not to flinch when the scan began.
The noise was repetitive, harsh and loud, and as always Penny was reminded of some huge butchering apparatus that was taking slices out of her. Of course, the slices were only virtual, and there was no pain. But the ugly hammering sound brought everything back with frightening clarity.
She lay motionless, remembering the pain of it all—the physical pain in her head and neck that had seemed to be crushing her. The emotional pain of knowing that she was no longer going to be a mother, that it was all over.
And, as always, she could not stop herself from remembering the night her father had died, the agonisingly long wait, the final glimpse of his broken body.
She felt dazed and shaky when the scan finally ended. She tried to put a brave face on it, but Ryan took one look at her and gathered her in his arms. If she hadn’t stopped him, he would have carried her out of St Cyprian’s like a child. As it was, he kept an arm tight around her waist to help her walk.
He drove her swiftly back to the Angler’s Retreat. By now it was getting dark, and the snow that had been threatening all day had started to fall—big white stars like something on a Christmas tree. Indeed, it would not be long before Christmas was here. The streets of Exeter were gay with lights and decorations and the streets had that peculiar happy bustle of Christmas.
Her legs were still shaky when they got out of the Land Cruiser.
‘We’ll have Room Service send us up something to eat,’ Ryan said firmly. ‘It’s an
early night for you, Penny Bun.’
Their room was deliciously warm and cosy. Penny took a hot bath, as Ryan commanded. Lying in the foamy bubbles, she started to feel much more relaxed. Ryan came to sit with her and talk about the day. He brought her a whisky on the rocks, which she drank gratefully. He was handsomer than ever, the rugged bone structure of his face emphasised by the weight he had lost. He had never put it back on. The sleekness she had known in London seemed to have gone forever—it seemed to have disappeared along with that infuriating arrogance. What remained was a quieter self-confidence, strengthened by a willingness to listen.
‘Was it as bad as you expected?’ he asked her.
‘It brought back memories, more than anything,’ she told him.
‘Is your neck sore?’
She smiled up at him. ‘How did you know?’
He pushed up the sleeves of his black sweater and began to massage her neck and shoulders. His fingers were strong and expert, bringing deep relief.
‘I’ve bought you a little present,’ he told her as she groaned with pleasure at the expertise of his kneading hands.
‘Not more jewels,’ she protested.
Ryan laughed. ‘No, something much more mundane, I’m afraid. I’ll give it to you when I’ve finished your massage.’
It was delicious to let Ryan pamper her. When the tension in her shoulders had quite gone, he wrapped her in a towel and led her to the bedroom. ‘Here,’ he said, giving her a tissue-wrapped parcel. ‘To keep you warm.’
Penny unwrapped the gift, and could not help smiling. It was an exquisite pair of pyjamas, pale blue with pink sheep dotted all over. ‘They’re adorable,’ she said, kissing him. ‘Thank you, darling.’
‘Put them on,’ he commanded, ‘and let’s get into bed.’
She slipped into the pyjamas, delighting in the feel of the soft silk on her skin. ‘Did you know that “pyjamas” is one of my favourite words?’ she said. ‘It must be a Chinese word.’
‘As a matter of fact, it’s Persian,’ he told her solemnly. ‘From two Urdu words, pa and jama, meaning “sexy love-pants”.’
‘You know so much,’ she giggled.
Ruthless Husband, Convenient Wife Page 14