by Penny Jordan
‘I want you to marry me, Somer,’ Chase continued lazily, pouring them both a drink—without asking her for her choice, Somer noted angrily.
‘Marry you? Have you gone mad? I don’t intend to marry anyone—least of all you.’
‘Why least of all me? Because you once asked me to make love to you and I refused? Would it help if I told you I regretted making that mistake, but you had me somewhat off guard, you see, Somer…I had no idea.’
‘I don’t want to talk about the past,’ Somer stormed bitterly at him. ‘And if this…this proposal of yours is your idea of a joke?’
‘No joke,’ he told her, walking towards her and handing her a crystal sherry-glass half full of pale amber liquid, his face grimly composed as he sat down opposite her. ‘Believe me it’s no joke at all.’
‘Well, you’ve made your proposal and I’ve refused and now I’m going to leave,’ Somer told him curtly, putting her glass down on an elegant Edwardian sofa table and standing up. ‘You aren’t the first man who’s wanted to marry the daughter of Sir Duncan MacDonald, and Sefton Oil, and I don’t expect you’ll be the last, but at least the others showed some finesse.’
‘Like Clinton Towers did, do you mean?’ Chase drawled, not in the slightest bit disturbed by her angry outburst. ‘Well you needn’t worry about that, I’m not the least interested in Sefton Oil or the fact that you’re Sir Duncan MacDonald’s daughter, or at least only in so far as those facts work to my advantage.’
‘One of those advantages being my father’s wealth, I suppose?’ she asked with heavy irony. Somehow Chase had interposed himself between her and the door, on which he was now leaning with studied negligence but with a look in his eyes which told her it would be extremely foolhardy, not to say potentially humiliating for her to try to force her way past.
‘My, my, you do have a low self-image, don’t you? Well, I assure you that my reasons for wanting to marry you have nothing to do with your father’s wealth.’
‘No?’
‘No. As a matter of fact, I’m now an extremely wealthy man myself, or at least I shall be once I comply with the terms of my uncle’s will.’
‘Which are?’ Why on earth had she asked him that? What could it possibly matter to her what terms his uncle’s will stipulated? All she wanted to do was to escape from his room and his far too overwhelming presence before she forgot that she wasn’t eighteen any longer.
‘That I must marry within three months of his death. You see my uncle was a great believer in family life.’
‘And you’re so hard up for a bride that you had to choose me?’ Somer mocked.
‘You’re showing your low self-esteem again,’ Chase retaliated. ‘Why do you find it so impossible to believe I might have asked you simply because I want you?’
‘The way you wanted me five years ago?’ She couldn’t keep the betraying pain out of her voice, and moved quickly and unsteadily, trying to recover her composure, reaching for her sherry and then setting the glass down again as it trembled in her fingers. ‘This has gone far enough. I don’t know what stupid game you think you’re playing, Chase, but I really must leave now.’
He was still blocking her exit, arms folded across his chest, and her mind traitorously relayed to her a mental image of how that chest looked—and felt.
‘No game, Somer,’ Chase told her lightly. ‘I intend to marry you.’
‘Because after five years you’ve suddenly discovered you’re madly in love with a woman you couldn’t even bring yourself to make love to? I won’t buy that, Chase,’ she told him steadily.
‘No, I don’t suppose you would. Why did you run out on me that night, Somer?’
‘Don’t you think we’d said all there was to say to one another?’ Her voice sounded light and precariously brittle.
‘You mean I wouldn’t oblige so you went out and found someone else who would?’ His tone was deceptively soft, smokily dangerous, each clear-cut word reverberating in her ears.
‘And if I did?’ Pride made her lift her head and confront him with eyes amethyst with mingled anger and pain.
‘You pretty soon discovered that sex for sex’s sake can be a very soul-destroying business—at least if all that one hears and reads about you is correct. The press seem to be giving you a lot of space these days—since your father has been chosen to represent the country abroad. In fact it seems to me that his daughter’s unimpeachable moral standards are working very much in Sir Duncan’s favour at the moment.’
‘And?’ Somer questioned sensing that the trap was closing round her and yet not knowing why she should feel so keenly aware of encroaching danger.
‘And, if you don’t agree to marry me, I might, just might be forced to reveal to the press exactly how much they’ve underestimated you. I’m sure they’ll believe me, especially when they see my photographs.’
Somer went pale, grasping the edge of the settee and forcing back the nauseous faintness clamouring inside her.
‘That’s blackmail,’ she whispered drily, hardly able to credit what she was hearing, her revulsion plainly revealed in her voice.
‘Some might call it that, I merely consider it good gamesmanship. I want you for my wife, Somer, and I’m prepared to use every advantage I have at my disposal to make sure you marry me.’
‘But why?’
‘Why?’ His mouth curled sardonically. ‘The eternal cry of a too-intelligent woman. There are others of your sex, my dear, who would simply accept my words at face value, who would find it quite easy to accept that I wanted them for themselves alone, but you aren’t able to delude yourself as easily, are you?’
It hurt, just as he had meant it to, but she straightened her spine and faced him bravely. ‘How could I? You made it plain how you felt about me five years ago, Chase. You didn’t want me then, why should you want me now?’
‘Because you, my dear, are the only woman I know who will consent to marry me on my terms. That is to say, in twelve months’ time when my uncle’s will has been satisfactorily proved and I have inherited, you will be quite happy to bow out of my life, because I have the means to ensure that you do so.’
‘The photographs.’ Her eyes almost black with pain, Somer whispered the words through a painfully dry throat.
‘The photographs,’ Chase agreed. ‘Here they are.’ He opened his jacket and removed a package from one pocket. ‘Of course these are on the small side, but I’ve kept the negatives—however, I’m sure once you see these you’ll…’
Somer wasn’t listening. She was staring at the envelope he had tossed to her as though it were a live snake.
‘Aren’t you going to look at them? I could be bluffing, after all?’
‘I don’t want to see them.’ How tight and strained her voice sounded. She felt as though an iron band had tightened round her throat, every syllable uttered was a tearing pain.
‘Oh, I think you should.’ With one fluid movement Chase detached himself from the door and came towards her. The door was now left unbarred but she felt no urge to flee. With sick fascination she watched him flip open the manilla envelope and extract half a dozen glossy prints. The colours blurred and danced before her anguished eyes, her face losing every vestige of colour.
‘No…’ Her denial was a long-drawn-out, tormented protest, her eyes closing, her fingers curling into tense fists of protest.
‘Yes,’ Chase’s voice was implacably smooth. She felt the settee depress beneath his weight; and even through her closed eyelids she was aware of the male heat emanating from him. His determination was an almost palpable thing in the pleasant room, reaching out to enfold and impale her. Cool fingers grasped her own, a mocking voice close to her ear whispering, ‘But why such reluctance? I seem to remember you were the one who wanted me to take them.’
‘Because I was frightened.’ The admission burst past her trembling lips. ‘Because I was fighting to buy time…I couldn’t think of any other way to…’
‘To stop me making love to you? And yet not ten minutes
later you were begging me to do so. I wonder if you have any idea of how I felt when I came downstairs that evening and found you gone? Knowing the state you were in I went half out of my mind worrying about you. No one seemed to know a damned thing about you. Not your address…I even checked the register myself, but all there was was your name.’
‘Very touching.’ Her cold words silenced him. ‘But I don’t believe a word you’re saying. If you were so concerned about me why are you blackmailing me like this now?’
‘I’ve told you. I need a wife to conform with the terms of my uncle’s will. Marriage—a permanent marriage that is—isn’t part of my plans right now, and neither do I much care for the thought of paying out a substantial sum of money to rid myself of a wife I never wanted in the first place. With modern divorce laws what they are I could well lose at least half of what I’ll inherit. The house my uncle left me costs one hell of a lot to keep up—far more than I could afford on my present salary. If I had to pay over a substantial part of my income to an ex-wife, I could never afford to keep it.’
‘So you hit on the ingenious idea of blackmailing me to marry you knowing you could divorce me the moment it suited you by holding the threat of exposing those photographs over me?’ Her mouth curled disdainfully. ‘I’m surprised you’re not trying to blackmail me financially as well.’
Mockery gleamed in the green eyes slanted in her direction. ‘I doubt that most men wouldn’t be content with just you, Somer, especially if they could see you as I’ve seen you.’
‘You’re despicable.’ The husky words whispered past her taut throat. ‘I can’t believe you really mean this.’
‘Believe it.’ The comment was laconically brief. ‘I mean to collect my inheritance. Barnwell Manor was the only real home I knew as a child—my father was in the army and we—my mother, my sister and I—travelled around the world with him. Both he and my mother were killed by a bomb in Cyprus when I was nine—I was at boarding-school at the time. My uncle practically brought us up, but like I say he had strong views about the benefits of marriage. He never married himself and towards the end of his life he regretted it.’
‘You don’t have the slightest compunction about cheating him? About claiming your inheritance under false pretences?’
‘No one dictates to me the terms on which I live my life, Somer.’ His voice hardened imperceptibly. ‘However, who knows, perhaps I’ll enjoy being married to you so much that you’ll make a convert out of me.’
‘What makes you think I’ll want to? I have no intention of marrying you or anyone else…’
‘Because you don’t want to limit yourself to one man?’ His voice was smooth, but there was something dangerous and predatory glittering in his eyes that made her mouth go dry and her pulses race nervously. ‘But you don’t have the choice, not unless you want to see your father lose the ambassadorship, which he will do if these prints of you are published.’
Somer knew he spoke the truth. She glanced down to avoid his too-penetrating gaze, her eyes falling to the prints. One in particular shimmered in front of her and she stared at it, unable to drag her gaze away, her heart pounding with fear, her whole body reacting to the sight of her own nudity; to the slumberous, sexually aroused expression in her eyes. Her features were instantly recognisable to anyone able to drag their eyes off her nude body long enough to look at her face, but bad as the nudity of her body was, it was the expression in her eyes, so mercilessly caught by the cruel eye of the camera that betrayed her the most. I want to be made love to, those eyes said, and no one looking at the photograph could doubt how that photographic session had ended. No one apart from Chase and herself, that was.
‘I must have time to think,’ she said huskily, forcing herself to look up at him. ‘I…’
‘You’ve got twenty-four hours. If you haven’t given me your answer then, within another twenty-four these prints will be in the hands of the press.’
‘Please…’ The word trembled on her lips and unbidden the memory of her pleading with this man once before rose up to torment her. She stood up shakily, noticing that this time he didn’t bar her way to the door.
‘Twenty-four hours, Somer,’ he reminded her as he opened the front door for her, ‘and this time don’t try running away.’
How could she when there was nowhere to run to, Somer asked herself half hysterically as she drove home. She had been gone less than two hours, but those two hours had drastically altered the course of her life. With every thread of common sense and logic she possessed she wanted to refuse Chase Lorimer’s proposal, but if she did he would carry out his threat and her father would lose the post he wanted so badly.
She could hardly touch her dinner, and in order to assuage her father’s anxious comments she lied that she had a headache. ‘I thought you weren’t dining at home tonight,’ she commented, remembering his appointment with the Prime Minister.
‘The meeting was over sooner than I anticipated. I must say I feel quite relieved. The Sheikh was very pleasant,’ he grinned down the length of the mahogany table at his daughter, ‘he even went as far as to say that you might be a good influence on his daughter. In fact I think it was the press reports of your sturdy moral fibre that finally won him over. Somer, are you sure you’re all right?’ The brief sound of pain his daughter made, and the glass of wine cascading over the table brought him to his feet.
‘It’s just this awful headache,’ Somer lied. ‘I’ll be fine. I think I’ll go to my room and lie down for a while. I’ll probably have an early night.’
Once in her room she made no attempt to prepare for bed. If she did she knew she would not sleep. Round and round in exhausting circles her thoughts chased one another, searching frantically for some means of escape but knowing that there was none. How could she let her father down, but if she didn’t she would be committed to twelve months of marriage to Chase Lorimer—twelve months living with a man she feared and loathed; the only man who knew the real truth about her; who knew how ineffective she was as a woman. Did you find someone else, he had asked her, and she hadn’t denied it. Neither would she ever let him discover the truth. She couldn’t endure the humiliation of his knowing that she was still a virgin; that she had never found anyone to relieve her of her unwanted innocence.
Morning found her pale-faced and heavy-eyed, her decision made. Had she ever had any real choice, she asked herself bitterly as she composed a brief note to Chase Lorimer. No doubt he wouldn’t be surprised by her acquiescence. He had known all along that she would have to give in. Their marriage would be in name only, she had written—that way at least she was the one doing the rejecting this time. No doubt he hadn’t intended anything different, she was making the point that this time she desired anything physical between them as little as he did.
She delivered the note herself, dashing back to her car the moment she had slipped it through his letter box. She had given him the answer he wanted, the next step was up to him. What form would it take? And how was she going to break the news to her father?
He had been in jubilant mood over breakfast, suggesting that they have a celebratory meal that evening. ‘I’ll give Peter Ferris a ring and ask him and Moira to join us, shall I?’
Peter Ferris was the Chief Executive of Sefton Oil and Somer’s godfather. She had nodded her head numbly, promising to make all the arrangements with Mrs McLeod.
‘And wear something really ravishing,’ Sir Duncan had suggested, ‘it might be your last opportunity—it’s going to be strictly purdah once we arrive in Qu’Hoor.’
Somer dressed for her father’s dinner party with scant enthusiasm. The dress she had chosen matched her mood. It was black velvet with a demure boat-shaped neckline at the front, plunging almost to the waist at the back, tight sleeves hugging her arms, the skirt belling out softly from a fitted waist. Her father had chosen the dress and privately Somer knew it would never have been her choice. Despite its apparent demureness, the contrast of the black velvet to the delicately
pale skin of her exposed back projected an image she wasn’t entirely happy with. She would never have chosen to wear it at a larger gathering, but Peter Ferris was a close and old friend of her father’s, close to his age, and he treated Somer much as though she were his daughter.
Coiling her hair at the back of her head she snapped on diamond-drop earrings, closing a matched diamond-studded bangle round her wrist.
‘My word, you certainly took my advice to heart,’ Sir Duncan applauded when Somer came downstairs. ‘That’s the dress I bought you for your birthday, isn’t it?’ He sounded so delighted that she was wearing it that Somer felt a pang of guilt. Her father was hardly likely to realise that she normally avoided wearing it because she knew it was basically a very seductive dress, projecting an image she felt it was impossible for her to live up to.
The doorbell chimed as they stood in the hall and Sir Duncan frowned, glancing at his watch. ‘They’re early, it’s barely gone seven.’ He strode forward to open the door, and Somer standing behind him felt the blood drain out of her face as she saw Chase Lorimer walk in.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he said easily. ‘Now darling, no protests, I know you didn’t want me to do this, but I’m damned if I’m going to part with you for six weeks, never mind six months.’
Somer’s mouth had fallen open during this mocking recital, her face burning with hectic colour as she felt her father turn to her, confusion very evident in his expression.
‘Somer…’ he began, but Chase Lorimer didn’t let him get any further.
‘Somer has promised to marry me, Sir Duncan,’ he said smoothly, ‘I know she hasn’t spoken to you about it. We’d just made up our minds when you discovered that you might get the post in Qu’Hoor. I agreed that we would delay our engagement for six months—she felt that she had to go with you at least for the first few months, but I know you’ll understand when I tell you how reluctant I am to let her out of my sight for one month, never mind six. I want to marry her, Sir Duncan, and I want to marry her now, before you leave for Qu’Hoor.’