A Secure Marriage

by Diana Hamilton

  'Will you get to the point?' Cleo snapped, thrown off balance, thrusting aside her untouched starter as her main course of sole appeared.

  'The point? Ah—yes.' He cut into his veal, smiling. 'Adverse reports on your morals would not faze Aunt Grace. Annoy her, of course, but it would be something she could handle—especially if the dirt could be swept under the Aubusson. But dear old Uncle John—now there's an entirely different ball game. Two massive heart-attacks already--' He shook his head in a parody of sorrow. 'If he heard what I could tell him—through the gutter press—then the shock could very well finish the old boy off. Especially when we consider that the second attack followed right on the heels of that naughty little piece about his son Luke which appeared in the Dezzi Phipps column.

  And we wouldn't want that, would we, my love?'

  She wanted to hit him. Sitting at the same table with him made her insides heave. His tactics were blackmail, but he had no leverage, and that puzzled her even more than it worried her.

  But that state of affairs didn't last long after she hissed, her eyes darkening with disgust, 'You're spouting hotair and garbage! You can have nothing to say about my morals, either way. We dated a few times--'

  'Rather more than a few.' The look he gave her made her skin crawl. 'And I think my version of the events that led to our break-up might make more titillating hearing than yours. I'd put it about like so: a poor but honest young man—me--' he dipped his head as she snorted violently, 'falling in love with a beautiful young student. You. A touch promiscuous, but our hero overlooked that—being head over heels, you understand. And then the problems—beautiful student had such expensive tastes, having been brought up in the lap of luxury. This forces our hero to take risks with the small amount he does have—it being common knowledge that no one gets to first base with the lady without vast expenditure. But she has promised to marry him, so he believes the risks he's taking worth it. So he gets deeper into debt: gambling, loan sharks, you name it. All to keep the lady happy. He has to give her a good time because if he doesn't she will find someone who will.'

  Cleo's eyes narrowed and she sucked in a deep breath. The man was a lunatic. 'If anyone who knew me, least of all Uncle John, would believe that trash, they'd believe day was night.' She had listened to enough verbal slime to sever her connection with her inbred cool caution, but he quelled the imminent storm with five well chosen words.

  'The Red Lion Hotel, Goldingstan.'

  Then he relaxed back in his chair, his meal finished, raising an eyebrow at the congealing, untouched food on her plate.

  'Not hungry? Pity. However, my dislike of waste is tempered by the knowledge that you are going to pay the bill. You can afford it. I can't. Now, where were we?'

  'You were trying to blackmail me,' she clipped, her voice controlled. But she was shaking inside and there was no way she could disguise the disgust on her face, the loathing in her huge dark eyes. 'You make me sick!'

  'Now that is sad.' His voice was heavy with sarcasm and the smile that curved his lips as he refilled his wineglass made her shudder. 'But I think I'm going to be able to live with that, especially as you are going to settle my debts and get a couple of rather threatening heavies off my back. Oh, and by the way,'

  his voice was almost a purr as she opened her mouth to categorically deny her intention of doing any such thing, 'I kept the hotel receipt. Mr and Mrs Robert Fenton, room four, on the night of the eleventh of June last year. And in case there's any doubt, I'm sure Mrs Galway—you remember her— the hotelier's wife who was so obliging and told us she never forgot a guest, will be able and willing to identify you as the said Mrs Robert Fenton. She might even be able to recall that we couldn't drag ourselves out of that room until half-eleven the following morning!'

  Still smiling his odious smile, he lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke across the table. 'Not that it will come to asking Mrs Galway to identify you.

  You've no intention of being awkward about this, have you, my love?'

  'Don't call me that!' she rasped, her voice hoarse, as though her throat had turned to sandpaper. She was more disgusted by his repeated use of the endearment than anything else. It was a crazy reaction, but that was the way it was, and she wanted to get away from him, get the whole distasteful episode over, so she asked stonily, 'How much?'

  'Twenty-five thousand.'

  She didn't believe it at first. But she saw from his face that he was serious, deadly serious, and she laughed, without humour.

  'You're mad! Where would I get that kind of money? And even if I could, do you honestly fhink I'd believe keeping the Red Lion incident secret worth that amount?'

  Leaning forward across the table he called her bluff, 'I think you'd consider it worth it at twice the price. Can you imagine dear old John's face if he read a headline that might go something like: " Slade Securities Chiefs Niece Involved in Debt Scandal" With an opening paragraph that could say something like: "Slade heiress's lover threatened with knee-capping by loan shark's heavy mob. 'I'm in real trouble. I only got in debt for her sake,'

  explained Robert Fenton, Cleo Slade's former lover: 'She's used to the best and she said she loved me. But she won't lift a finger to help now I'm in this mess. I'm devastated,' added the distraught Mr Fenton." Or something similar.' He stubbed his cigarette out and Cleo felt the trap close more tightly around her, squeezing until she thought she would die of it.

  Yes, she could just imagine what that kind of publicity could do to Uncle John—the piece about Luke had been mild in comparison and that, as almost everyone believed, had brought on that second, near fatal heart- attacK. And it wouldn't exactly ease her career along, either, but that was a minor consideration beside the damage it could do to her uncle.

  Fenton added, 'What's a mere twenty-five thousand to a girl who will inherit her father's share of the Slade Millions in—what will it be? Around a year's time? A drop in the proverbial ocean!'

  Her mouth tightened. 'Can the heavy mob—in which, incidentally, I don't believe—wait a year? I don't inherit until I'm twenty-five, as you very well know.'

  'Or until you marry,' he put in slyly. 'I did my homework.'

  'And are you going to suggest I marry you to get my hands on the money?'

  She wouldn't put it past him, and there was an edge of hysteria in her voice and it sharpened his eyes.

  'I'm not that stupid. Should you marry before you reach your twenty-fifth birthday, then, in order to obtain an early release of your considerable inheritance, your guardians, your so upright and proper uncle and aunt, would have to unreservedly approve your choice of husband. And they wouldn't have to dig very deep to realise that no way could they approve of yours truly. No,' he smiled oilily, 'I've always known that wasn't on the cards, although at one time I had hopes of keeping you sweet until you were twenty-five and free, not only to inherit, but to marry whomsoever you pleased. But the Fenton charm didn't blind you for long enough. I did ask you to marry me, though, remember? I was beginning to realise you weren't as starry-eyed as you had been, so I suggested we marry and, in true romantic tradition, keep it a secret from those stuffy relatives of yours. I thought that might have set the little female heart pounding away again.

  However,' he sighed theatrically, 'that wasn't to be, so I've given the matter much thought and decided to cut my losses and settle for twenty-five thou.

  You can raise it somehow—with your collateral.'

  He beckoned for the bill and stood up, pushing the folded slip of paper between the fingers of her clenched hand.'See you, my love. And thanks for the lunch. I'll keep in touch. Oh, and by the way, I'll want my little pressie in four weeks' time. Cash, if you please.'

  Cleo was in her office early the following morning. The thickly carpeted corridors had been silent as she'd walked through the hushed building with the uniformed commissionaire's cheery words echoing hollowly in her head.

  'Good morning, Miss Slade. A real touch of spring in the air today!'


  The early morning City streets might be awash with warm April sunlight, but winter was in her heart; icy, steel-edged winter.

  Her features taut and expressionless, she hung her coat in her cupboard and smoothed the long, narrow lapels of the deep mulberry-coloured Escada suit she was wearing. Expertly applied make-up went some way to hide the pallor induced by a sleepless night and the eyes that met her in the mirror on the back of the cupboard door were sharp with determination.

  She had no way of knowing if Robert Fenton was in debt, was being hounded for repayment. It didn't really signify. His threat to her uncle, via herself, was real enough. That kind of heavy blackmail, the threat of the worst kind of publicity in one of the seamier tabloids, would finish the already frail old man. She had no doubt that Fenton could get the slimiest publicity possible. He knew some very dubious characters in the newspaper world, men who didn't care what was printed, or whose lives were shattered, so long as it sold papers.

  There was no way she could raise that kind of money without approaching the trustees. And they would, quite rightly, want to know details. And that kind of detail she couldn't give.

  She sat at her desk, her spine upright, staring at the polished surface. For the first time ever she regretted the restrictions her father had placed on her massive inheritance.

  Throughout her life she had never wanted for material things. Her allowance had been on the generous side, but sensible, and her life with her parents and, later, with her uncle and aunt, had been discreetly luxurious— until, needing to be in London while she was studying, she had persuaded the trustees to buy the small terraced house in Bow where she still lived. She had nothing personal to sell that would raise anything like the amount Fenton was demanding. But unless she was able to raise it, in four weeks' time, Fenton would see those vile lies printed. They had all seen the damage such malicious tittle-tattle had done when Luke's exploits had been snidely publicised and the specialist had warned that the frail old man be treated with kid gloves, that upsets and worry had to be avoided at all costs. So she had to raise that money! She couldn't have his death on her conscience!

  Hearing the snick of the outer office door as it opened, she held her breath. It was Jude, as she had hoped, early, well before Dawn was due to arrive. And now had to be the best time to speak to him.

  Her breath caught flutteringly in her throat and her stomach wriggled about uncomfortably as she watched him walk past her partly open door to his own office, the inevitable briefcase in his hand. The immaculately cut dark suit he wore clothed his body with easy elegance, and the crisp whiteness of his shirt contrasted sharply with his dark blue tie, with the natural darkness of his skin tones. He always looked as if he had a tan.

  Quelling an unwanted spasm of nerves—apprehension had been talked out of her plans during the long, lonely hours of last night, hadn't it?—she rose to her feet and squared her slim shoulders. She had wrestled with the problem Fenton had presented her with and as far as she could see there was only one viable solution— and she had looked long and hard for alternatives. So there was no point in giving way to the jitters now.

  The man could always say no. He had said no to business deals before now.

  But only ever after giving the matter full consideration, after a careful weighing of the pros and cons. He surely wouldn't turn her business proposition down out of hand.

  Drawing in a long breath, she tapped lightly on his door and walked in, her features severe, cool, her heart not picking up speed by the smallest fraction.

  She had learned the trick of unemotionalism in a hard school. She met the vivid azure of his eyes, the small, courteously pleasant smile as he acknowledged her brief greeting. And before he could launch into plans for the day's work, or return his attention to the papers he had already extricated from the black leather briefcase, Cleo dragged a quick breath in through her nostrils and asked, 'Mr Mescal—will you marry me?'

  CHAPTER TWO

  FOR an agonisingly drawn-out moment Cleo thought he was going to refuse her without giving the matter any consideration at all. His body grew still, very still, before a ghost of a smile flickered briefly around the hard male mouth and was then erased, as if it had never been, as if she had dreamed it.

  And then, as he still remained silent, her spine stiffened with impatience beneath the smooth, expensive fabric of her suit. Was he going to say nothing, nothing at all? What if he, like the gentleman he was, ignored her question? What if he treated her startling proposal of marriage as a regrettable mental aberration on her part, deeming it kinder, more polite, to pretend the words had never been said?

  Well, in that case, she would just have to repeat her offer, she decided with grim stoicism. Against all her expectations she felt perspiration slick the palms of her hands and, slowly, she ran the tip of her tongue over lips gone suddenly dry. At that, as if her physical unease had recalled him, made some impact on his mind, he gestured her to a chair with an almost imperceptible movement of his hand. And Cleo sat, glad to, because for some reason her knees felt as if they were about to give way.

  Silently, her eyes too big for her face, she willed him to answer, to say he'd give it some thought, at least. His agreement was the only solution she could see to a grotesque problem, and she needed it. For her uncle's sake she needed it.

  But now, without knowing how or why it should have crept in, there was an indefinable something going on inside her head that warned her that his acquiescence was important on an entirely different plane. Whatever it was, she couldn't understand it, although she felt she should, and, whatever it was, it made her feel lightheaded, breathless.

  'And?' he said at last, his tone prompting, his eyes holding hers from beneath thick, dark lashes.

  Thrown off balance by the softly put question, the probing she hadn't expected, not in that nebulous form, her smoky eyes widened again, filling her face, while a faint flush of colour stole into her pale skin. 'And?' she repeated, parrot-fashion, her mouth dry.

  'And why the unexpected interest?' Jude supplied. 'We've worked together for twelve months, very amicably, I do agree, but I've yet to see signs of a deathless passion from you. Neither,' his voice continued, polite in inflexion, perfectly level, 'do you strike me as being the type of woman who would be desperate for the married status—at any price.'

  He was wrong there, she was desperate, but not for the reasons he imagined.

  Marriage, for the sake of it, had never appealed. She had learned how to be sufficient unto herself, not to need emotional props. But marriage to someone as undeniably suitable as Jude Mesgal would be in the eyes of her guardians was the only answer to her awful problem.

  But now, at least, he was asking her to give logical answers to her own seemingly illogical question, and she could handle that. For a moment back there she had felt herself to be losing her grip on the tangible, admitting the intangible—that nebulous thread—into her mind so that a union with this man had, for a strange, disjointed moment, seemed important on an entirely unexpected level.

  And that particular reaction, she told herself firmly, was due to the momentary panic of nerves. She hadn't expected to feel nervous—so nervous, at least.

  She began to relax, feeling the tension drain out of the tautly held muscles of her back and neck. She was completely at home with the unequivocal logic of facts, and she was fully prepared to present him with those facts—as far as she deemed entirely necessary.

  She clasped her hands loosely together in her lap and her eyes were cool and frank as she told him, 'Under the terms of my father's will I don't come into my inheritance for another year, and I need a rather large amount now.

  However, if I marry before then, provided my uncle and aunt approve my choice, my father's money automatically passes to me. They would approve of you, and if we married within, say, three weeks, I could control my inheritance, use the money 1 need. It wouldn't be a great deal,' she assured him, in case he thought she would spend the lot and then expect him
to keep her in luxury. 'Not when seen in context. My future inheritance is popularly known as the Slade Millions.'

  He dipped his head in brief acknowledgement of the facts that were, after all, common knowledge in City circles, and she knew the facts had been concisely put, the reason for her proposal made clear enough. She was devastated when he chuckled, a rare occurrence indeed for the Frozen Asset!

  His incredible azure eyes were irradiated with amusement and Cleo, looking at him, felt her skin crawl with hot colour. To ask him to marry her had been humiliating enough in itself, without him adding to her discomfort by treating the whole thing as a joke!

  'Wouldn't it have been simpler to arrange a loan?' The amusement lingered for a while, sparkling in his eyes, then faded, leaving his face as it ever was—remote, cool, intelligent. 'Embarking on the commitment of marriage seems rather drastic. Couldn't you approach the trustees of your late father's estate? Come to that,' his wide shoulders lifted fractionally, 'I could lend you what you need. Your credit rating is excellent,' he added drily.

  He sat down then, taking his chair on the opposite side of the huge desk, his clever eyes narrowed over steepled fingers as he watched her. 'How much?

  And what for?'

  But Cleo shook her head decisively, the shimmering silver fall of her hair swinging across her face. 'I'd prefer not to borrow.' She didn't want anyone to know why she needed the money, and anyone prepared to lend that amount would certainly demand to know where the money was going! And her eyes met his in unconscious, mute appeal and he asked her softly, 'Are you in some kind of trouble?'

  Again the sharp negating swing of her head; the mess she was in was of her own making, she would extricate herself from it in her own way, without involving anyone else in the sordid details. She had made a mistake, a bad one, when she had allowed herself to be infatuated by Robert Fenton's silver tongue, his easy charm. But she had learned her lesson and was about to pay dearly for it. And sitting here, mutely supplicant under the remote eyes of the man who was known never to suffer involvement—except with his work—suddenly became unbearable.