His Blackmailed Bride

by Sandra Marton

  ‘Damn you, Quinn.’

  He set the brandy snifter down on the bar. ‘You have a job,’ he said harshly. ‘You’re my wife.’

  Her anger faded beneath the pulse of fear in her blood. ‘I thought we’d settled that.’

  He crossed the room and took hold of her shoulders. ‘Settled it?’ he asked softly. The smell of whisky was stronger, and she realised he’d been drinking long before he had the brandy. ‘No, sweet Juliet, we have not settled it.’ His mouth curved into a cruel smile. ‘We will, though. Some day soon. I promise.’

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ she said coldly.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What I do is my business.’

  Paige nodded. ‘Exactly. And so is your dinner party. I won’t…’

  She gasped as his grip on her tightened. ‘You bloody well will! I’ve spent the past weeks like a stranger in my own home, and I don’t like it.’ His hands fell to his sides. ‘It’s time you paid your way here. I expect you to dine with me in the evenings.’

  ‘What for? You and I…’

  ‘You and I are married,’ he growled. ‘That means we’re going to dine together, talk together, be seen together. I’m weary of making excuses about where my bride keeps herself. It’s been my habit to entertain in my home.’ He smiled coldly. ‘It’s going to be hard to do that with you in your room while my guests and I dine.’

  ‘All that has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It’s time you lived up to our contract and started playing the part of my loving wife.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Surely someone with your talent can manage that.’

  ‘That’s impossible. You can’t expect…’

  ‘I can and do expect, Paige. Civility is a small enough price to pay for the money I deposit to your bank account, isn’t it?’

  She felt her face blaze beneath his mocking smile. Finally, she nodded stiffly.

  ‘All right. What is it you want me to do?’

  His smile faded and she thought, for a heartstopping moment, he was going to take her into his arms. Her breath quickened; it had been so long since he’d touched her, yet she could still remember the feel of his body, the taste of his mouth. But all he did was brush his hand lightly along her cheek.

  ‘Only what you can, sweet Juliet.’ His voice was soft, with a quality of fatigue that she’d never expected, and her eyes lifted slowly to his.

  ‘Quinn,’ she whispered.

  ‘What is it, Paige?’

  ‘I… I…’ She looked at him in confusion. What had she wanted to say to him? ‘I… I’ll do what you want.’

  His eyes grew dark. ‘Will you?’ he said slowly, and then the coldness she’d come to know so well returned to his face. ‘You can start by joining me for breakfast tomorrow. We can talk about the dinner party then.’

  Paige nodded. ‘All right.’ Quinn turned away, and the floral scent drifted to her again. Suddenly, she felt as if a fist had clamped around her heart.

  Perfume. A woman’s perfume…

  Not that it mattered. He could be with whomever he wished. But Paige lay awake half that night, tormented by images of a nameless woman lying sated with passion in her husband’s arms.

  She joined him the next morning and again that night at dinner. They sat opposite each other in silence, like strangers sharing a table in a café, until Quinn put down his teacup and looked at her.

  ‘It’s going to be difficult to carry on a conversation with guests present if we know nothing about each other,’ he said.

  ‘We have nothing to say,’ Paige answered stiffly.

  Quinn’s expression was grim. ‘Then we’ll find something.’

  Their first talks were stilted discussions of weather and current affairs. It became easier when they discovered a common love of political cartoons. And then, one morning, Paige asked about a book of photos she’d found in the library.

  ‘Are they yours?’

  Quinn nodded. ‘I’ve been a camera buff for years. I’m not very good…’

  ‘You are,’ she said quickly, and then her cheeks flushed. ‘I mean, I don’t know much about photography, but there’s a quality to your pictures that’s very moving.’

  A pleased smile curved across his lips. ‘Well,’ he said softly, ‘thank you.’ And he offered to show her his basement darkroom. Paige, whose knowledge of film began and ended with the fact that it came neatly packaged in little yellow boxes, entered the small, red-lit room warily. She emerged a convert, convinced that what went on in all those chemical baths was a miracle.

  The next day—a Saturday—Quinn was again silent at breakfast. Paige had almost decided their truce of the past week had ended, when he suddenly put down his cup and stared at her.

  ‘I’m going to Hyde Park to take pictures,’ he said, rushing the words together. ‘There’s a kite festival, and…’ His eyes sought hers. ‘Would you care to come along? You don’t have to, of course…’

  ‘I’d like to. Very much,’ Paige said quickly, and she smiled at him in a way she never had before. ‘Thank you for asking me.’

  Later, she would remember the day as some kind of turning point. Quinn shot off three rolls of film, and then he bought a kite from a vendor and within minutes a shiny blue and red dragon was soaring over their heads. They laughed like children, feeding the dragon yards of string, watching as it sailed above the treetops. When the wind suddenly plucked the string from Paige’s fingers, she was desolate.

  ‘I’ve lost it! Oh, Quinn, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said softly, smiling at her. ‘It’s been a lovely day.’

  She felt her face glow and she told herself it was from the kiss of the chilled air. But, when it was time to leave, it seemed natural for their fingers to lace together as they walked to his car.

  It was impossible to notice all the ways in which they opened to each other after that. Paige only knew that, somewhere along the way, the day improved the moment Quinn arrived home. They rarely went out to dinner, preferring to have it in the quiet of the library. On Norah’s evenings off, Paige insisted on cooking.

  ‘I like to fuss in the kitchen,’ she said, and when Quinn solemnly complimented her on some simple meal, her heart filled with joy.

  After dinner, they sat by the fire. They read. Quinn taught Paige chess, cheering her when she won her first game, although she had a strong suspicion he’d let her win. They went to concerts at the Barbican, to the theatre, and one drizzly evening they walked slowly through quiet Mayfair, huddled together comfortably under an umbrella.

  They talked about everything—except what had brought them together in the first place. Paige wanted to talk about that. She wanted to expose the past for what it was—a dark set of circumstances forced on them by others, but she was hesitant. One evening, she finally broached the subject.

  ‘I spoke with my father today,’ she said. ‘He says he’s grateful…’

  Quinn’s eyes flashed a warning. ‘I don’t want his gratitude or anybody else’s,’ he said, and he turned away from her. ‘How was your day?’ he asked after a moment, and she was quick to fall in with his obvious effort to change the emotionally charged subject.

  It was worse when she mentioned Alan. When a letter from him arrived, Quinn took it into the library and closed the door. Paige searched his face anxiously when he came out.

  ‘How is Alan?’ she asked when she couldn’t bear the silence another moment.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Is he…’

  ‘I don’t want to discuss Alan,’ he said sharply. ‘Do you understand?’

  She told herself she did. Their relationship had improved, but it was still tenuous. There was no point in opening old wounds. In the dark of night, a silent voice warned that ignoring things wasn’t the same as coming to terms with them. But her niggling doubts seemed foolish by daylight.

  What counted was that she and Quinn were getting along with each other. Of course, they were only doing all this so that she could carry off her public dutie
s as his wife. And yet, except for that first dinner party, they saw no one but each other. It was as if they were living in their own world, brought to life by the sound of Quinn’s key in the door at night.

  Paige found herself glancing at her watch each afternoon, wondering if he’d be early or late. Early meant around six; he was never home sooner than that. By then, she always had the fire started in the library and her clothes changed. One chill autumn afternoon, she’d laid the fire and was just hurrying upstairs when she heard the door open and close.

  She paused halfway up the stairs. ‘You’re home,’ she said foolishly, staring at Quinn in surprise as he stood in the doorway looking up at her. He was looking at her strangely, and she ran her hand through her hair a bit self-consciously. ‘I only just got in,’ she said. ‘I was at the Victoria and Albert and I got caught in the rain…’ God, she was babbling! But he was making her nervous, watching her like that. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late.’

  Quinn’s smile was slight. ‘I came home early. I thought it would be nice if we went for a drive before dinner.’

  Why was he staring at her? There was something different about him tonight, but what? Paige swallowed past the sudden dryness in her throat.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said carefully. ‘Just give me a minute to change…’ The look on his face stopped her. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  In the enclosed space of the Jaguar, the easy informality that had grown between them over the weeks vanished. Their conversation was stilted, and when they stopped for dinner at an Elizabethan pub beside the Thames, it all but disappeared.

  ‘This is a handsome old place, isn’t it?’ Quinn asked after they’d ordered and the silence had stretched on and on.

  Paige nodded. ‘Yes, it’s lovely.’

  ‘Would you like some more wine?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ she said politely.

  More silence. When their meal arrived, it was a welcome distraction, but Paige could hardly manage a mouthful and, when Quinn suggested they leave, she almost knocked her chair over in her rush to get to her feet.

  ‘It’s late,’ he said curtly, and she nodded in agreement, for once eager to reach the solitude of her own bedroom. She breathed a sigh of relief when they finally reached the house again. Something had gone wrong, but she hadn’t the slightest idea what it was.

  The door closed behind them. ‘Goodnight,’ she said at the foot of the stairs. ‘Thank you for…’

  ‘Would you like some brandy?’

  Paige shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I… I think I’ll call it a night.’

  Quinn nodded. ‘I’ll see you up.’

  She almost told him that was silly, that she lived in his house and slept in a room down the hall from his, but something in his voice warned her not to argue, and she nodded and started up the stairs. He followed behind her; a pulse began to beat in her throat as she thought of him watching the movement of her hips and legs. When they reached the second floor, she hurried to the closed door of her room.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said, turning towards him.

  ‘Paige,’ he said, his voice a husky whisper. ‘Paige…’

  Everything seemed to happen with an unreal slowness. She looked up at him and saw the dark fire in his eyes. And when he put his hand on her arm, she suddenly understood everything. The electric awareness that had brought them together seemed to pulse in the charged air.

  Quinn wanted her. And she wanted him. The weeks of being together had been leading them to this all along; he had just realised it before she had. That was why he’d come home early, that was the reason for the tension all evening.

  She turned away in confusion. His arms closed around her and he drew her back against him, whispering her name again. The sound of it lay thick as honey on his tongue.

  Paige felt the press of his body, hard and solid, against hers. Her eyes closed and she let herself lean back against him, resting her weight on his chest and encircling arms. She could feel the heat of him spreading over her, smell the scent that was his alone. His lips brushed her hair and a tremor raced through her. The next step was hers. All she had to do was turn to him, lift her mouth to his…

  You’re going to need a man—and I’ll be here.

  The ugly words leaped into her mind. But Quinn had said that before they knew each other. Surely it was all different now?

  I’ll make love to you until you beg me to stop. And then I’ll be free of you at last.

  She felt as if a cold hand had clamped over her heart. ‘It’s late, Quinn,’ she said. ‘And I’m tired.’

  ‘Juliet…’

  She closed her eyes, grateful that he couldn’t see her face. ‘Please,’ she whispered.

  His fingers bit into her shoulders and then his hands slid from her.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, and suddenly she was alone in the hallway.

  * * *

  He was gone by the time she came down to breakfast the next morning. It was the first time in weeks that they hadn’t begun the day together, and she was surprised at how empty the house seemed without him. When the phone rang at mid-morning, she snatched it up, smiling when she heard Quinn’s voice.

  ‘I missed you this morning,’ she said before she had time to think.

  There was a silence. ‘I told Norah to let you sleep in,’ he said after a while. ‘You said you were tired last night.’

  Paige swallowed. ‘Quinn, about last night…’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said brusquely. ‘It’s tonight I want to talk about. A client’s in town—his wife wants to attend a concert at Albert Hall.’

  ‘Do you want me to arrange for tickets?’

  He sighed. ‘They insist on company, Paige. I tried to talk them out of it, but—look, would you mind very much if we went along with them? This guy’s a pain, but he’s placing an enormous software order, and…’

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ she said quickly, grateful for the safe company of strangers. ‘Shall I meet you?’

  His voice softened. ‘Thanks, Paige. See you tonight.’

  She dressed for the evening with more care than usual. By the time she left the house, she was running late. When she stepped from a taxi outside the Albert Hall, she looked around eagerly for Quinn. Crowds milled about the steps that led to the building, but it took only a moment to see that he wasn’t there yet. There would be no mistaking his presence—they were attuned to each other again, just as they had been the night they’d met at the All Hallows’ Ball. Her heart tripped over. Quinn, she thought, Quinn…

  She started as an arm slid around her waist. Quinn smiled down at her.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see you coming. I must have been daydreaming.’

  He grinned. ‘That’s an understatement. You looked as if you were a million miles away. What were you thinking about?’

  About last night, when I was foolish enough to step out of your arms and send you away.

  The realisation came with stunning swiftness. Somehow, she managed a little laugh.

  ‘I was wondering if you were ever going to get here,’ she said. ‘What’s your client going to say if we’re late?’

  Quinn sighed as he led her towards the door. ‘We’re not late enough,’ he murmured, glancing at the tickets in his hand. ‘They’ve yet to begin.’

  ‘What an awful thing to say,’ she whispered for the benefit of the ticket taker, but it was impossible to keep a straight face, and she began to laugh. There was something about laughing with him, she thought, looking at his smiling face. Her heart soared. Everything was wonderful, when she was at his side. ‘Actually, I agree. It’s Mahler tonight, isn’t it? God, I hate Mahler!’

  Quinn nodded. ‘Only Jack Ward likes Gustav,’ he said. Paige looked at him and he made a face. ‘The client we’re meeting inside.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the man who’s going to commission a million billion computer programs.’ She shuddered as the discordant strains of the Fifth Symphony reached out to them. �
�I guess it’s going to be a long evening.’

  ‘Longer than you think,’ Quinn said with a sigh. ‘If you think the music’s a bore, wait until you meet good old Jack.’ He smiled as he led her into the Hall. ‘But I guess I can put up with him for one night. Let’s hope he plans on placing the biggest order the company’s ever had.’

  What ‘good old Jack’ planned on, Paige thought grimly later that evening, was making a quick move on her. When she and Quinn took their seats, protocol placed Quinn beside Mrs Ward and Paige beside the woman’s husband. There had been some swift introductions—Ward himself was a tall man with a handsome face and a shock of thick, fair hair. His wife had a sweet expression and sad eyes. It was all there was time to notice before the music began again.

  At first, Paige thought it was her imagination when Jack Ward’s hand brushed her thigh. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Of course it had been her imagination. His face, set in rapt concentration, was turned to the orchestra. Five minutes later, his programme fell to the floor. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered as he reached for it. This time, his hand brushed Paige’s breast. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

  By the time the concert ended, there were half a dozen more ‘sorries’, and Paige hadn’t believed one of them. No one could have that many ‘accidents’. Ward’s foot touched hers, his leg brushed hers, and when they piled into a taxi on their way to a supper club, his thigh rubbed her thigh.

  And there was nothing she could do about it. His actions were too swift and subtle. She’d met men like Ward before, and she knew how the game worked. If she said something, told him to keep his hands to himself, he’d deny having done anything. The only loser would be Quinn. Ward would certainly never do business with his company after she’d made a scene.

  Mrs Ward wouldn’t gain anything, either. Paige’s heart went out to the woman. No wonder she had such sad eyes—she knew exactly what her husband was doing; she’d probably lived through this kind of embarrassment before. She kept casting apologetic looks at Paige, as if to tell her she was sorry. Calling Jack in on his nasty little game would only heap further humiliation on the poor woman’s head.

  She wondered what Quinn would do if he knew what was happening. Flatten Ward’s nose, perhaps. The thought gave her a certain amount of satisfaction. When they were alone later, she’d tell Quinn that Ward wasn’t only a bore, he was a boor. Perhaps she’d offer to make some tea when they got back to the house. Better yet, Quinn might suggest a brandy as he had last night. ‘Yes,’ she’d say, and let the magic of All Hallows’ Eve reclaim them.