by Liz Fielding
‘Well, I’m very sorry, Noah,’ she said, fuming at the sheer matter-of-factness of the man. ‘I am busy on Thursday. Or had you forgotten that you had arranged for me to shop with Francesca, followed by a tea party, the opening of your exhibition and the little matter of twelve guests for dinner?’
‘No, I hadn’t forgotten.’ And he smiled. He actually smiled.
Not that it was one of those slay-’em-in-the-aisles kind of smiles that he reserved for people he actually liked, that he used to demonstrate just how irresistible he could be when he chose to exert his charm. Oh, no. This smile never reached his eyes at all. It was all mouth and white, even teeth, and for the first time in her life Lizzie understood the urge to wipe the smile from someone’s face.
But before she could do just that he leaned forward, his hands on either side of her caging her against the bench, and she shrank back, desperate to put the maximum distance between them.
‘I’m sure that under the circumstances Francesca will be more than understanding,’ he said softly. ‘You see, the great thing about having the ceremony on Thursday, Elizabeth, is that she and Peter will be back from Stratford. We can... No, you can invite them to be our witnesses.’ He regarded her without compassion. ‘What could be more perfect?’
He was serious. He really meant it. That humourless smile was still in place, but a pair of chilling grey eyes ran alarm bells in her head. She eased herself upright, taking care not to touch him. ‘Don’t you think Fran might just wonder about my lack of enthusiasm?’ she offered carefully. ‘Besides, you’ve the new exhibition opening on Thursday.’
‘News of our wedding will bring the crowds flocking to the gallery, my dear. Everyone will want to meet you.’ He straightened, and Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief as he turned away with a dismissive gesture. ‘I’m sure any lack of enthusiasm on your part will be put down to simple nerves.’
‘Of course. I should have thought of that. Any girl would be nervous marrying a man with your track record.’
‘I’m beginning to find your constant, uninformed reference to my “track record” very irritating, Elizabeth. I’m thirty-one years old, and whilst I may not have lived the life of a monk I’ve done little to be ashamed of.’
‘Marrying me would put that claim severely to the test.’
‘On the contrary,’ he said abruptly.
Lizzie raised her hand to her forehead. ‘“It is a far, far better thing that I do...”’ she quoted dramatically.
‘I wonder if you’ll find it quite so amusing on Thursday morning?’ he enquired, but clearly didn’t expect an answer as he immediately continued, ‘I think we’d better go inside and consider the most appropriate way of breaking the happy news to your father.’
‘There is no appropriate way. And, since I have absolutely no intention of marrying you, it isn’t necessary.’ But she stood up anyway. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Noah, I’m leaving now.’
For a moment he blocked her path, his powerful figure threatening, his eyes leaden in the dying light. Lizzie knew that if he chose to stop her there was nothing she would be able to do about it—except, perhaps, scream, and she didn’t think that would bother him over-much. But she refused to buckle under his relentless gaze and, with an oddly gracious gesture, he stepped aside and allowed her to pass.
She let out a long breath that she was hardly aware she had been holding, but she firmly resisted the temptation to take to her heels and run back to the house. She walked as slowly as her pounding heart would permit, conscious that his eyes were on her every inch of the way. As she let herself into the house she glanced back, and he was standing quite still where she had left him. It was over. She had called his bluff and he had let her go.
Her bag was lying on the hall table where she had left it when she’d answered the phone. Now, determined not to run, not to panic, she opened it, took out her address book and flipped through it until she found the number she was looking for. She punched it into the telephone; it seemed to take for ever before the connection was finally made, but eventually the number began to ring and was quickly answered. She almost shook with relief, leaning against the table as she was swept by a weakness that betrayed the extent of the tension she was under.
‘Sarah,’ she said quickly, interrupting the automatic response of her friend’s name and number. ‘It’s Lizzie. I’m in London and I need a bed for the night...’ But the voice on the other end continued relentlessly with its message.
Lizzie frowned. It was a moment before she realised that she was talking to an answering machine. She replaced the receiver slowly. It didn’t matter, she told herself. She would stay at a hotel. But suddenly she was less confident and, clutching the little book in her hand, she ran up the stairs two at a time.
Angry with herself, she took her time gathering things for her overnight bag, packing neatly. She was a grown woman, not a child to be frightened by the big, bad wolf. There was no way that Noah Jordan could force her to stay in his house. No way he could force her to marry him. She paused briefly as she negotiated the curve of the staircase and saw him in the hall.
He had been using the telephone, and as he saw her he replaced the receiver and watched while she descended the last few steps very slowly, unwilling to confront him. But he made no move to stop her and, gathering her courage, she swept past him without a word.
‘Elizabeth.’
She gripped the doorhandle and immediately felt safer. ‘What is it?’
‘I thought you might need your handbag,’ he said, and held it out to her. She would have liked to consign it to hell, and him with it, but he was right. She wouldn’t get very far without cash or her credit card.
Reluctantly she relinquished the safety of the door and walked towards him, ready for flight should it prove necessary. However, he made no move to detain her. He released the bag into her care and then crossed the hall to open the front door for her.
‘You’re letting me go?’ she asked, somehow not quite believing it.
‘You’ll find you’re on a very short leash, Elizabeth. I’ve put a note with my number in your bag. Call me when you need me.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she snapped.
He smiled slightly. ‘When you come back we’ll discuss the arrangements for the wedding.’ And before she realised what was happening she was on the street, the door closed behind her. In a sudden panic she checked for her purse. It was still there. He had seemed so confident that for a moment she thought that he might have taken it, or her credit card, but everything was intact. With a sigh of relief she walked to the corner and hailed a passing taxi.
The hotel Lizzie chose was large, overflowing with tourists—the sort of place she could be anonymous. The clerk at the reception desk was courteous and helpful. ‘How will you be paying, Miss French?’
‘By credit card.’ At his request she handed it over for verification and he ran it through his machine.
‘There’s a slight delay on the line.’ He gave her a professional smile. ‘If you don’t mind waiting for a moment?’ He turned to deal with a query from a lady standing beside her and then retreated into the office.
‘Excuse me, miss, I wonder if you would mind stepping this way?’ The man at her elbow had eased her away from the desk, and Lizzie frowned as she realised that he was holding her credit card.
‘Is something wrong? I haven’t spent over my limit, have I?’ she said, with a nervous attempt at humour. She had never overspent her limit in her life.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t sort out,’ the man said firmly, ‘in a little more privacy.’ He steered her to a small office tucked away from the reception area, away from the interested glances they were already beginning to attract.
‘Please sit down.’ He was polite enough, but it had been an order. ‘I have to tell you,’ he said once she had complied, ‘that this credit card has been reported stolen. It is company policy under the circumstances to call the police. They will be here shortly.�
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‘Stolen? But that’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Why on earth would it have...’ she faltered ‘... been reported stolen?’ Noah! So this was what he had meant by a short leash.
Noah collected her from the police station two hours later. He had arrived with a senior police officer with whom he was on first-name terms and had vouched for the fact that she was indeed Elizabeth Mary French, and that his report that the credit card had been stolen had been the result of the most unfortunate misunderstanding.
The alternatives had not been attractive. She could have summoned her father from his honeymoon and put him through the unendurable embarrassment of having to bail her out. Or suffered a night in detention. It had been a close decision. It would almost have been worth a night in the police cells to call Noah’s bluff and let him try to justify himself to her father.
Two things had stopped her—the fact that the newspapers, already interested because of his marriage to Olivia, would have had a field-day at her father’s expense, and also because, never rational when angry, he would almost certainly have believed that she had provoked the entire incident simply to embarrass Olivia.
She glanced across at Noah, his profile a black silhouette against the lighter summer-night sky. He had not uttered one word of apology for what he had put her through. Being escorted from the hotel and driven away in a police car. Having to surrender all her possessions, her belt, the laces of her shoes. The sheer bewilderment of insisting that she was Lizzie French and not being believed. And lastly, and almost the worst of it, as she had signed for her belongings, checking them at the sergeant’s insistence against an itemised list, there had been knowing looks from the policemen, who clearly believed that it had been the result of a lover’s tiff that had been taken a little too far and thought it was funny.
Surprisingly Noah had made no conditions for her release, doubtless assuming that it would be unnecessary. He had quite ruthlessly demonstrated that he was prepared to go to any lengths to achieve his end. The fact that she had called him instead of her father was clearly acknowledgement enough, as far as he was concerned, that he had won.
She was almost tempted to let him get away with it. After all, she hadn’t any other more pressing plans for her life. Having Noah Jordan as a husband would make her the envy of every woman she met. He was a catch by any standard she cared to use. He had money, influence and the kind of sexual magnetism that attracted women like iron filings. And, as his wife, she would be in an excellent position to make quite certain that he paid for those two hours when she had been locked up and treated like a common criminal.
But it wouldn’t do. Marriage was a lifetime commitment. Not a weapon to be used for revenge. Noah Jordan would never know just how fortunate he was that she wasn’t the kind of woman he thought her.
‘Go and have a shower, Elizabeth,’ he instructed as he closed the door behind her. ‘You reek of disinfectant.’
‘I’ve had two hours of it; why shouldn’t you suffer a little?’ she demanded.
‘I’ll find out the brand they use and you can inflict it on me later if you insist, but we’re expecting a visitor in twenty minutes. By then I want you wearing a dress and smelling of something more appropriate than Eau de Nick.’
‘Appropriate?’ Her forehead buckled in a frown. ‘For what?’ she asked, turning at the foot of the stairs.
‘For the blushing bride-to-be to choose an engagement ring.’
‘Woolworth’s are doing house calls now?’
‘That’s not very funny,’ he snapped, with uncharacteristic loss of composure.
‘I thought it was pretty good under the circumstances. And since you appear to be intent on a fake wedding there isn’t much point in wasting good money—’
‘The wedding will be real enough, Elizabeth, and so will the ring.’
‘It’s everything else that will be fake—fake vows, fake smiles, fake kisses... And then what?’
‘We’ll discuss the details later,’ he said dismissively, and turned away.
She came back down the stairs and caught his arm. ‘No, we’ll discuss them now. I want to know what you’re getting out of this.’
For a moment he stared down at her. It was a disconcerting inspection, and she withdrew her hand from his sleeve as if stung. Then he shrugged. ‘“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” Or so Olivia never tires of telling me.’
‘Horsefeathers!’
He regarded her with disquieting detachment. ‘Not entirely. And you will at least keep a number of hopeful aspirants at bay.’
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this...’
‘Please don’t make the mistake of thinking that I am not entirely serious.’
No. She wouldn’t do that, she thought. He was clearly in the most deadly earnest. ‘Wouldn’t it make it simpler if love was part of the equation?’ she asked, a little hoarsely.
‘Love...?’ He laid his hand against her cheek. ‘You want love?’
‘No.’ She took a step back, but the newel post blocked her retreat, and suddenly he was far too close.
‘That’s easy.’ And he proceeded to demonstrate just how easy it was as the simple touch of his lips to her neck brought a gasp choking from her throat.
‘Please, Noah.’
He raised his head briefly. ‘You see?’ But he clearly didn’t expect an answer because he was already kissing her—tender, delicate, pleasing little kisses that offered no threat. Not until she realised that she was responding in kind, encouraging him, her arms about his neck, moaning softly as he pulled away. ‘You do see, Elizabeth? Love is just a pretty word to dignify our lusts. A straightforward business arrangement will do me just fine. And if it keeps you out of Francesca’s hair so much the better.’
She wanted to strike him, scratch his eyes out. Instead she turned and ran up the stairs, flinging off clothes that reeked of the police station and Noah Jordan. Standing under a steaming shower, she washed the taste of him away, the imprint of his hands. And all the time Francesca Hallam’s name beat a constant tattoo inside her head.
She was behind all this. What was it about that woman that so absorbed him? Right from the first moment they had met at the wedding he had seemed drawn to her, inviting her to join them that evening when surely the best thing would have been to keep them apart. She would have sworn that they had never met before, and yet...
She would have stayed in her room, locked the door, but she knew there was no point. He would break it down if necessary. She would play this one last game...
Fifteen minutes later she descended to the drawing room, wearing an ivory silk shirt over a pair of soft crêpe trousers in a rich claret. She hadn’t had time to wash her hair, but she was enveloped in an invisible cloud of L’Air du Temps that Peter had bought her from the duty-free when he’d come home last Christmas. It was a very small, ironical gesture that no one would ever know about. But nevertheless, it helped to lift her mouth into a warm smile.
Tomorrow, however, was another day. Tomorrow she would leave his house and never look back.
He was talking to a tiny, grey-haired man, and they both turned and stood up as she entered the drawing room. Noah immediately came towards her, taking both her hands in his, his features arranged in a fair approximation of a smile. ‘There you are, darling.’ He put his arm around her shoulder and drew her over to the sofa to introduce her to the jeweller, who wasted no time in opening a case lined with black velvet to show off the glittering treasure it contained.
‘Diamonds and sapphires, Noah, as you suggested.’ He smiled as Lizzie drew in a sharp breath. ‘You were right, of course. With the colour of the young lady’s eyes... it has to be a blue stone.’
Noah, who had taken up a position behind the sofa, made a gesture at the tray. ‘So, my darling,’ he said, ‘which one will it be?’
Lizzie winced at the ‘darling’, and her eyes swept the tray for something to mak
e him smart a little in return. It wasn’t difficult. An exquisite deep blue rectangular sapphire flanked by smaller, similarly cut diamonds stood out a mile. It had to be the most expensive ring on the tray, and although she had no intention of keeping it, of ever wearing it, Noah wasn’t to know that.
For a while she ignored the ring, trying on one or two of the smaller stones and lifting her hand for Noah’s inspection, teasing him a little. ‘It’s difficult,’ she sighed. ‘They are all so beautiful.’
Noah reached over her shoulder. ‘This one,’ he said, and picked up the ring she had intended from the first. He took her left hand in his and slipped it onto her finger. For just a moment their eyes met, and with the slightest lift of dark, expressive brows he indicated that he knew precisely what she had been doing and wasn’t in the least bit impressed.
Her eyes dropped quickly to the ring. It was a perfect fit, and the blue stone seemed to leap into life against her skin as she held out her hand to admire it. He turned to the jeweller without waiting for her agreement. ‘Did you bring wedding rings, Marcus?’
After the jeweller had gone the house seemed very quiet. ‘Drink?’ Noah asked, pouring himself a whisky.
‘A gin and tonic, please. Plenty of tonic.’
He handed her the glass. ‘I’ve spoken to your father, Elizabeth, and told him about the wedding.’
‘Already?’ she asked, dismayed that he should ever have to learn of this nonsense.
‘I didn’t want there to be any mistake.’
She refused to look at him. It was a complication, but once she had extricated herself from Noah’s clutches she would write and explain. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘I indicated that the wedding was... a formality.’
‘A formality?’ Lizzie asked, puzzled, then understanding brought a scarlet blush to her cheeks. ‘How could you? How could you do that?’ she demanded.
‘With the greatest of difficulty, I can assure you. Telling him that I had been unable to help myself, that I had fallen hopelessly in love with you the moment I first set eyes on you, that I had overborne all your objections and, since we had used no protection, speed was—’