Worthy of the Victoria Cross, Olivia was thinking wryly to herself as he added, ‘Young Mr Richard will have reason to be grateful to you for the rest of his life.’
But Richard must never know. Not only would it be grossly demeaning to her were her brother to discover the reason behind her sudden marriage, it would also place an unfair debt of gratitude on his young shoulders. As her face changed, Lewis smiled and held up his hands. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word. I was talking theoretically.’
‘I have your word on that?’
The grey head nodded. ‘You know you can trust me.’
All the same, it was with some trepidation that she had phoned Richard at his boarding-school to give him the news. After their mother’s regrettable experience with Roland, the Jordans rated no more highly in her brother’s book than in her own.
‘Good lord,’ had been his flat-voiced comment. ‘What’s with these Jordan men? Haven’t they already done enough damage to our family through one marriage? Sorry, Sis, I thought you had better taste.’
Olivia had gritted her teeth, not blaming him one little bit—and secretly very thankful that the wedding would coincide with a school trip to Belgium that Richard had planned. A fact for which he was evidently grateful too. A meeting with his brother-in-law-to-be was quite clearly not at the top of his list.
‘I’ll try,’ had been his unenthusiastic response when Olivia had felt obliged to urge him to visit them some time. And as she laid down the phone she had consoled herself with the thought that at least it would be that much easier when it came to breaking the news of the divorce to him.
But the divorce was still a distressingly long way away. First there was the marriage—and the wedding—to get through.
‘Smile, please!’
All around her flashbulbs were popping, and Olivia had a tight smile pinned to her face. As Matthew slipped an arm round her waist, drawing her close in a mock-romantic embrace, she fought the urge to pull away from him and mustered every latent thespian bone in her body to simulate a passable representation of the happy, blushing bride. Then some joker shouted out, ‘Kiss the bride!’ Inwardly she steeled herself as, with blatant relish, Matthew hastened to oblige.
‘Relax!’ he admonished her under his breath. ‘I’m not going to assault you. Not in front of all these people.’
Olivia smiled a wobbly smile. The truth was that she really had nothing to complain about—at least as far as Matthew’s conduct was concerned. Right from the start of this nerve-racking day, he had treated her with perfect chivalry and consideration.
‘Darling, you look beautiful,’ he had told her before the ceremony, admiring with his eyes the ivory silk suit she had grudgingly splashed out on for the occasion. And though she had known that the gallant remark, along with the accompanying affectionate peck, had been for the benefit of the guests assembled in the flower-festooned register office, she had found his relaxed and easy composure immensely reassuring somehow. The whole wretched business was a ridiculous travesty, but at least he was enabling them to get through it with an outward patina of dignity.
The ceremony itself had been awesomely real.
In the course of the previous, almost entirely sleepless night, Olivia had convinced herself that the only way to get through it would be by simply switching off. Somehow she would just have to let the whole thing wash over her.
In the event, that had proved impossible to do. Though her surroundings had registered as no more than a blur—as had the faces of the couple of dozen or so guests, most of them friends of Matthew’s—the simple but undeniably significant little ceremony and the promises she and Matthew had repeated in turn were awesomely, heartrendingly vivid, etched in sharp relief on her brain.
Real too—too real for comfort—had been the powerful physical presence of the tall, dark-suited man at her side. As he had reached out to take her hand—his touch firm, soft and warm—to slide the narrow gold band on to her finger, she had felt the breath catch in her throat and her heart had seemed to stand still in her breast. At the cool, metallic feel of that golden hoop against her skin, it was as though the enormity of what she was doing had suddenly come home to her.
‘Forgive me,’ she had whispered soundlessly to some invisible confessor. Then she had closed her eyes, her heartbeat quickening, as Matthew bent to seal the false vows with an equally false kiss.
Afterwards they had driven to his London flat overlooking Regent’s Park for a champagne and caviare reception, then stood together, side by side, while flashbulbs popped and guests lined up to offer their felicitations. Felicitations whose evident sincerity had made Olivia squirm inside— though one set, she had detected without too much difficulty, had most definitely not come from the heart.
‘I’d like to wish you both all the best.’ From the crowd, a blonde-haired figure in striking scarlet had stepped forward and turned on Olivia a pair of lavishly made-up, wide grey eyes whose cold expression belied the warmth of her words. One person who, quite clearly, was far from enamoured by this hasty union was Matthew’s secretary, the geisha-like Celine.
Her fingers were cool, barely making contact with Olivia’s as they shook hands. Then, with an ambiguous expression, she turned to Matthew and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Congratulations, Mr Jordan,’ she purred. She paused to shoot Olivia a sideways glance. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I kiss the groom?’
‘Not at all.’ Do anything you like with him, Olivia added mentally to herself, almost wishing it would not have been improper to make the suggestion out loud. No doubt Matthew would do that for her, she reassured herself, secretly glad to see that he had evidently not broken all bonds with the girl. The more time he spent in the company of the delectable Celine, the less time he would have to bother her.
But it was to Olivia that he was turning now as he stole a quick glance at his watch. ‘It’s time we thought about leaving. We have a plane to catch.’
Olivia frowned, recalling the way he had sprung his secret plans on her earlier this morning, on her arrival from Chester. ‘I hope you’ve brought your passport with you. I’ve booked us a week in Paris.’
‘Paris?’ She’d gaped at him.
‘Where better for a honeymoon than the most romantic city in the world?’
‘A honeymoon?’ The very notion was ridiculous—and, what was more, faintly appalling. ‘What do we want a honeymoon for?’ she had protested. ‘This isn’t even going to be a proper marriage!’
Dark hazel eyes had glinted at her from behind thick black lashes. ‘You and I know that, my dear Olivia, but the rest of the world is under the impression that this marriage of ours is perfectly regular. For reasons I’ve already explained, I think it’s best that they go on thinking that way. Besides…’ he threw her a smile, ‘is the prospect of a week in Paris really so unappealing?’
Olivia could never have thought she would ever say it, but, quite truthfully, she answered, ‘Yes.’ Though it was not the prospect of Paris itself, rather the company, that lacked appeal.
And now it was time they were on their way. They were booked on the five o’clock flight and it was already after three. To a boisterous send-off of confetti and rice, they made their way down into the street where Matthew’s midnight-blue chauffeured Rolls was waiting.
‘Come, Olivia, your carriage awaits.’ Playing one final scene to the gallery of photographers, he swept her up into his arms and deposited her bodily inside. And, as he climbed in behind her, Olivia couldn’t help quietly congratulating him to herself. He performed his phoney role of loving newly-wed so well. Such a consummate and convincing actor. A fake right down to his fingertips!
To her relief, however, he dropped the act as soon as they were away from their guests. On the journey to Heathrow Airport and for most of the flight itself he seemed to be in a quiet, reflective frame of mind. No doubt, in his heart of hearts, he was looking forward to the months ahead with no more relish than she was herself.
A
s the stewardess brought them a mid-air snack—served on fine white, first-class porcelain, so different from the economy-class plastic to which Olivia was accustomed—she stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye. He was, after all, just as much a victim of circumstance as she.
He caught her looking. ‘Is everything OK?’
As OK as could be expected in the circumstances. Olivia nodded and answered formally, ‘Yes, thank you, quite OK.’
Matthew smiled. ‘One down and only a hundred and seventy-nine to go.’
Olivia frowned, uncomprehending. ‘One what?’ she enquired testily, suspecting in the obtuse remark some secret joke at her expense. ‘A hundred and seventy-nine what to go?’
Deliberately he held her eyes. ‘Days,’ he told her. ‘Of wedded bliss.’
She grimaced across at him, feeling a sudden sharp plummet of alarm. ‘You mean our business contract,’ she corrected him, her voice and her expression pure, untempered steel.
‘My dear Olivia, you’re so unromantic!’ He threw her one of his mocking smiles. ‘I can see that our little Parisian sojourn is going to be completely wasted on you.’
Olivia stared back levelly at him. ‘Totally,’ she agreed. ‘If this so-called honeymoon was really necessary, you could have saved yourself some money and settled for Bognor Regis, as far as I’m concerned.’
Though that wasn’t strictly true, she privately conceded as they disembarked at the French capital’s elegant Charles de Gaulle Airport and made their way by taxi to the very heart of the ancient city. It was years since Olivia had last visited Paris. She had been barely eighteen when she and Richard had come here on holiday with their parents, and she remembered it as a grandly stylish and rather magical place.
In spite of herself, she pressed against the taxi window now, her excitement growing as they made their way through the hectic evening traffic, round the floodlit Arc de Triomphe, then down the wide, tree-lined Champs Élysées, thronged with boulevard cafes and expensive shops and chic promenading Parisians.
Next thing, she heard Matthew murmur, ‘We’re here,’ as they turned into the forecourt of the city’s most famous and exclusive hotel.
‘Nothing but the best, I see,’ she said cuttingly to cover her awe.
He merely smiled that infuriating smile as he leaned across her to open up the door. ‘But of course,’ he answered. ‘Nothing but the best for my bride.’
Olivia avoided looking at him as she climbed out, reluctant to let him see just how much his banter got to her. For she knew he was only doing it to annoy her. This ‘my bride’ routine was just his way of amusing himself at her expense.
As a man in hotel uniform came hurrying down the steps to gather up their bags, she took a deep breath and composed herself. She must try not to let him upset her and never allow him to gain the upper hand. Otherwise the next six months could prove to be a living hell.
Once more gallant, Matthew took her arm and led her into the enormous foyer—all plush velvet sofas, crystal chandeliers and gigantic gilded mirrors. ‘Have you ever stayed here before?’ he enquired casually, noting how she looked around.
With a wry smile, Olivia shook her head. ‘I had afternoon coffee here once.’ On that holiday with her parents, she remembered Richard, her mother and herself—even on holiday her father had spent little time with them!—passing an agreeable couple of hours spinning out a pot of coffee and a couple of slices of gateau that had cost more than a three-course meal in Chester, while, as her mother had put it, they had watched ‘how the other half lives’. At the time it had never crossed Olivia’s mind that one day, even very temporarily, she might belong to that privileged ‘other half’.
Inwardly, she sighed. What a pity that her sudden elevation in life had been made under duress, and at the hands of a man she so devoutly disliked.
Feeling the knot in her stomach tighten, she stood to one side, but within hearing distance, as Matthew crossed to the reception desk. This was the moment of truth she had been dreading, when the details of a somewhat crucial subject that she hadn’t so far dared to raise would finally be revealed to her. Namely, their sleeping arrangements for the next seven nights. In spite of this embarrassing masquerade as newly-weds, surely he had had the good taste to book them into separate rooms?
To her sudden acute distress, it appeared that he had not. An apprehensive chill crept through her bones as she heard the desk clerk politely acknowledge him. ‘Ah, bienvenu, Monsieur Jordan!’ Then, with a discreet smile and a glance in her own direction, he added in English, ‘The garçon will show you to the bridal suite.’
Olivia’s heart dropped to her shoes. The bridal suite, indeed! Hadn’t Matthew taken the joke far enough?
Deliberately, she kept her eyes from his face as he took her arm and steered her across the huge marble hall to where the uniformed boy was waiting by the lifts. And all the way up she stared at the floor, carefully keeping her anger in check. Inside, she was boiling. How dared he subject her to this charade?
At last, at the end of a plushly carpeted corridor, they reached the gilded door of the bridal suite. ‘Madame… monsieur …’ The boy pushed the door open and stood aside.
The room beyond was sumptuous, like something out of a fairy-tale—vast, furnished with exquisite taste in shades of rose and powder-blue. The delicate furniture, Olivia guessed, was probably genuine Louis Quinze, the curtains and draperies sheeny silk, the rugs on the floor priceless Chinese.
But what totally dominated the entire room and instantly drew her uneasy eye was a draped and swathed four-poster bed that seemed to shimmer beneath the starry chandelier.
A more romantic setting for a honeymoon was scarcely imaginable. What a waste, thought Olivia to herself, that none of it was destined to be put to the use that its designers had intended.
The uniformed boy was showing them round, pushing open the door of the equally opulent adjoining bathroom with its solid gold fittings, sunken bath and separate jacuzzi.
‘Et le salon.’ Now he was opening another door and leading them into the room beyond—a large sitting-room, comfortably furnished with a sofa and armchairs and a mahogany writing-desk in one corner.
At this revelation, Olivia felt some of her tension slacken. So there were two quite separate rooms, after all. It looked as though she had misjudged him. He had evidently taken a suite for the sake of appearances, knowing that, in fact, it would suit their purposes very well. The silk brocade-upholstered sofa looked positively spartan when compared with the bed in the room next door, but no doubt it would be adequately comfortable. She allowed herself a sigh of relief. He had almost certainly slept on worse in his time.
With a bow and a fifty-franc tip, the boy was taking his leave of them. ‘Merci, monsieur. Madame. Bonsoir.’ With a final bow, he closed the door.
‘Alone at last!’ With one of those amused, faintly mocking smiles that Olivia was growing to know so well, Matthew turned to look at her. ‘Shall we unpack and order something from room service, or would you prefer to go out for a meal?’
Automatically, Olivia glanced at her watch, aware that she was both hungry and tired. It was just after nine. After all the excitement and upheaval of the day, not to mention her previous sleepless night, she didn’t much feel like going out. ‘I’d be quite happy to eat here,’ she replied, stifling a yawn. Then go straight to bed, she added to herself, preferring not to express the sentiment aloud lest it come out sounding ambiguous. Let there be no ambiguity whatsoever on that particular point.
‘Precisely my feelings.’ Matthew was peeling off his jacket and tossing it on to a chair. He crossed to where the porter had laid their cases, unzipped his and quickly began unpacking his things and hanging them in the wardrobe. Aware of her eyes watching him, he glanced round at her over his shoulder. ‘This is your job,’ he told her with an ambiguous smile, ‘but, just this once, I’ll let you off.’
‘My job?’
‘It’s a wife’s job to unpack for her husband. Don
’t you know about things like that?’
‘No, I don’t, as a matter of fact.’ Though the truth was, she had learned—and rejected—such habits from childhood, from her mother. And she had no intention of back-tracking now. Matthew Jordan might be used to grovelling women, but she would never play the geisha for him. ‘There’s one thing we should get straight right from the very start,’ she told him in a clipped and hostile voice. ‘I will not be performing any wifely duties for you at any time over the next six months.’
Her rebuke was water off a duck’s back. He finished unpacking and tossed her a smile. ‘However, to make up for the disappointment of not unpacking for me, I’ll leave you to order dinner for us. I’m off to have a shower.’ He paused and handed her the room-service menu that stood propped on the dressing-table to one side. ‘I’ll have the steak au poivre. That’s always excellent here. And some of their goose liver pate to start. And order a bottle of their best Pommard—if that’s to your taste.’
He threw her a deliberately aggravating wink as he headed towards the bathroom door. ‘You choose anything you like. Do you think you can manage that?’
Olivia almost threw the menu after him as the bathroom door closed behind him with a click. Of all the arrogant, overbearing, insufferable individuals! Exasperation rendered her almost speechless as, very slowly, she counted up to ten. Still, look on the bright side, she consoled herself. Think how much more dreadful things would be if you were really, seriously married to him. For life. She shuddered at the thought. Pity the poor woman who ever ended up having to contemplate such a fate!
She flicked through the impressive room-service menu and decided to go along with Matthew’s choice. A nice big juicy steak was precisely what she felt like right now. Since she couldn’t sink her teeth into him, it would make a passable substitute!
She had just laid down the phone and was setting about unpacking her own few things when the bathroom door opened and Matthew emerged, clad only in the hotel’s monogrammed white towelling robe, the clothes he had been wearing earlier draped casually over one arm. With the sureness of one who is used to spending a great deal of time in top-class hotels, he crossed to a drawer and pulled out a plastic laundry bag into which he deposited shirt, underwear and socks.
Bride for a Price Page 6