Husband by Arrangement

by Sara Wood

  ‘Not much to tell—’

  ‘Oh, do try. I’m interested,’ he said sardonically, as if he didn’t believe her at all.

  ‘All right,’ she retorted crossly, pulling her hand away and folding her arms in defiance. ‘The kids were all sorts. Orphans, delinquents, temporary boarders while their parents or carers were in hospital or jail, children under care orders because they were being abused… We took them all. My job was with the little ones. To give them love and stability and some sense of pride.’ She saw his wavering doubts and relaxed her belligerent pose, allowing her passion to show. ‘I adored those children, Dex. We had such fun. I’m not ashamed to say that I shed a tear or two when they were bussed off to other homes and the doors were boarded up.’

  His eyes had sharpened. A puzzled frown had drawn his dark brows together.

  ‘You cried because you’d lost your job.’

  ‘No, because I knew I’d miss the children desperately,’ she corrected, flushing at his sneering insult.

  ‘Hmm.’ He wasn’t convinced. She’d only generalised. Anyone could have described a home in those terms. ‘Caring for children isn’t very similar to lap dancing,’ he observed cynically.

  ‘Not even close,’ she agreed with a small smile.

  He tried again to unravel the mystery about her dual personality. ‘That doesn’t explain the state of your hands.’

  She looked ruefully at her work-roughened palms. ‘I look after Grandpa. He has exacting standards. Expects the flat to be spotless. That’s how I lost weight. From the time we arrived in England, I took on the running of the apartment we moved into while he tried to get a business going.’

  Dexter felt shaken. That had the ring of truth about it.

  ‘When you were eleven?’ he asked, incredulous. ‘You were a kid! What kind of life was that for a child?’

  ‘There’s a positive side. It toned my muscles like you wouldn’t believe,’ she said wryly. ‘Some people pay a fortune for a personal trainer. They ought to try lugging shopping about, Hoovering at a run and scrubbing every washable surface to keep fit!’ she said with a laugh.

  He was stunned, finding it hard to envisage the hard life she’d led. But he knew old man Cook’s opinions on how women should be employed. What a vile old man he was.

  His eyes darkened to deep jet-black. Knowing Cook as he did, he thought it unlikely that Maddy had been offered any comfort on the death of her parents. And she’d idolised her gentle father. Poor kiddie. He could almost feel sorry for her.

  ‘He shouldn’t have turned you into a drudge. You had rights of your own. A child needs to feel secure, to be loved,’ he said passionately. Seeing her look of astonishment, he throttled back. ‘It must have left you little time for friends,’ he said stiffly.

  She shrugged. ‘Grandpa needed me. I could see that. He was helpless in the house. And he was distraught when his business folded, so I did what I could to keep things running smoothly. But I have friends. I don’t see them often, but they’re staunch and I can rely on them.’

  Dexter thought of the nervous young child he’d known. How she must have mourned her parents—and the lifestyle she’d once enjoyed—when she’d discovered herself in a cramped flat in England instead of roaming around the elegant and spacious Quinta.

  It must have been one hell of a shock. He frowned. What of her teenage years? He looked at her and suddenly wanted to know everything about her.

  ‘I suppose things changed once you started work and began dating,’ he suggested.

  ‘Hardly!’ she replied, looking askance. ‘Someone had to do the chores.’ She put her head on one side, as if she was wondering whether to tell him something. ‘Anyway,’ she dismissed, ‘I didn’t meet many young men, not in my line of work. Only tired social workers and stressed-out doctors.’

  She must be lying. You didn’t learn the arts of seduction by staying at home scrubbing floors. She could flirt for England—and probably would, given the chance, he thought cynically.

  ‘I can’t believe that men weren’t attracted to you,’ he said, unsettled by the thought of Maddy practising her female arts indiscriminately. To his surprise, she flinched.

  ‘I went out occasionally,’ she mumbled. ‘Looking after Grandpa had first claim on my time.’

  ‘Do you still look after him?’ he shot. ‘Wash and clean and shop for him?’

  ‘Of course. He’s too old to change and anyway, he’s ill now,’ she said practically. ‘I don’t have a job any more so I have to pull my weight. You don’t know what it’s like to be poor,’ she said in a sudden burst of vehemence. ‘You’ve never felt sick at the emptiness of your wallet, or searched around frantically in pockets and down the side of sofas for any spare coins that might buy a few potatoes and some cheese to make a nourishing meal!’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You’ve never had to plead with your landlord to let you off this week’s rent or had to replace goods at the supermarket checkout because you simply don’t have enough to pay the meagre, miserable bill!’

  There was a silence while he stared at her, coming to the conclusion that this, at least, must be true.

  Clearly angry, she jumped to her feet, took a pan of boiling water from the stove and crashed around with the pans in the sink.

  A good deal had become clear in the last few minutes. She was tired of poverty and had seized this chance to leap into the lap of luxury.

  Mixed feelings churned around in his brain. Sympathy. Sorrow for the kiddie who’d never known the freedom of childhood—or even those rebellious teenage years. And rage. Hot, seething fury that Cook had used his malleable granddaughter selfishly to make his own life easy—and now to obtain a comfortable old age for himself.

  But that didn’t change the situation. Marriage was out of the question. No one could ever replace Luisa. He’d never love like that again.

  And although Dexter understood Maddy’s desperation to marry into a fortune, he felt nothing but contempt for anyone who would put material needs above love and personal integrity.

  Nevertheless, he felt a qualm of conscience. When he told her there was no chance of getting married she would be bitterly disappointed. This was her ticket to paradise and she’d banked everything on it.

  Maddy would return as penniless as before. He felt his stomach knot when he thought of the life ahead of her and tried to tell himself that she was just as selfish as old man Cook, that she had no morals and meant to use him as a means to an end.

  Yet something drove him to her. Recklessly he strode over to Maddy, putting his arms around her tense, angry body and holding her tight. One of the lamps chose that moment to gutter and die, leaving them in semi-darkness.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he growled. ‘Sorry you’ve had such a hellish life.’

  Against his chest, her spine had gone as rigid as a board, her hands motionless in the suds. No. They were shaking. Without thinking, with nothing in his brain but mush, he held her even tighter, his cheek against hers.

  ‘It’s been OK. Could have been worse. I wasn’t complaining!’ she declared, setting to with the pan scourer so fiercely that the pan lurched about in the soapy water, splashing them both with suds.

  ‘Leave that,’ he rasped, overwhelmed by a hopeless urge to care for her.

  ‘No!’ she yelled, elbowing him away. ‘I don’t know what came over me. Grandpa and I have had to manage as best we can. We both have our strengths and weaknesses,’ she said loyally. ‘I’m young and energetic and he’s old and sick. That’s how it is. I wouldn’t dream of moaning about the hand I’ve been dealt.’

  He raised his hands in surrender, the moment of impulse gone. ‘OK, OK! But you still want to change your life dramatically, nevertheless.’

  ‘Yes. I do,’ she avowed. ‘And I will.’

  His mouth thinned. Mentally, emotionally, he withdrew his sympathy. She’d do anything for money.

  ‘Really?’

  Her solemn gaze met his. She would be different. Oh, she’d still do the chores, but s
he would get a life, too. And now she’d blown her cover and revealed herself for what she really was—a small-town Cinderella with a washer-woman’s hands—she might as well cut her losses, find out what she needed to know and high-tail it out.

  ‘You…haven’t had your peaches,’ she said jerkily, thinking with stomach-churning dismay that soon they would part and she’d never see him again.

  But she wanted to stay. Longed to feel his arms around her again, his mouth on her lips…

  Her hungry gaze met his and it was as if a flash sparked between them. His eyes seemed dark and glowing like molten tar and their unexpected expression of longing was making her heart leap about erratically. She’d expected lust. This was more of a…a gentle, hopeless yearning.

  Somehow she got up. Stumbled to the bowl on the small dresser. Picked up a plate and a knife and deposited everything safely on the table in front of him.

  She hadn’t peeled her peach when she’d eaten one earlier. Nor did he. Why should he, when it had grown without sprays and the skin was thin and sensual and deliciously aromatic?

  He held it up and she watched him inhaling the scent of sweet, warm sunshine that had been stored in the skin. His eyes closed when his even white teeth sank slowly into the ripe flesh.

  Slowly he opened his eyes again and looked at her drowsily from under his lashes while still methodically consuming the peach. It was the most erotic thing she’d ever seen.

  She trembled. If she didn’t get away from here in a day or so she’d fall under his spell. She had to move things on. To ask about the accident.

  ‘Dexter,’ she said shakily, ‘I want to ask you something important. I must have an answer.’

  He stiffened. The desire in his eyes turned to a glittering wariness.

  ‘Ask. You might not like what you hear,’ he growled.

  ‘I realise that. But I need to know.’ She licked her lips. ‘It’s about the past—what really happened between our parents.’ At his intake of breath, her pleading face lifted to his. ‘Grandpa wouldn’t tell me anything. He just—’

  ‘Not tonight,’ Dexter interrupted tightly, his harrowed face as dark as thunder. He seemed to slump with exhaustion. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  She stared in dismay as he pushed back his chair. But she could see how weary he was by the angle of his broad shoulders. So she bit back her disappointment. Perhaps they’d talk tomorrow.

  ‘You’re tired. I’m sorry,’ she said contritely. Leaping to her feet, she added, ‘Can I get you anything? A brandy? Some hot chocolate?’

  His slow gaze examined her eager-to-help face for a second or two. His mouth took on a sadness that shook her to the core. Then he nodded, his head heavy with fatigue.

  ‘Hot chocolate. Thanks,’ he muttered.

  Glad to be of use, she hurried to fetch the milk. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Dexter pull some filthy clothes from the bag he’d brought and mechanically stuff them into a laundry basket by the front door.

  She frowned. ‘You get very dirty in your job.’

  ‘Yes.’ Pushing a hand wearily through his hair, he was already heading for the door at the far end of the room.

  ‘But surely you’re an executive at least—!’

  ‘Uh.’ He turned the handle as though it was an effort.

  ‘Then why—?’

  The door banged. She turned to see that he’d closed it behind him. Her heart was bumping. There was something going on that the Fitzgeralds weren’t telling her.

  Hastily she poured the hot milk over the chocolate powder and followed, intent on solving the mystery. Maybe they’d lost all their money. Maybe all that business with the hotel and smart suits had been a cover-up to hide from their friends the fact that the Quinta was failing and Dex was having to do the manual work himself.

  She needed to know. If it was so, then her grandfather would be relieved that she wasn’t marrying Dex.

  Two doors opened off the narrow corridor. The first was closed, the second was open, the neatly made bed far too feminine for it to be Dexter’s. So she knocked on the first.

  ‘Dex?’ she called when there was no answer.

  Perhaps he was in a bathroom beyond. Cautiously she opened the door a fraction. And saw that he’d fallen, fully clothed, onto the huge double bed. His entire body lay spread-eagled in the relaxed manner of someone deeply, irrevocably, asleep.

  She smiled in gentle sympathy and went in, placing the mug of chocolate on a side-table in the sparsely furnished room, and bent to remove his work boots.

  He was beautiful. His dark, tousled hair looked rich and glossy against the white of the pillow and a hank of it tumbled on his forehead in such a way that it made her heart turn over.

  The black arcs of his thick lashes rested peacefully on the perfectly carved cheekbones and sleep had softened his masculine mouth into a dreamy smile.

  Unable to help herself, she reached out and caressed his face with a feather-light touch.

  Any other time, any other place, any other situation, she thought wistfully, and she might have fallen for Dexter. Big time.

  Confused and agitated by the depth of her attraction, she picked up the mug with shaking fingers and walked out.

  Mechanically she poured the chocolate drink down the sink and damped down the fire. Her throat was choked with a huge lump. Because she didn’t want to return to her grandfather. Didn’t want to remain a spinster.

  ‘You fool!’ she muttered wryly. ‘You actually like the idea of marrying the darn man now!’

  How ironic. When she’d fought tooth and nail and had concocted an elaborate pretence to avoid being Mrs Fitzgerald!

  It was the biological clock ticking more loudly than ever, she supposed. Though what use was a wife who couldn’t have babies? Maybe lots of gorgeous men didn’t like the nitty-gritty problems of having children, but not many would positively hate their genes to be reproduced. It was a basic urge to have children, wasn’t it? Dex would want an heir. Only natural.

  Blocking out her feelings, she turned down the wicks of the lamps, picked up her case and hauled it along the corridor to the empty bedroom. She glared at its single bed and stupidly wished she was cuddling up to Dex in the big double, curled like a spoon into his broad back.

  Annoyed with herself, she prepared for the coldly virginal bed. Although she kept telling herself that he only saw her as a sex object and that he desired her because she’d played the vamp, her emotions wouldn’t listen.

  Idiot! He wouldn’t be interested in the real Maddy Cook. He wanted boob tubes and snake tattoos, hip swivels and adoring looks from under flapping eyelashes. Shallow. That was what he was.

  And if she wanted to keep her emotions from being wrecked, she had to hold him at bay.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE next morning when she picked up a harloty blouse, she dropped it again mutinously. She’d enjoyed being herself again. And wasn’t doing herself up like a dog’s dinner again.

  In plain shorts and a T-shirt, then, she strode down the corridor, unable to resist a peep as she passed the open door of Dexter’s room. It was empty, the bed as pristine as if he’d never slept in it.

  She took a deep breath and walked into the living room. Her disappointment on finding it empty too was a revelation.

  ‘You’ve got it bad, you stupid woman,’ she muttered resentfully, and set about making herself some black coffee to jerk her mind into gear.

  Nursing the mug, she came to a decision. She’d come clean. Confess to Dex what she’d been up to, pump him for information about their parents, and get herself home before she got hurt.

  It was time to stand up to her grandfather; gently but firmly. She had a future to plan. And she intended to show her grandpa that she might be kind and caring but she was strong as well, and quite capable of thinking for herself.

  Packing her shoulder bag with goodies, as she had the day before, she set out for the Quinta. It would be a long walk in the merciless sun, but she could do it. And her hea
rt grew light to know that the burden of pretending was about to be removed.

  It would be lovely to see the farm again. As she headed for the hill which hid the main part of the estate from view, she pictured in her mind’s eye what she would see. There would be the historic Quinta, of course, sprawling grandly in the centre of the valley, its walls a dazzling white, its gardens a riot of colour. On the terraces maybe a sun umbrella or two, though in the past the back courtyards had been used to dry maize and carob beans and onions.

  Her feet hastened up the steep hill as her eagerness increased. There would be flowery meadows full of dragon-flies and butterflies. In the nursery there would be rows of gigantic pots brimming with huge stands of palms, bananas, heliconium and all the exotic plants which the residents of the Algarve adored.

  The hills would be thick with stone pines, eucalyptus and cork oak. And there would be the orchard, with its luscious oranges and sweet lemons, peaches, apricots…

  Her eyes sparkled with anticipation as she paused to take a much-needed breath. Yes. She had adored it here and she had forgotten, the joys of the Quinta being slowly wiped from her mind by the desperation of day-to-day survival in England.

  A warm glow curled through her body, followed by a sudden sinking sensation as she realised this could really be the last time she saw Dexter. Ever.

  He found it hard to concentrate at work that morning. The pictures in his mind wouldn’t stop. The most compelling one was of Maddy’s soft concern towards the end of the evening when he’d been unable to hide his exhaustion any longer.

  But she’d only been continuing her little angel act, he thought, irritably signing for a delivery of paving slabs. And his enjoyment of her tenderness had been nothing more than his fleeting need to be fussed over. For someone to care.

  Fool that he was. His pen dug deep into the paper, making black lines of anger.

  By design or accident, she’d pulled all the right strings, wriggling her way into his sympathies with her talk of her lost childhood. But how the hell did he know if she’d been sincere or not? Knowing her agenda, probably not.