The Valentine Child

by Jacqueline Baird

  She should have been reassured, but somehow she wasn't. Maybe it was the way he avoided her eyes, or perhaps the way he allowed her hand to fall from his, but she had the strangest notion that he was simply pacifying her as he would a troublesome child.

  'I will if you stay with me,' she said slowly. She was testing him, and hated herself for it, but the events of the day had severely dented her confidence in her husband's love and she needed some sign from him, freely given, to allay her doubts and fears.

  'I need my sleep even if you don't. I'm a lot older than you, remember.'

  'Please, Justin, I need you tonight, simply to hold me. What with the funeral. . .' She didn't want to plead, but somehow it had become essential to her peace of mind and her trust in him that just this once he stayed all night. To her relief and delight he agreed.

  'Let me dispose of the protection.' He grinned. 'I'll be back in a second.'

  And he was. Zoe yawned widely and snuggled into the hard warmth of her cautious husband's arms. 'You're not old,' she whispered, a smile twitching her swollen lips. It was ridiculous—a more virile, powerful man than her husband would be hard to find, and yet somehow the fact that he should worry about his age made him seem touchingly vulnerable. It never bothered her.

  Justin, true to his word, had the house valued by a prestigious estate agent with a view to selling the place. But to Zoe's amazement Justin informed her, before they actually put it on the market, that she was to have her twenty-first birthday party at Black Gables. It was all arranged; the guests had already been invited.

  Apparently Justin had done it at Bertie's request. It had been his last wish that the party go ahead whether he was there to see it or not. Zoe was not absolutely convinced that it was the right thing to do only three weeks after her uncle's death, but, as usual, she gave in to her dynamic husband's wishes.

  The next few weeks she passed in a kind of limbo, torn between grief for her uncle and her inability to get really close to her husband.

  Justin was very busy as the new head of chambers, and she saw less and less of him. She tried to tell herself it was natural—he had more work to get through. But sometimes in the evening, after yet another solitary dinner, a devilish, tiny voice from the deeper reaches of her mind would rise up to taunt her with the thought that he had married her to please Bertie and get the firm. He had the firm and Bertie was no longer around to see if he neglected his wife. She found it more and more difficult to dismiss her suspicions, however much she tried.

  Justin was no help. He rarely talked about his work but he did inform her that he would be staying in town on Monday evenings. He had taken over the job of boxing coach with a group of young offenders at an East End boys' club. Very laudable—and she believed him even as she missed him. But her inability to dismiss completely the conversation she had overheard on the day of her uncle's funeral was a constant source of unease.

  She was a practical girl—with egotistical film-star parents she had had to be from a very young age. She knew she was being silly, letting Sara Blacket's catty remarks get to her. Justin loved her. They were married for heaven's sake!

  But, however much she tried to convince herself, the doubt lingered. It didn't help that Justin seemed to spend longer and longer in London. He was working far too hard, but nothing she said could make him change.

  She was smiling as she spun the wheel of her Mini Metro and headed up the drive to come to a halt, with a screech of brakes, outside the front door of the house. She had spent the day in London, and had had the rare pleasure of lunching with her husband at an exclusive restaurant before raiding Harvey Nichols. The bag lying on the passenger seat contained the most exotic gown she had ever owned.

  She picked up the carrier-bag and chuckled as she dashed out of the car and into the house. She could not wait to see Justin's face when he saw her new dress. She wouldn't give a cent for his iron control tomorrow night—her birthday party. The gown was guaranteed to knock him dead. But why did she need to? The question hovered on the fringes of her mind, undermining her confidence.

  Not bad—not bad at all, she thought, posing naked in front of the mirrored wall of the bathroom, sucking in her stomach, her small breasts rising enticingly. Were they bigger than usual? she wondered idly. Probably Justin's expert massage was to blame. She giggled and, with a happy smile illuminating her small face, spun round as the object of her thoughts strolled in.

  'I didn't hear you,' she said delightedly. She had not seen him since last night and her eyes drank in the sight of the large, splendid bulk of him, clad in a plain black towelling robe that stopped mid-thigh, the deep V of the front exposing his broad, hairy chest. Her heart jumped in her breast as, eyes shining, she walked towards him, 'You must have got back when I was in the shower.'

  'Mmm,' Justin granted, his gaze sweeping slowly over her silver-blonde hair, the perfect oval face, the finely arched brows, the huge, thick-lashed eyes, the small, straight nose and the wide full-lipped, rosy mouth, curved in a warm smile of welcome. His gaze lingered on the lips, then moved almost as if against his will down to the high, full breasts, the tiny waist and flat stomach, the softly flaring hips, his eyes darkening to black in the process.

  Zoe, seeing his reaction and thrilled by it, moved closer and slipped a hand under the lapel of his robe. 'Thank you for the card and the roses. I love them,' she husked, thinking of the magnificent bouquet of red roses that had been delivered to the house earlier.

  'My pleasure, birthday girl,' he drawled none too steadily.

  She felt him tense as her fingernail scraped supposedly accidentally over a small, pebble-like male nipple. Perhaps she had been wrong about Justin; perhaps her fantasy of them in the shower was not so unlikely, she thought, excitement sizzling in her veins.

  'Shall I help you to shower?' she asked throatily, glancing up at his tough face through the thick veil of her lashes in what she hoped was a seductive fashion.

  His eyes flashed gold lightning as his arm swept around her waist and hauled her into his hard body, while his other hand caught her wandering one beneath his robe. 'You little devil,' he rasped, before covering her mouth with his own in a long, hard kiss.

  When he finally released her she was dazed and breathless and aching. 'Justin. . .' She sighed his name. But, to her chagrin, he spun her round, patted her naked bottom, and almost pushed her out of the door.

  'Tempting though the offer is, it's late. The guests will be arriving any minute. Get dressed and allow me to do the same.'

  'Spoilsport,' she shouted back cheekily, regaining her equilibrium and shooting him a flirtatious glance over her shoulder.

  Justin tossed back his black head and laughed out loud. 'Hold the thought till later, darling, when I have time to do it justice, hmm?'

  His parting words filled her with confidence as she stood in front of the cheval-glass, turning this way and that, a complacent grin lighting her face. So much for a Dresden doll, she thought triumphantly. Tonight no one would be in any doubt she was all woman.

  The black dress was like nothing she had ever owned before—a sophisticated designer original with tiny, narrow straps supporting the pure silk bodice. She wore no bra because the back was non-existent except for a very broad, sequin-encrusted belt in gold, which nipped her tiny waist and pushed her firm breasts higher— almost empire-style—revealing the curve of the milky white orbs and a tantalising shadowy cleavage.

  The skirt was straight to her ankles and figure-hugging, with a teasing fish tail at the back. Matching four-inch- heel satin sandals on her feet gave her an illusion of height, as did the heavy sweep of her blonde hair piled up on the top of her head in a chignon, a few strands of hair pulled free to curl enticingly around her face and the back of her neck.

  She did not need foundation, simply a good moisturizer and the lightest trace of blusher to add colour to her fine pale skin. She had paid more attention to her eyes, and, with the careful use of a coloured eye shadow and the addition of a browni
sh-black mascara to her long lashes, she knew she had never looked better.

  'My God! What on earth are you wearing?'

  Justin's horrified cry broke into her reverie. She turned slowly around and spread her arms wide. 'Don't you like it?' she asked as she pirouetted again, then stopped in front of him, grinning wickedly up into his stunned face.

  He looked magnificent in a black dinner-suit, white silk shirt and black bow-tie—all elegant, sophisticated male—and for once Zoe thought she matched him. But, if the look in his dark eyes was anything to go by, maybe she was wrong. She saw the muscle in his strong throat move as he swallowed hard. 'Justin?' she queried.

  'Like it. . .? It's indecent. You will give every man in the place a heart attack—me included.' His dark gaze lingered on her shadowy cleavage. 'Why not wear the romantic thing you wore on Valentine night?' he suggested hoarsely.

  'Don't be so staid,' she teased, adding, 'In any case, it's too late to change now.' She slipped her arm through his. 'Let's go down; we can't keep our guests waiting.'

  'Wait.' He closed his large hand over hers and turned her towards him. 'I have something for you.' His eyes dipped to her breast and then returned to her face. One dark brow arched sardonically. 'Though I didn't have a neckline like that in mind when I bought it,' he said drily, slipping his free hand into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a long jewel case. He held it out to her.

  She opened the box and gasped. 'It's unbelievable,' she cried, her eyes dazzled by the blaze from a magnificent diamond choker set with sapphires falling like tear-drops all around—a perfect match for her engagement ring.

  'Happy birthday, Zoe.'

  She looked up into her husband's dark, serious eyes, her own filling with moisture. How could she have ever doubted that he loved her? she thought wryly.

  'I love it, Justin, as I love you. You darling man.' And, reaching up, she kissed the highest point she could reach—his chin. He pulled back almost as though he was embarrassed by her show of emotion. 'Please put it on for me,' she said in a voice that was not quite steady as she lifted the necklace from its bed of velvet and held it out to him.

  He took it, his smouldering gaze intent upon her small face, then, moving behind her, fastened the necklace around her slender neck. Turning her back to face him, he said with arrogant certainty, 'I knew they would match your eyes.'

  She put a hand to her throat. 'Thank you,' she murmured, her heart bursting with love.

  'There is more,' he said softly, a tender grin quirking the corners of his sensuous mouth as he delved once more into his jacket pocket and withdrew a smaller case. 'From Bertie.'

  She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. 'How?' she whispered, taking the proffered box.

  'He sent for the jeweller two months ago and chose it himself. I promised I would give it to you at the appropriate time.'

  She opened the box and lifted out a delicate gold watch of startling beauty. The time markings on the face were etched in diamonds and the surround was encrusted in diamonds and sapphires. 'I wish he could have been here,' she whispered, fastening the watch around her slender wrist and raising tear-drenched eyes to her husband.

  'He is in spirit, love.' Justin pulled her into his arms and gave her a quick hug. 'Dry your eyes and let's go.'

  Ten minutes later Zoe, once again in control of her emotions, followed her husband into the formal drawing- room. 'I feel guilty allowing you to arrange all this for me—the party, the caterers.' She glanced at the watch on her wrist; any moment now the guests would be arriving. 'The guests.' And she stopped, her mouth falling open. She had forgotten to tell Justin. . .

  'Justin, I—er—I hope you don't mind but '

  She glanced at him leaning negligently against the French marble fireplace, the epitome of the sophisticated male animal, and hesitated.

  'But what?' He arched one dark brow enquiringly.

  'You know when I worked at Magnum Advertising? Well, I have kept in touch with some of the staff—an occasional lunch in town—and she took a deep breath '—a few of them are hiring a minibus and coming to the party,' she finished in a rush.

  'Why not? Your uncle insisted on inviting everyone from the doorman at chambers to the Lord Chief Justice—a few more won't matter.' In two lithe strides he was beside her. 'Stop worrying. It is your party— enjoy it.'

  She took a deep breath to steady her fluttering nerves. 'I'll try.'

  'But for God's sake don't breathe like that in that apology for a gown!' he exclaimed irritably, and would have said more, if the thunderous expression on his dark face was anything to go by. But at that moment the doorbell chimed. . .

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Zoe stood in the huge old panelled hall with Justin at her side, his proprietorial arm around her waist, her doubts of the past few weeks vanished. She had never been happier as they greeted the constant flow of guests.

  She welcomed Judge Master and his wife Mary with a kiss on their cheeks, while Justin looked indulgently on. She was not quite as enthusiastic with Sara Blacket and her husband, but soon she was having difficulty keeping track of who every one was.

  Then, to her surprise, a tall, rangy stranger appeared, looking for all the world like a cowboy. She hesitated for a second, then let out a startled cry of joy. It had been seven years but there was no mistaking Wayne Sutton, the Texan. He had been a friend of her parents for years and she remembered him as being particularly kind to her when she was a child in California.

  'Wayne, I can't believe it. . .' She grinned up into his deeply tanned, handsome face. 'How did you get here?'

  'I walked on water of course,' he teased with masculine arrogance.

  It would not have surprised her if he had. From being a rising young executive when her parents were alive he was now the head of one of the major studios in Hollywood, yet he couldn't have been much over forty.

  'Let me look at you,' Wayne drawled provocatively and, casually pulling her out of her husband's arms, he held her hands wide and gave her a long, lingering scrutiny. 'You're more beautiful than your mother ever was. How about becoming a film star?'

  'Hands off!' Justin cut in, hauling her back to his side. 'The lady is spoken for, Wayne.' The two men held each other's gaze, sizing each other up rather like two stags at bay.

  Zoe's puzzled eyes shot from one to the other. 'You know each other?'

  'Wayne and I spoke on the telephone last week,' Justin said curtly. 'And he is here tonight in his capacity as the executor of your trust fund. Nothing more.'

  'No business tonight, Wayne.' She deliberately spoke to the Texan, not at all happy with Justin's tone of voice. She reached up and kissed Wayne's cheek. 'I should scold you,' she teased. 'To think that you've spoken to my husband and yet not once have you got in touch with me!' She pouted, flirting outrageously.

  'Hey, honey, that's not true. Surely you got my Valentine's cards? Damn it! I paid the agency in London enough for the service. I knew you would miss not getting one from your dad, so I kind of took his place.'

  Her smile faltered. All these years it had been Wayne and not Justin. . . 'Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, Wayne; I appreciated the gesture; I just forgot.' She felt the colour rise in her face and quickly changed the subject. 'But come on; you're here to enjoy yourself— bar's second door on the left and there's champagne everywhere.' She indicated the hovering waiters balancing trays loaded with glasses of champagne.

  'Whatever you say, gorgeous.' Wayne winked. 'Now, let me find the bourbon.' And he walked off towards the bar.

  Justin's skin darkened with colour. 'There was no need to kiss the man.'

  'Why, I do believe you're jealous!' Zoe teased. She was stupidly hurt to discover after all these years that the cards had not come from Justin, but she was determined not to show it.

  'It's that damned dress,' Justin bent down to murmur in her ear. 'Every time you reach up, I have palpitations in case you pop out the top.'

  She glanced up, her eyes clashing with his. His sho
w of possession was flattering, and she laughed out loud, her humour restored. To the people watching, the stern barrister's responding laughter came as something of a shock.

  For the rest of the introductions Zoe relaxed easily in her husband's hold, until she felt Justin tense, his fingers tightening imperceptibly on her waist. She shot him a sidelong glance; his rugged features were set in an impassive mask. She looked back to the couple in front of her. She knew the man, Bob Oliver, a junior partner in the law firm; her glance shifted to his red-headed companion, and immediately she knew the reason for Justin's sudden tension. Janet Ord had been his companion at Zoe's eighteenth birthday. . .

  'Bob and Janet, how nice to see you again; it must be three years.' She tried to lighten the atmosphere. She was Justin's wife and she wanted to show him that she was adult enough to realise that it was only to be expected that eventually she would bump into one of his old girlfriends. The law, and those who pursued it in England, comprised quite an insular community.

  'Good to see you, Bob—Janet.'

  She heard Justin's voice, cool and clipped, and wondered at the unmistakable frostiness in his tone. But at that moment the busload of friends from Magnum Advertising arrived, and she forgot all about Justin's peculiar reticence with his junior partner and Janet. A few hours later she was to remember and wonder how she could have been such a fool. . .

  She looked around the crowded room, her blue eyes shining like stars. The party was going brilliantly; the caterers had done a superb job on the buffet and the large formal dining-room was subjected to a constant stream of guests. In the small ballroom, opened for the first time in years for the occasion, an enthusiastic quintet played a good mixture of popular and rock music.

  'Quite a triumph,' Justin murmured, turning her into his arms and grinning down at her. 'Though I should be angry with you. You never mentioned the pipsqueak Nigel was one of your guests.'