Dashing back upstairs, she didn't see Justin's dark scowl or hear his muttered, 'What card?'
'Right, I'm ready.' She returned, holding out her velvet cloak for Justin to place around her shoulders. She shivered with delicious anticipation when his strong fingers caressed her flesh as he fastened the cap and solemnly pinned the red roses on the velvet above her breast.
With Uncle Bertie's good wishes, and his admonition to stay in town for the night ringing in her ears, Justin led her out to the car—a sleek black BMW—and slid in beside her.
Justin was the perfect partner; he insisted on dancing every dance with her, and the evening took on a magic all of its own. She could not help but observe the respect and esteem he attracted from his fellow professionals. She overheard in the powder-room that it was rumoured that he was definitely going to be on the next list of judges, and, on returning to the ballroom, she could not resist teasing him unmercifully.
'Such exalted company. Why, milord, I fear you give me the vapours.' She fluttered her thick lashes unashamedly.
'I'd like to give you a lot more,' he drawled mockingly, his brown eyes smiling down into hers. 'You little tease.'
'Who—moi! Your honour! No, your honour!' She camped it up, pressing a hand to her heart.
'You're asking for trouble, little one,' Justin opined, and swept her into his arms and on to the dance-floor.
'If. . . or. . . when. . .' he spaced the words out as they moved slowly and lazily around the floor to the haunting strains of 'Unchained Melody' '. . . I. . . am. . . made. . . a. . .judge. . .' he curled her small hand in his and held it against his chest while his other hand stroked up her back to bury beneath the silken fall of her pale blonde hair and curve around her nape '. . . it won't be "Unchained Melody" we dance to, my love.'
He tilted her face up to his and murmured against her ear, 'I'll sentence you to be chained to me for life.' And then his mouth moved over hers in a kiss as light as the brush of a butterfly's wing.
She clung to him, her eyes shining like stars; her breasts, hard against his chest, throbbed with burgeoning arousal while her heart drummed to an erratic beat. 'If only,' she breathed, licking her suddenly too dry lips.
His dark eyes followed the movement of her tongue. 'Not if—when,' he rasped, his arms tightening around her until even through the many layers of her gown Zoe could feel his hardening need, and she finally admitted to herself that nothing had changed—her schoolgirl crush had turned into a woman's love for a man.
'Let's get out of here,' he said urgently.
'But it's only eleven.'
'The way I feel right now, I won't live to midnight.' Their eyes met and clung—no more teasing, no amusement, just a basic primeval need.
'Yes,' she agreed softly.
Back in Justin's apartment, she barely noticed the decor; she had eyes only for Justin.
He stripped off her velvet evening cloak and dropped it to the floor, then, catching her hand, hurried her down a hall through a door and into a large room—his bedroom! She hesitated, eyeing the king-size bed warily. Was she ready for this? But the question was answered by Justin.
'Zoe.' He cupped her small face in his large hands and tilted her head back, his deep brown eyes darkened to almost black. 'Don't be afraid. You know I would never do anything to hurt you. But I feel as though I've waited aeons for you. I can't wait any longer.' His mouth brushed gently over hers. 'I promised myself I would do this properly,' he breathed against her lips.
She reached her slender arms around his neck, her heart melting with love, and felt anything but proper. . . She gazed up into his dark eyes, and was surprised to see a hint of uncertainty, a touching vulnerability in their black depths. 'Do what?' she encouraged with a dreamy smile.
His hands lowered, one to curve around her waist, the other to go to his jacket pocket. 'Ask you to be my valentine tonight and always. Be my wife,' he husked, and, putting a little space between them, he showed her the velvet ring-box.
Zoe, her eyes misted with tears of joy, took the box and opened it. A gasp of delight escaped her at the sight of the diamond and sapphire ring. 'Put it on for me.' She held it out with a hand that trembled.
Justin slipped the ring on the appropriate finger. 'I take it that's a yes?' he queried huskily before he enfolded her once more in his arms; his dark head bent and he kissed her, long and tenderly.
She parted her lips at his urging; his tongue seductively traced the inside of her mouth and she was lost. She would be anything he wanted her to be.
'Now, do I get to unwrap my valentine? You, my heart,' he mouthed against her cheek as he spread small kisses all over her face, her eyelids, the slender arch of her throat, while his hands deftly found the zip of her dress.
It was no good; she could stand it no longer; she had to get away for a while. Her head was pounding, and if she had to listen to one more stilted condolence on the death of her uncle Bertie she would break down completely.
'Are you all right, Zoe?'
She glanced up into concerned deep brown eyes and tried to smile. 'I will be when this is over.' A supporting arm closed around her tiny waist and she relaxed against the hard, muscled, masculine frame of her husband of two months—Justin. She still had to pinch herself sometimes to believe that she and Justin were actually man and wife.
'Zoe.' Justin's voice snapped her back to the present.
She raised misty blue eyes to his. 'I'm OK.'
'You're not,' he contradicted her bluntly. His hand tightened fractionally on her waist. 'Slope off to your secret seat, and I'll make sure you're not disturbed for a while.' His hand moved to her back and turned her to the door. His dark head bent, she felt the feather-light brush of his mouth against the top of her head and she was out in the large oak-panelled hall.
Justin knew her so well, she thought, slipping quickly through the door opposite and making straight for the window-seat. Curled up behind the curtain, she stared out of the window. The clear, bright light of a mid-May day glinted over the long lush green lawns and on down to the river, which wound like a sinuous silver snake along the bottom of the garden.
Too nice a day for a funeral! She sighed deeply, and a tear rolled slowly down the curve of her cheek. Uncle Bertie—dead . . .
She wiped away the moisture with the back of her hand. She couldn't have any tears left. She had done her crying for her uncle over the past few months when it had become obvious that it was simply a matter of time before his ruined heart gave out. The funeral today was the last act for a man who had led an exemplary life. The guests across the hall numbered among some of the greatest names in the land, here to pay their respects.
Uncle Bertie had been an eminent judge destined for one of the highest positions in the English judiciary, until he had suffered his heart attack last November.
Zoe closed her eyes and lay back against the wall, her feet tucked beneath her. She was going to miss him, she knew. But—thank God!—she had Justin; she was not alone, and Uncle Bertie had been delighted when she'd married his protégé. So she at least had the solace of knowing that her uncle's last weeks had been happy.
Smiling softly to herself, she glanced at her sparkling engagement ring and the pale gold band beside it. Then she breathed on the window, misting the glass, and, in a childish gesture, drew a heart with her forefinger and inserted the initials ZG and JG with a rather wobbly arrow, remembering the Valentine's ball.
No girl had ever had a more tender, intoxicating initiation into womanhood. Justin was the perfect lover; slowly and carefully he had kissed and caressed, urged and cajoled her through the intricacies of love, and at the final moment had protected her from any untoward consequences.
The next morning, when he had taken her back to Black Gables, he had formally asked Uncle Bertie for her hand in marriage, informed her arrogantly that as his wife-to-be she no longer needed to work, and, of course, she had agreed. Then, a month later, on the arm of her uncle Bertie, she had walked down the aisle
of the village church to wed Justin.
She sighed. Who would have thought that two months later Bertie would be dead? Then she heard the voice of Mrs Sara Blacket, the wife of one of the partners in Justin's law firm, speaking.
'It's a magnificent house. Gifford has done very well for himself, even if he did have to marry the old man's niece to get it.'
Why, the cheeky old bat! Zoe thought, and would have moved, but then she recognised another voice—that of Mary Master, the wife of a High Court judge.
'Oh, I don't think Justin married for any mercenary reason. They make a lovely couple, and it's obvious she adores him.'
'I don't dispute the girl loves him, but my Harold told me he'd heard that Bertie Brown, when he realised he was dying, offered Justin his place as the head of chambers on condition that he married the niece. He wanted her settled before he died.'
'I find that hard to believe. In any case, the other partners would have had some say in the matter,' Mary Master argued.
'Bertie was well liked, and which one of them would refuse a dying man's last wish? As Harold said, the girl is exquisitely beautiful, tiny—like a rare Dresden china doll—but young and hardly a match for an aggressively virile male like Gifford.
'His taste in the past was for large, bosomy ladies more his own age. Remember the Christmas dinner two years ago and Justin's redhead partner? Harold told me they were taking bets on whether her boobs would stay covered through to the sweet course.'
'Oh, really, Sara!' Mary exclaimed. 'That's a bit much, and in any case Justin was not dating Zoe at the time. He was a free agent.'
Zoe cringed behind the curtain, her face flaming; she could not believe what the Blacket woman was saying. Didn't want to.
'Believe me or not, Mary, but I wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall when the will is read. Bertie befriended Justin Gifford when he was a teenager and his father died—apparently they were old friends. I'll bet Gifford gets at least half the old boy's estate, if not more. Hardly fair on Zoe, his only living relative.'
'Surely it's not important? They are married—everything they have is divided equally anyway.'
Zoe heard Mary Master reply. The woman's voice was fading—they were obviously leaving the room—but Zoe could not move; she was frozen in shock.
'Exactly my point.' Sara Blacket's piercing voice echoed in the room as she closed the door. 'Gifford is a very ambitious man and by doing what the old man wanted and marrying the American girl he has made doubly sure of getting control of virtually everything. I can't see young Zoe being involved in finance at all- she's the arty type.'
Zoe stared at the heart she had drawn on the glass; the mist was fading, the shape disappearing—a bad omen! Don't be stupid! she told herself, and quickly raised her hand and rubbed the window clean. But she could not clean the doubt in her mind away so easily. Could it be true? Had Uncle Bertie insisted that Justin marry her? No, of course not, her common sense told her. Justin loved her, didn't he?
She slid off the seat and stood up. She was overreacting. Sara Blacket was a nosy, overbearing old gossip whose husband, as the most senior in chambers, had wanted to be head himself. Justin had told her as much. Obviously it was pure sour grapes on Sara's part.
'Zoe? Zoe?' Justin's voice broke into her uncomfortable thoughts, and, smoothing the plain black jersey shift down over her hips, she moved towards the door. It was flung open and Justin walked in, his dark eyes full of concern.
'Ah! There you are. I saw Mary and Sara leave. I take it you didn't get the peace you were looking for,' he said lightly, casually slipping an arm around her shoulders. 'Judge Master is waiting in the study, darling. It's time to say goodbye to the guests, and then the will will be read. Are you up to it or would your rather wait? There's no hurry.'
'Why? Because you know what's in it?' The curt words had left her mouth before she could stop them. . .
'No. No, I don't.' Justin turned her around to face him, his arms encircling her waist, holding her loosely, his dark eyes scrutinising her pale face. 'I was thinking of you; you look tired. It's been a long day.'
Held in his arms, conscious of his warmth and the tender care in his expression, Zoe hated herself for doubting him for a minute, but she could not control her wayward tongue. She loved Justin, and she needed his reassurance.
'You do love me, Justin?' she asked softly, her eyes catching his, a pleading light in their sapphire depths.
'Of course I do, silly girl; I married you, didn't I?' And his dark head lowered, blocking out the light as his mouth moved over hers in an achingly tender kiss.
She moved closer into his embrace and curved her slender arms around his neck; she felt his arms tighten and she opened her mouth, inviting the kiss to deepen. She sighed into his mouth, their breath mingling there, tongues entwining; she ran her fingers through his thick black hair, her heart pounding. Justin loved her; he was her husband, her love, her life.
Justin slightly parted his long legs, one strong hand curving down over her bottom and urging her between his muscular thighs. She curved into the hot, hard warmth of his body, her breasts flattened against his ribcage, her nipples tingling with the contact then hardening as his other hand swept up to cup possessively over one high, firm breast through the soft wool of her dress.
He broke the kiss long enough to nuzzle her throat, his mouth covering the madly beating pulse in her neck then trailing back to her softly parted lips; a low moan escaped her just as his mouth found hers once more.
As always she trembled, melting against him, her blood pounding" through her veins, but suddenly he was easing her away. 'Justin,' she murmured.
'Easy, Zoe. Now is not the time.'
She raised passion-hazed eyes to his rugged face; she recognised the dark blush of desire staining his taut features at the same time as she saw the familiar iron control reassert itself in the black depths of his eyes.
'You're right, as usual,' she agreed, and was swept into a gentle hug, his large hand stroking the back of her head as he pressed her to his broad chest, easing the sexual tension surrounding them into something more manageable.
'Come on, Zoe; the quicker we say goodbye to the guests, the sooner we can get this day over with.'
He was right, but sometimes, just sometimes, Zoe wished that he would get swept away by passion. But the great Justin Gifford, renowned for his cool, lethal voice, his absolute control of any jury, never, ever lost control.
Now, where had that unkind thought come from? Zoe mused as she saw the guests depart. Justin was British and restraint was an accepted characteristic of the people, and she should know! On first arriving here, a typical American teenager, she had found it difficult to adjust to the more formal way of life.
Half an hour later she followed Justin into the study and sat down beside him on the black hide sofa. Mrs Crumpet, the housekeeper, Jud, her husband—also the gardener—and John Smith, the chauffeur, plus the two daily women, stood around in a rather embarrassed silence as Judge Master sat down in the chair behind Uncle Bertie's desk.
It soon became apparent that Bertie hadn't changed his will in years. All the staff were left generous amounts of money and there were pensions for Mr and Mrs Crumpet and the chauffeur. His law books were to go to Justin and the remainder of the estate was left to Zoe, with the proviso that Justin be her guardian until she was twenty-five.
'You—my guardian.' She smiled at Justin. 'It sounds slightly kinky as we're already married.'
Judge Master laughed. 'Bertie made this will when you were sixteen; he did think about changing it, but, as you and Justin married, there was no real point. It's all in the family anyway.'
The staff left the room, and then Judge Master revealed the extent of the estate. It was not a great deal of money but, with the house, a very nice legacy. She felt Justin tense beside her, and she shot him a puzzled look, but he ignored her, his gaze fixed on Judge Master.
'With the house included, if he didn't make prior arrangements, the
death duty will be quite considerable.' Justin was all business, and Zoe felt oddly excluded as the two men talked literally over her head.
'Yes, I did warn him,' the judge responded.
'But you know Bertie—-he refused to admit he was dying right up until the end.'
'I shouldn't worry about the tax, though. Zoe is twenty-one in a month, when she will obtain control of her trust fund from her parents, I was talking to the lawyer in New York only a few days ago, and, with the reissue of an old film of her father's about dinosaurs, apparently her trust fund is quite healthy.'
'How healthy exactly?' Justin asked quietly.
'Double what Bertie left, so the tax should not be a problem. Mind you, I would advise you to sell this place; it's far too big for this day and age. Maintenance alone was always a drain on Bertie's funds.'
'Do you mind, gentlemen? I am sitting here,' Zoe intervened, and wanted to laugh as the two males in the room turned to look at her as though she were some apparition.
Judge Master was the first to recover. 'Yes, of course. It has been a long day; Justin and I can discuss all this in a day or two, and I'd better be making tracks or Mary will not be pleased.'
Zoe smiled; she liked Judge Master and, after the conversation she had overheard earlier, she appreciated his wife, who had defended her against the infamous Sara Blacket.
Justin rose to his feet and walked across to the cabinet in the corner of the oak-panelled study. 'You will join me in a drink, Judge? I need one.' He picked up a bottle of whisky, opened it and poured a large shot into a crystal tumbler before adding, 'How about you, Zoe?'
She looked across at her husband; his back was to her, his shoulders tense, and, as she watched, his dark head tilted back as he lifted the glass to his mouth and drank. It was unusual for Justin to drink spirits—an occasional glass of wine was more his style.
'Zoe.' Justin turned, glass in hand. 'Do you want one?' he asked again, his expression austere.
The Valentine Child Page 2