A Secure Marriage

by Diana Hamilton

  'But / knew what a pain you were! My God—when I think of the time I put in—all those boring trips to the country, the ghastly picnics, the cosy meals you dished up here and the predictable, prissy "hands off" signals if I did more than kiss you! God, what a bore it all was. And for what? For sweet damn-all!'

  He tipped the contents of the package on the sofa, swinging his legs to the floor, his eyes furious. 'I reckon' you owe me this! You can't actually imagine I enjoyed sucking up to you, listening to you boring on about your wretched exam results and then your precious career? So, having said that, and put the record straight,' his voice changed, was smooth as oil, 'you don't mind if I count this, I hope. Not being trustworthy myself, I don't trust anyone else. Not even a self-righteous prude like you.'

  So she gritted her teeth, not bothering to tell him to be quick about it, because even saying that would waste precious seconds and she wanted him out of here. He tainted the air. And when he had finished he stood up, looking down at the piles of notes—tens and twenties— spread out on the almond-green fabric.

  'I should have asked for double,' he said.

  'Just take it and go,' she gritted, controlling her voice with difficulty because she felt like screaming.

  He raised his head then, tearing his eyes from the small fortune spread out in front of him, and he looked at her, at the taut whiplash lines of her body, and his eyes held something unspeakable.

  'You always were a frigid bitch,' he mouthed slowly, and then advanced, putting himself between her and the door. 'But you're a married bitch now, and maybe Mescal's taught you what it's all about.'

  He began to circle her and she sidestepped, her heart beginning to race, and she realised when it was too late to do anything about it that he had manoeuvred her into a corner.

  'Don't come near me!' Her eyes glittered with a mixture of rage and fear, and he said thickly, 'Why not? I'll show you what you missed that night in Goldingstan.'

  He made a single swift movement, lunging for her, but she twisted out of his reach, his hands finding nothing more substantial than the cloth of her shirt, and the buttons ripped as she jerked frenziedly away, the fabric parting to reveal the rounded globes of her breasts, barely covered by the midnight-blue lace of her scantily cut bra.

  There was no time to think about making herself decent again, she had to get out of here because Fenton was serious, deadly serious, his hot eyes on her exposed skin. She made a desperate attempt to reach the door, but he was quick—and fitter than he deserved to be, considering his life-style—and he caught her, bringing her down in a fair imitation of a rugby tackle, knocking the breath out of her lungs as his body fell on hers.

  Cleo twisted and fought, but he caught her head between his hands, twisting until she thought her hair would come out by the roots, and she began to scream, but he silenced her with his savage mouth and blood thundered in her head, a pounding roar. But she heard, above it, a voice like perma-frost.

  'Just what the hell is going on?'

  And then there was silence, and stillness, like the eye of a storm. Fenton's body went rigid on top of hers, and the taste of fear was on his lips which were still clamped over her mouth.

  Then all was violence, movement and noise as Fenton's body was dragged from her, the sound of ripping fabric, the tearing of brown silk as Jude hauled him to his feet, flinging him against the wall.

  Cleo opened her eyes, relief at Jude's timely arrival warring with panic as his glittering eyes swept over her sprawled body, her near-naked breasts, her wildly tangled hair. And his eyes held murder, dark, icy murder.

  She tried to tell him it wasn't what it seemed, that she. had not been a willing partner in that torrid embrace, that he had saved her from possible rape, but the sounds she made were thickly incoherent and he turned from her as though she sickened him and she saw the lean, strong hands curl into fists as he swung round to tell Fenton, 'Get out before I tear you apart.'

  Fenton hauled himself together as Cleo scrambled to her feet, tugging the two halves of her ripped shirt together, her breath coming raggedly. The younger man wasn't leaving without taking what he had come for, but Cleo saw how his hands shook as he tucked his shirt back into his tight leather trousers.

  Jude's face was set, the darkly tanned skin pulled tight over jutting bones, danger explicit in every line of his athletically powerful body, so Cleo had to give Fenton a grudging ten marks for courage as he sauntered over to the sofa and began to pick up the piles of notes.

  'On my way, mate,' he drawled. 'But I can't leave without taking my little gift, can I? Might hurt the lady's feelings.'

  'Did you give him that?' Jude's eyes flicked coldly to her then back to Fenton, and the harsh, incisive tone made her blood run cold.

  'Yes.' There was no point in lying, no point at all, and she felt giddy, the room swaying, and she wished she could faint because she'd rather be unconscious, in a coma, than have to try to explain all this away.

  She closed her eyes briefly, fighting rising nausea, and she didn't see what happened next but she heard Jude's voice, dark and deadly, 'Get out. Now, before I plasterthe wall with you.' And no one who wasn't a suicidal idiot would ignore that kind of menace, because it filled the small room, turning the air sharp with violence, and she dragged her eyes open to see Fenton scurrying out.

  He had left the money behind, and Jude grated, 'Pick it up.'

  He looked as if he hated her, as if the very sight of her disgusted him, and she stared at him with huge grey frightened eyes, her body shaking, perspiring—

  although she felt very cold.

  The evidence he had walked in on was damning in itself; the money she'd admitted she'd given Robert Fenton made everything worse. She was going to have to tell him the truth about the way she'd been blackmailed, explain that she'd rather part with a slice of her inheritance than bring shame and embarrassment—and possibly something much worse—on to the sick old man who had been the only person she had ever received anything remotely like affection from during the past ten years.

  Agitation made her voice shake as she took a tentative step towards him, her hands outspread in involuntary supplication.

  'Jude—let me explain.'

  'Just do as I said,' his voice lashed her. 'Pick that stuff up. And don't say anything, not a word, otherwise I might forget you're a female.'

  He wouldn't listen, not now, not in this mood. She dragged herself to the sofa and dropped to her knees, her fingers shaking as she began to push the piled notes together in a bunch. He didn't consider that anything she could say could explain or justify the situation he had walked in on. He couldn't trust her. But then, he didn't love her, so why should he?

  From the comer of her eyes she saw him move, bend to pick up a scrap of paper from the floor, and his voice was iced over with contempt as he crumpled the hotel receipt and dropped it to the floor again.

  'A souvenir, I take it. Been reliving old times, have. you? God, he must have something if the affair's been going on that long!' His mouth curled bitterly and she had never seen his eyes so cold. 'So why didn't you marry him to gain access to the money you obviously intend to pour all over him? And don't bother to answer, let me tell you! Because there was no way your guardians would have approved your marriage to him—and so your considerable financial assets would have been frozen for another year.

  Tough on him, that. He likes to spend, I take it!' His mouth thinned, displaying a cruelty she hadn't seen before. 'Was he getting restive, threatening to move to greener pastures? Was that why you hatched a plan to marry someone your guardians would approve of? And so, as I heard him saying when you'd invited him to my house, two days after becoming my wife, in order to get your hands on one fortune, you married another. Mine.

  Sweet heaven—did you imagine I'd sit by and let you lavish mine on him once you'd run through yours?'

  Things were going from bad to worse, and she couldn't bear it because what he was saying, accusing her of, was nothing like the tr
uth. And now, if ever, was the time to make him see that. She was crazily in love with him and she wanted him to love her, and if she couldn't put the record straight then this morning's debacle would put the possibility of that ever happening back a hundred years.

  She scrambled to her feet, the notes pushed all anyhow back in the package, and he held a hand out, wordlessly, his eyes midnight ice as they swept dismissively over her.

  'It isn't what you think,' she began, her courage almost deserting her under that cruelly denigrating look.

  'Save your breath,' he cut in tonelessly. 'The scene I walked in on was explicit enough, and the hotel receipt confirms that you had no intention of losing a lover of some long-standing.' His hard eyes impaled her, making her feel ill. 'He must be sensational in bed. So much so that you couldn't stand the deprivation. That's why you asked me to make love to you on the island.

  Any port in a storm.'

  'No!' Appalled, she put a hand to her mouth to stop the words from tumbling out. She had asked him to make love to her because she had just realised how much she loved him. But he wouldn't believe that, not now, and if she tried to make him believe it he would end up despising her even more because he'd think she was trying to wheedle her way round him!

  'No?' A black brow arched disbelievingly. 'I can't think of any other reason.

  And I've no intention of listening to any fairy story you might try to invent.'

  He tossed the package around in his hands, as if trying to evaluate the exact amount. 'I'll pay this back into your account. You are free to do as you like with your own money,' he commented savagely, 'except to give massive handouts to your lover. Like it or not, you are my wife, and, as my wife, I expect certain standards of behaviour.'

  He turned from her dismissively, staring out of the small paned window.

  'Get your coat. I'm taking you home. And don't ever think of trying to see that jerk again or I'll keep you under lock and key.'

  Staring at the rigid line of his shoulders, the arrogant tilt of his head, a hot tide of pure rage flooded through her, burning her up, and she turned on her heels to fetch her jacket from the kitchen, her voice shaking with anger as she spat over her shoulder,

  'Who the hell do you think you are? God? Well, I hope you find the judgement throne comfortable— although it's probably too small for your massive ego!'

  She wasn't waiting for any reply, and she wasn't even going to try to tell him the truth! He had sat in judgement, condemning her, without hearing her side of the story, saying things, horrible things, things that cheapened the love she had felt for him, the ecstasy she had found in his arms. And she had her pride; she wouldn't go down on her knees and beg!

  But the heated rush of anger fell away, draining her, and her eyes filled with scalding tears as she saw the carton he must have dropped on the table near the door as he'd walked in and found his wife sprawled out on the floor, another man's body covering her, another man's mouth on hers.

  The name of the local delicatessen was plainly printed across the carton in bright yellow letters, so the contents were a foregone conclusion. And there was no mistaking the bottle of Moselle for what it was, either. He'd asked her to have lunch with him, to make his day better, and she'd told him she'd be here, working, and so he had come to her, bringing their lunch, because he'd rather picnic with her than eat off the best china in the most exclusive restaurant in town. And if he hadn't walked in and found her with Fenton then she would have been the happiest woman alive because his action, even if he hadn't realised it, meant that she was at last beginning to mean something to him.

  But now he thought her to be a two-timing slut, and the hopes she'd had of their marriage developing into a two-way, long-term love-affair were dead as cold ashes. And no sadness could be as great as this.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'CLEO?' Dawn's voice came brightly over the wire. 'I've just had a call from Mr Mescal. He asked me to get you to have Thornwood meet him at the airport at five-thirty, and to remind you the Blairs are expected tonight. OK?'

  'Thanks, Dawn. I'll pass the message to Thornwood right away.' She was about to ring off, feeling herself colour as she realised that Dawn just had to be wondering why Jude had phoned her and not his wife, but Dawn chattered on, 'How's the new job going? I must say I miss you here. And couldn't you have persuaded your husband not to promote that Sheila Bates to your old job? Nobody likes her, I'm told, so I'm sure I won't.'

  As Dawn seemed set to gossip for hours, Cleo cut in smoothly, advising, 'I'm sure she'll be fine, just get on with your job and leave her to get on with hers.

  Lovely to talk to you, but I must dash—Jude wants to make an impression on Sir Geoffrey this evening.'

  Which was as good an excuse as any to cut the conversation short, even though Meg had everything in hand for this evening and there wasn't a thing Cleo had to do apart from dress herself up and dredge up a smile and a line in relaxed conversation from somewhere. She didn't feel in the mood to talk to anyone, not even Dawn. She was so tense she felt she might explode, disintegrate into a million ragged pieces.

  On Tuesday morning, after discovering her with Fenton, Jude had driven her home in a stinging silence and had departed, almost immediately, for Zurich.

  And late this afternoon he would be back, and before the Blairs arrived for dinner she was going to have to make him listen to her explanations.

  He had been too angry to listen to anything she could have said the last time she had seen him, and she could understand that, but today he simply had to hear her. side of the story. The sordid business about Fenton's blackmailing threats would have to be exposed and, in a way, it would be a relief because Jude might be able to help.

  Her hands shook as she pushed together the pile of papers, the reports and balance sheets she'd been ploughing through, and slid them into an empty drawer in the desk in Jude's study. It hadn't taken her long to realise that Slade Securities was in a mess, and she couldn't begin to see a way out while her mind was in such turmoil. Loving Jude as she did, his disgust with her, the loathing she'd seen in those cold, azure eyes, was a constant and debilitating pain, blinding her to everything else.

  And her worries about Fenton's possible next move didn't help any, she acknowledged as she pushed herself listlessly to her feet on her way to find Thornwood and relay Jude's message. Fenton hadn't had the money he'd demanded, so heaven only knew what his next move would be. She didn't know whether to expect a renewed demand or to see, in print, the whole sordid pack of lies. And if that happened she couldn't bear to think what would happen to Uncle John. And Luke, for one, would make sure the old man read every word.

  It was like living with a time bomb. But maybe, when Jude knew the truth, he would know what to do.

  'You certainly know how to make yourself look sexy, but then you've had plenty of practice, for Fenton, haven't you?'

  Cleo twisted round, her heart pumping wildly. Wearing her new dress, she had been putting the finishing touches to her make-up when he'd walked in on her.

  She hadn't heard the bedroom door open and now he was leaning against the frame. He looked tired, world- weary, the lines of cynicism deeply scored beside his mouth. Disadvantaged, she looked at him with anguished eyes, the smoke-grey irises deepened to charcoal. She had planned on being ready when he returned, composed, waiting in the drawing-room. But Thornwood must have had a smoother drive from the airport than she had bargained for and her fingers froze, dropping the scent spray she'd been using on to the polished rosewood surface of the dressing-table. The tiny clatter broke the silence of his long, unwavering scrutiny and she said, 'We have to talk,' and tried to get herself together. He had to listen to her. He had to. She would never get through this evening if he didn't.

  'Must we?' His tone was bored as he moved slowly into the room, loosening his tie, and her heart jumped, but she resisted the impulse to run. She wasn't a coward, although his patent disgust with her, his terrifying coldness, wasn't making things easy. />
  'Yes, we must.' She was ashamed of the slight tremor in her voice, of the hunger she was sure must show in her eyes as she watched him remove his suit jacket, his hands moving next to the zip of his trousers. God, but he was superb, almost frighteningly male, and he was her husband, and she loved him, and he loathed her!

  But she was about to change all that, wasn't she? Because after she'd explained about Fenton he would go back to being the caring, exciting lover and beloved companion he had been before, surely he would? She knew he had been on the verge of growing more than fond of her. She couldn't believe that wasn't true, and she had to cling on to that.

  He was naked now and she closed her eyes against a sudden inrush of pain, of need, that gripped her like a giant steel hand. She had to get him to listen, to understand.

  'Jude--'

  'Don't you think you ought to go down?' The look he flicked in her direction might have been given to an irritating child. 'Sir Geoffrey and his wife will be here in an hour. You should be checking with Meg.'

  He didn't pause in his progress towards the bathroom, and that, and the irritated look, riled her. She wasn't so completely besotted by love that she would allow him to brush her aside like a subnormal hireling!

  'This won't take long.' Resolve stiffened her spine as she moved between him and the adjoining bathroom door, her chin lifting defiantly, her eyes unwavering even as she faced the exasperated lowering of his black brows.

  'You've judged and condemned me without a hearing, and I deserve better than that!'

  'You deserve a thrashing.' His mouth twisted down in a sneer. 'But I'm too much a gentleman to give it to you! But I tell you this--' He moved closer, and his tanned, taut nakedness seared her through the filmy fabric of her dress, making her shudder at the awareness of how easily he could rouse her, even in his hatred. He didn't touch her, he didn't need to, and her words of hot protest at his high-handed refusal even to listen to her side of the story died in her throat, clogging it. 'I know now why you married me. I didn't have to be a genius to work that out,' he flared, controlled anger making his eyes glitter. 'You needed to get your hands on your inheritance and you couldn't afford to wait another twelve months because your lover was getting restive. He wanted to get his hands on that so-called little gift he was practically drooling over. And you couldn't marry him to gain access to your inheritance, no matter how much you might have wanted to, because there's no way your guardians would have approved a jerk like him. So you married me, and, OK--' his breath sucked harshly into his lungs, making the rough satin of his skin quiver with an inner tension she could feel through every fibre of her being, as if he were an extension of herself '—so now I know, and, granted, our marriage was only ever one of expediency—but you're still my wife.'