A Wife On Paper

by Liz Fielding

  The minute money had become the prime force of their relationship, any hope of emotional commitment had to be put on hold. How could he reveal his feelings now because she wouldn’t know for certain that he was being sincere. That he wasn’t simply making the best of a bad job and expecting more than a paper marriage for his money?

  And it worked two ways. If she surrendered, he’d never be sure if it was because she felt she had no choice.

  He was going to have to sit it out. Wait. Prove himself over however long it took and maybe one day she would trust him enough. Feel enough. He could do it. He’d lived three years without hope. Now he had the faint glimmer of a possibility of a future, he was prepared to wait a lifetime…

  So, instead of foisting himself upon her, he’d spent time with Toby, visited Matty, eaten the food that Connie had insisted on cooking for him—whether he had wanted it or not. Made friends, allies, of all of them. But he’d given Francesca all the room she had clearly needed. Even the most thick-skinned of men couldn’t have failed to get the message that, having agreed to marry him, she was doing everything she could to avoid him.

  Why else would she spend all her time in an office that wasn’t doing any business? How much clearing up could there be?

  But right now all this careful reasoning meant nothing. He wanted to kick something, take out his rage on some inanimate object, howl like a wounded animal. He was having to wear a civilised front, behave like a man unmoved by anything or anyone when he’d never felt so close to exploding.

  The truth was that he couldn’t bear another minute of her sitting beside him, her scent seeping into his skin, her hair, sleek and smooth, a blatant invitation to a man to pull at the pins, let it loose.

  She did something to him that no other woman had ever managed. Robbed him of reason.

  He’d believed he could do this, but he’d been right to stay away all these years. He should never have come back.

  Not that he imagined it had been easy for Francesca, either. She’d just lost the man she loved—a man she’d forgiven every kind of betrayal—and he’d sensed her struggle, felt her hand trembling in his as she’d nearly failed at the last minute, barely able to get out the words. Seen her distress as, outraged at his apparent carelessness, she’d tried to tear off the ring he’d put on her finger and throw it back at him. And his heart broke for her. Broke all over again for himself.

  ‘It really isn’t necessary to take me to the airport,’ he said abruptly, wishing he’d handled this differently. It had seemed so simple. Drive to the apartment, hand over the car keys, say goodbye. No emotion. No fuss. But nothing in this situation was simple, and there were no self-help guides on how to avoid the pitfalls. He was on his own and it was a steep learning curve. ‘I’ll take a cab to the office and someone will run me in from there.’

  ‘Your secretary?’

  ‘She’s rather more than that,’ he said. And, picking up an edge to her voice, ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘Catherine?’ He looked at her more closely. A definite edge. She was jealous? Why? And, because he was human, he said, ‘She’s tall, blond and sensational.’ Which was the truth. She was tall and blond—although he imagined that mainly due to the intervention of science—and she was a sensational administrator. ‘You know, you’re beginning to sound like a jealous wife,’ he said. And, since he felt much too good about that, he punctured his own ego with, ‘Were you like this with Steve?’

  She looked at the ring he’d placed on her finger, then raised those sinfully long lashes and said, ‘I wasn’t married to him, Guy. Maybe I’d better get this off before I completely lose the plot.’ And, when he didn’t leap to agree, ‘I imagine you do have some soap in your apartment? Or is everything packed?’

  Left with little choice but to run the swipe card through the lock on the entrance, he held the door for her and summoned the lift. The doors slid open immediately and they were whisked, in silence, to the top floor.

  And then, as she stood in the entrance to the vast living room, it seemed that she was the one lost for words.

  Fran had never doubted that Guy was wealthy. Steven had told her often enough that he was and the fact that he could raise the finance to buy her house at a day’s notice proved it beyond all doubt. But the apartment, expensively understated, elegant, beautiful beyond anything she could have imagined, rammed the point home. This wasn’t the home of a man who was just wealthy. This was the home of a man who was seriously rich.

  The softest leather furniture invited the weary to relax and be cosseted. Richly coloured oriental rugs were laid on pale, polished floors. Books and fine paintings adorned the walls.

  Guy had told her that this was just a convenient place for him to stay during his brief visits to London. An investment. Maybe that was what it had become, but that wasn’t how it had been originally perceived. This was the home of a man who’d put thought and care into it. It was a place to share with someone. And she knew, instinctively, that this had been furnished with the woman he loved in mind.

  No wonder he’d been so reluctant to let her see it. If she’d known he had to surrender this to pay Steven’s debts, buy the house—and he must have done or why else would he be converting her attic into a tiny little self-contained flat for himself?—she would have… What? Refused to allow it? He’d said, just minutes ago, that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  Guy didn’t join her, but remained on the far side of the wide double doors as she toured the room, touching the spine of a leather-bound book, gazing at a painting, not quite able to come to terms with the fact that he had something of such value simply hanging on his wall. Trying to get inside his head. Trying to imagine the woman who had inspired such adoration. Trying to make it all add up.

  ‘I’ll get my bags,’ he said.

  ‘No!’ She turned to face him. ‘What have you done, Guy?’ He didn’t answer. ‘This is a world away from the way you described it to me. It’s a home. Full of beautiful things.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was ugly. Just not what I need any more.’

  ‘And you’ve sold it? Just like that? To buy my house?’

  ‘Francesca—’

  He was going to lie to her. He wasn’t as good at it as Steven. One minute he was looking straight at her, the next he was more interested in one of the paintings…

  ‘Please give me credit for some sense, Guy,’ she said, before he could. Then, with a gesture at the single box, the small trunk, all he was taking with him, she said, ‘The pictures are worth a fortune. That one alone would have done it.’

  And she waited.

  Finally he said, ‘Yes, it probably would. You’re right, of course. I haven’t sold the flat. I’ve let as it stands to an American bank for one of their senior vice-presidents.’

  ‘Let it?’ she repeated. ‘Let it?’ She looked around. ‘With all this priceless…stuff?’

  ‘Believe me, the rental reflects the value of contents as well as the accommodation.’

  ‘But…why?’

  ‘I told you. I bought this as an investment and it’s done well. I’ve tripled my capital outlay. Something that Steve could have done if he’d used the money I gave him wisely. I should have let it before, of course. It’s a terrible waste of resources leaving it empty and it put the insurance premiums through the roof. The apartment in Elton Street will be much more cost effective.’

  Money? Was that all this meant to him? She didn’t believe it for a minute.

  ‘I meant why did you lie to me?’

  ‘I didn’t. You assumed I had to sell and I didn’t deny it.’

  ‘Why?’ she persisted.

  Because he was a fool, Guy told himself. Because he wanted to be able to help her in every way, put all of his resources at her command, give her not just a home, but everything she’d ever need. Because he loved her.

  None of them were reasons he could offer for what must now seem completely irrational behaviour. Whate
ver he said was going to make a bad situation worse, but he wasn’t going to add his unwanted passion to her burden. It was too soon after Steve’s death. Even if, by some miracle, she returned his feelings, she would deny it. She could do nothing else.

  ‘Guilt is the best arm-twister I know,’ he said, distancing himself from his voice, his actions. Her confused expression as she silently mouthed the word back at him.

  ‘Guilt?’

  ‘Steve taught me that. You’re right, of course. I could easily have bought the house, given it to you, but I needed you to marry me.’

  ‘Needed?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, knowing that he was breaking every tiny link he’d forged with her in the last few days. Destroying her memories of those moments when they’d been close. Smashing every one of his dreams beyond any hope of repair with each word he uttered. He’d tied her to him out of his own longings, hoped that he could one day win her affection, her trust, her love. Now he was giving her the freedom to hate him for it. Releasing her from any need for gratitude.

  ‘This might be a good moment to tell you that Tom Palmer is sorting out adoption papers for Toby. It’s just a formality. I simply want to be sure that when you move on, find someone new, I’ll have some family rights. That he won’t just disappear from my life. Fortunately he won’t have to change his name.’

  ‘Find someone new? Are you mad? Steven has been dead less than a month!’ Then, frowning, ‘Is that what was in Steven’s letter?’

  How easy it would be to lie. Blame Steve. ‘No, he didn’t think of it. But then I always did have a better grasp of reality than my brother and Toby is all the family I’ve got.’ All the family he was ever likely to have. ‘Don’t even think of trying to fight me on it, Francesca. And if you do think about it remember your responsibilities and leave well alone.’

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘Yes, well, Steve did tell you. You should have listened to him.’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ she said, floundering in a mixture of outrage and helplessness. Every atom of his being reached out to her, yearned to reassure her, but he held his ground. ‘I’ll…I’ll have the marriage annulled,’ she declared.

  ‘On what grounds? You’re going to find it rather difficult to prove it wasn’t consummated unless I cooperate. And I will, but only when I have what I want.’

  ‘You think I’m prepared to wait? I’m going straight back to the registrar. Tell him the truth…’ And she headed for the door.

  All Guy wanted was to stop her looking at the pictures he’d bought because he’d known, instinctively, that she would love them as he did. Touching the books he wanted to share with her. Running her hand along the back of the huge sofa that was big enough for two people to lie in each other’s arms as they watched the setting sun suffuse the sky with soft pinks and mauves.

  He wanted to stop her asking questions that he couldn’t answer without betraying himself.

  Wanted to make her angry enough to walk out, leave him, so that he could gather himself, restore the outward calm. But not like this. He couldn’t let her leave like this.’

  ‘Francesca, wait—’

  She pushed past him, refusing to stop, refusing to listen and, in desperation, he caught at her sleeve.

  She was moving faster than he’d realised and, as he grabbed her, she spun around, almost losing her balance on her high heels. Would have done if he hadn’t caught her, held her.

  ‘Don’t…’

  She was breathing heavily, flushed, and her hair had broken free of the restraining pins. She looked distraught, as if she was hurting so deeply that nothing could make it better, and tears filled her eyes as she stood there, powerless, his unwilling captive bride. But she wasn’t surrendering. She lifted her chin, lifted her hands to capture the loose strands that curled about her face, as if somehow she could restore her dignity by anchoring her hair smoothly back in place.

  But as she raised her lashes to stare him down, met his gaze head on, it was as if time had slipped sideways to another place. And her eyes, which a second earlier had been as cold as steel, melted, darkened…

  Neither of them spoke. She just let her hair fall and it tumbled loose about her face, her shoulders, gold in the autumn sunlight slanting in from the skylight above them. He might have been dreaming, except that when he reached up to cradle her cheek he could feel the warmth of her skin against his palm, his fingers. When he tightened his hold on her waist, her body moulded into his as if they had been made to fit. And when he lowered his mouth to hers, her lips parted, hot, honey-sweet, everything he’d ever dreamed of.

  He’d lived this moment over and over in his imagination. Knew exactly how it would be. The way he’d pick her up and carry her to his bed, undress her slowly, taking his time as he explored every part of her with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, until she was crying out for him. Until he could wait no longer to claim her. In his head, his heart, he knew it would be precious and beautiful and something neither of them would ever forget, no matter what happened afterwards.

  The reality was the swift, explosive and purely physical coupling of two people in desperate need. No sweet words, no forever promises, nothing gentle or giving, yet it was the most perfect act because in that moment it was exactly what they both wanted, both needed, engaging the senses in a totally spontaneous response to the emotional clamour of their bodies. It was the completion that his body had been demanding since that split-second connection in a restaurant three years earlier and he knew that nothing would ever surpass the exultation he felt as he plunged deep into her, compete with the stinging excitement of her nails biting into his shoulders, driving him on. Knowing that her passion equalled his as she clasped him against her, crying out as he brought her to release, burying her face into his shoulder, her lips into his neck as with a roar of triumph, he spilled into her. Made her his. Became hers in every way that it was possible for a man to be possessed by a woman.

  He had always known that she was the one woman in the world who could make him lose his mind. She had just proved that beyond a doubt. And, while he held her, kept her close, her hair against his cheek, his lips against her hair, he thought reason well lost. While she clung to him as he wrapped her in the protective afterglow of tenderness, he could hope.

  And when she finally lifted her head, her eyes huge and shining with the aftermath of love, her mouth invitingly soft, he had one sweet moment when he was certain that hope had been fulfilled.

  But then he saw that the shine was not love, but tears.

  He had been right. She wouldn’t forget this moment in a hurry. Nor would he. But for all the wrong reasons.

  He eased back, releasing her from the hard grip of the wall, supporting her as she lowered her feet, found her balance. Searching for some words, any words, as she pulled her clothes about her, straightened her skirt, all the time with an unceasing, silent stream of tears tearing at his heart. There were no words to convey his regret, his shame.

  To say that he was sorry would insult her.

  To tell her that he’d never intended it to happen would sound like so many empty words. She had just threatened to annul their marriage. His response could only be taken one way. And that was the charitable interpretation.

  The other was that he had simply decided that, despite his fine words, his promises, he expected payment in full for his investment in an unwanted high-maintenance wife. Why else would he be planning to move into her home when, as she had just discovered, there was no need?

  How could he ask her to forgive him, when he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself?

  Instead he picked up her jacket, handed it to her in silence.

  ‘Bathroom?’ she enquired, so quietly that he could barely hear her.

  ‘Through here.’ He opened the door to his bedroom and the untouched bed, just yards away, seemed to mock him. ‘You’ll find everything you’ll need.’

  Soap, hot water to wash him from her body.

  She ducked through
the opening, leaving him to straighten himself out. Consider a future that was suddenly bleaker than he could have imagined even a week ago. An hour ago. Then he’d had some hope.

  He began to fasten his shirt, discovered that several of the buttons were torn from it, and dug a fresh one out of his holdall. On the point of balling up the discarded one and tossing it into the bin, he stopped, held it to his face, breathed in her scent for a moment, before folding it and putting it in the bag.

  Fran didn’t undress or take a shower. If she undressed she’d have to put the same clothes back on and she wasn’t going to do that ever again. They were going into the bin the moment she got home. From the Jasper Conran suit to the Manolo Blahnik shoes she’d been wearing while she’d thrown herself at Guy like a whore. Her only consolation was that he could never call her ‘cheap’.

  Instead she splashed cold water on to her face. Washed her hands. Pulled out the pins that were falling out all around her and, since she hadn’t got her bag with her, shook her hair loose. Then regarded herself in the mirror.

  Her lips were bruised and swollen, her eyes bright and dark. One of the buttons on her jacket had been torn off and she had a rip in her stockings. She looked exactly what he must think she was.

  A woman who’d come close to throwing away the soft option in a fit of pique. And had used the oldest trick in the book to save herself.

  It hadn’t been that way. It had been as if she’d stepped back in time to the moment she’d first seen him and recognised the moment for what it was. A coup de foudre, a lightning strike, a split second in which she’d known that he was the only man in the world for her, the one man she could never have. Only now there was nothing to hold her back, and all that pent up yearning, desire, had been loosed in a frenzied outburst of passion. Uncontrolled. Glorious in its absolute truth. Inexplicable unless the response was mutual.

  But even if she couldn’t explain, she would have to face him. The sooner the better.

  She found him in the kitchen, slumped over the table, his face resting on his hands as he stared into space, as if into the jaws of hell.