by Helen Brooks
He had taken her in his arms before she had any clear idea of his intentions, his embrace crushing her into him as his mouth took hers in a kiss that was meant to punish and subdue. For a moment the shock of being held by him was overwhelming, the touch and taste of him achingly familiar, and then, as the tempo changed and he began to cover her face in burningly hot kisses that made her limp and fluid beneath his mouth, she strained into him, hardly aware of what she was doing.
How long the embrace continued she didn't know; the magic of his kisses, the sheer sensation that was flowing like fire between them, wiped all coherent thought clean away. She could hear herself moaning his name, and she thought she heard him groan against her throat but then, in the next moment, he had thrust her away from him so violently, she almost fell.
'How can you do that—kiss me back like that—when it doesn't mean a thing?' he snarled bitterly, his eyes blazing. 'Who, what are you, Marianne McBride—or Harding—or whatever it is you call yourself?'
CHAPTER TWO
Marianne had never been more relieved in the whole of her life than she was when a childish whoop of glee sounded from the house behind them, and a small body hurtled over to wind itself round Hudson's legs, drawing away his attention and breaking his furious gaze.
'Abdul, my little friend… ' Hudson immediately became the benevolent uncle figure, bending down to lift the small boy into his arms as he spoke. And almost in the same instant a man and a woman, the former in western dress and the latter in a long, flowing jellaba but without a veil, appeared in the open doorway.
The following minutes of greetings and introductions took them into the house—which was as beautiful inside as out. It was wonderfully cool with its marbled floors and shaded inner courtyard complete with tinkling fountain and huge, leafy palms. Admiring their surroundings and making small talk with their hosts, and their small son, Abdul, eased the tension between her and Hudson.
Idris and his wife, Fatima, didn't appear to think it at all odd that Hudson had brought her along; in fact such was their open-handed hospitality and genuine delight that Marianne began to feel like an old friend, rather than a stranger in their midst.
'Have you known Hudson long?' She was sitting with Fatima on a long, low sofa in a shady part of the courtyard, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice flavoured with limes and lemon. The men had departed to Idris's study to see his new computer set-up, with Abdul still in Hudson's arms.
Idris has known him since they were students together in the States,' Fatima answered quietly. 'But I first met Hudson on the day I married Idris, five years ago.'
'They seem very good friends,' Marianne observed, taking another sip of the deliciously cold drink. 'They're obviously very fond of each other.'
'This is true.' Fatima spoke perfect English with a quaint preciseness that was charming. 'Hudson helped Idris on the death of his first wife—you know Idris was married before?'
Marianne shook her head quickly. 'No, no, I didn't'
'She was killed in an automobile accident,' Fatima said quietly, 'with their two children. The chauffeur also was lolled. It was very hard for Idris, and Hudson—how do you say it?—dropped everything. Idris often says he does not know what he would have done if Hudson had not been there. He stayed with him many weeks. Hudson is a very compassionate man, yes?'
'Yes… ' Compassionate? He might be; she really didn't know, Marianne thought numbly. Their whirlwind romance had lasted almost two months, and from the day they'd met they had barely been apart for more than a few hours. But… she hadn't got to know him—not really—not properly. It had been crazy, unreal—they had been locked into their own little world where everything had been vibrant and vivid and magical, and where one glance, one lingering look, had had the power to send her into the heavens. They had barely talked about their respective pasts, and the future had been nothing more than a rosy dream. It was the present that had been real, and they had known their immediate time together was limited.
Hudson had taken a three-month sabbatical from his law firm and had already used a month of that time before he had met her, and Marianne had had anew job waiting for her in Scotland. But on the night he had asked her to marry him—and she had accepted—she had known she would follow him anywhere. It had made the next few hours all the harder.
'Is it not… ?'
'I'm sorry?' Marianne came to with a jolt to realise Fatima had been speaking and she hadn't heard a word. She blushed hotly, forcing herself to give all her attention to the Moroccan woman.
'I said your job must be very interesting, Marianne.' Fatima was too sensitive and far too well-bred to show open curiosity, but it was clear she was wondering where Marianne fitted into Hudson's life, and after a somewhat cagey conversation Marianne was relieved when the men returned and they all went through to the dining room to eat.
The meal was in traditional Moroccan style—everyone seated on sofas around a low table—and before they ate they were given towels and rose-water in order to wash their right hands—the hand Moroccans used to eat from the communal dishes they favoured. Marianne had heard of the custom, but only having eaten at the hotel—which was distinctly European—had never seen it in action.
She found it fascinating to watch the others reaching into a big bowl of couscous, picking up olives and raisins with three fingers, twirling them round in the creamy mixture and then popping them into their mouths. Normally she would have thoroughly enjoyed the experience—the table was full of mouth-watering dishes that smelt divine—but her stomach was so knotted with nerves, she could barely force anything past the constriction, and each mouthful was an effort of will.
Why had Hudson brought her here? The question was drumming in her head all through the meal and the subsequent conversation over coffee. She hadn't seen him for two years. They both had separate lives now—and if the tall, elegant redhead was anything to go by he hadn't exactly pined away for her, she thought with a touch of bitterness. He must hate her—he did hate her; he'd made that plain—so why bring her to his friend's home and act as though she was with him? Why put them both through such torment?
She didn't understand it and she didn't understand him, but he made her nervous—very nervous. She had never imagined he was a man who would forgive easily, but this—there was no rhyme or reason to it.
It was after eleven when they left Idris and Fatima, and the soft indigo dusk had given way to a black velvet sky pierced through with hundreds upon hundreds of bright, twinkling stars, the darkness perfumed with the heavy, rich scent of magnolia flowers.
It was a beautiful night—romantic, gentle, the full moon silhouetting the eastern horizon of flamboyant mosques and towering minarets with ethereal charm—but Marianne had never felt so tense and nervous in her life. Just sitting beside Hudson made her as jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof, and she knew he sensed her agitation. Sensed it and was satisfied by it.
'You are frightened of me?' The dark, deep voice was silky-soft, but caused her to straighten her backbone as she glanced at the ruthlessly cold profile.
'Of course not,' she lied tightly, her voice cold and even.
'No?' The query was soft, charged with dark emotion.
'No.' She forced her hands, which had been clasped in tight fists on her lap, to relax before she said, her voice as steady and unemotional as she could make it, 'Why? Should I be?'
'Most certainly.' It wasn't the reply she had expected, and as her eyes widened with the shock of it her heart went haywire.
'You walked out on me, Annie, and no one had ever done that to me before. I didn't like it' It was the understatement of the year, and delivered in such an expressionless voice that her blood flowed cold. 'I didn't like it at all.'
'I… ! explained—'
'We had an agreement, Annie.' He continued as though she hadn't spoken. 'An agreement you welshed on. How do you think I should deal with that?' he asked coldly, his eyes on the road in front of them.
She stared at him w
arily, quite unable to gauge anything from the cool mask he could don at will and which proved so formidable in the courtroom. He was formidable, terrifyingly so.
'Now look, Hudson—'
'No, you look!' It was an explosion, hot and acidic, and as she felt herself shrink in the seat it dawned on her that he was furiously angry—that he had been furiously angry from that first moment of meeting her again. The fact that he had been holding the rage in didn't comfort her in the least, merely emphasising, as it did, the almost superhuman power and control he could exert over his emotions when he chose to do so. But the fury was still there, just waiting to escape the iron constraint and devour her, she thought shakily. And it had had two years to simmer and burn.
'You didn't seriously think I would just say hello and goodbye, did you?' he asked coldly. 'You owe me, Marianne McBride-Harding.'
'I owe you?' She was scared to death but she was blowed if he was going to bully her like this, and the sarcastic intonation of her name brought a welcome surge of angry adrenalin to melt the chill his intimidation had wrought on her psyche. 'Think again, Hudson,' she said tightly. 'I owe you nothing and you know it'
'I've thought, Annie, I've thought long and hard,' he grated slowly. 'I've had two years to think, haven't I? Does the current boy wonder know what a cheating little liar you really are? Or are you stringing him along the way you did me?'
'Who… ?' And then she realised. 'Keith? Keith is just my boss—' Keith? He seriously thought she was interested in Keith?
'And I'm Father Christmas,' Hudson said cuttingly.
'You don't believe me?' she asked hotly, aware that he was driving far too fast along the badly lit Moroccan roads but too angry to care. 'You think I'd lie just for the sake of it?'
'You find that surprising?' he rasped scathingly, his lips compressing in one straight, angry line. 'I believed you once, my faithless siren, but never again. This time the old adage once bitten, twice shy holds fast Mind you—' he glanced at her, the movement lightning-fast but savage '—I think even you will be hard pressed to explain where you have been all evening.'
She stared at him, too stunned to reply as a hundred and one thoughts chased themselves through the turmoil of her mind. This had been a calculated exercise on his part, she told herself weakly, a cold-blooded, determined effort to make Keith think—Think what? she asked herself painfully as a sickening flood of desolation and despair washed over her. That she had been with Hudson in the biblical sense of the word—slept with him? Surely even Hudson wouldn't do that… ? 'I shall simply tell him the truth,' she informed him through lips that were beginning to tremble.
'A novel experience for you, I'm sure,' he said mockingly. 'But you don't think he will find it a little… farfetched? You accept a lift from a man you used to know—years ago,' he emphasised with a bitter twist to his lips, 'and then, instead of appearing bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as arranged, you are hours late. And the reason? You went to dinner with friends?' He shook his head slowly. 'Surely even this youthful-looking child will not accept such a story?' he asked with dark satisfaction.
'But it's true,' she protested angrily. 'You know it is.'
'I know it is. Idris and Fatima know it is.' The hard voice was merciless. 'But Keith will believe whatever I want him to believe. I met you by chance. I gave you a lift by chance. How could I have set up an evening such as you will describe?'
'Because… because your friend couldn't go with you to Idris's house, and you saw me and asked… ' Her voice trailed away as he shook his black head slowly, his profile without mercy.
'I came to Tangier alone,' he said softly, 'as the hotel will confirm: You have no proof that there is a friend.'
'But I saw you with people this lunchtime.' In spite of the dire situation she couldn't bring herself to mention the redhead specifically. 'You know you were with—with them.'
'Pure chance.' His smile was without humour. 'Prove otherwise.'
'But you told Idris and Fatima you were bringing someone,' she insisted desperately. 'You arranged it with them.'
'Yes, I did.' A brief pause and then, 'But you do not know their surname, where they live, their telephone number. You will not be able to substantiate your story to the anxious Keith.'
'I shan't need to give proof.' She raised her head proudly. 'Keith will believe me,' she declared firmly.
'A man in love is a jealous man, Annie,' he said coolly. 'And jealous men are not reasonable at the best of times. And this… this will not be the best of times. Keith imagines he loves you.'
'You would lie?' she asked dazedly. 'You'd really do that?'
'Without hesitation.' It was immediate and cold.
'But I've told you, he isn't my boyfriend.' She glared at the imperturbable profile, her eyes fiery. 'It's all in your imagination.'
'Then you have no cause to worry that pretty little head, have you?' he said urbanely. 'All, as they say, is well.'
But it wasn't A picture of Keith's face as it had been that lunchtime was suddenly there in front of her, and snippets of their conversation echoed in her mind. He had told her she wasn't over Hudson, at the same time as making it plain he cared about her. The way he had reacted to Hudson—his attitude towards her—it all confirmed her suspicions that Keith wanted more than just a working relationship.
'Don't ever try to play poker, Annie.' The voice was livid. 'And, as far as I'm concerned, I'm doing the guy a favour. At least he gets a warning, which is far more than I did.'
It's not like that' She had never wanted to hit someone so much in her life. I've told you, Keith and I are just friends.'
'Spare me.'
How could she hate someone, really hate them as she did Hudson at this minute, and yet love them so much it was a physical pain in her heart? Marianne asked herself bleakly as she settled back in her seat helplessly. And yet could she blame him for being like this? What would she have been like if the situation had been reversed and it had been Hudson who had walked out on her after that glorious two months they had shared? She would have wanted to kill him. It had been bad enough for her, knowing she had to go. But him…
She stared miserably through the dark windscreen as the car flashed swiftly through the black Moroccan night, her eyes blind.
She had been so happy when Hudson had asked her to marry him that night—ecstatic, wild with joy… She had known, from the first moment of meeting him, that there would never be anyone else for her, but that he'd felt the same had been too wonderful, too glorious to be true. He was an assured, astute man of the world, powerful, commanding, with a reputation that went before him to oil wheels and pave the way in a manner that had left her breathless. People held him in awe—not just for his wealth and formidable influence, but for the razor-sharp, ruthless intelligence that ravaged those foolish enough to try to deceive him.
He was incorruptible and totally honourable—and that in a profession known for its subtle, and at times doubtful, elucidation of the law. He had his own moral code and he stuck to it—whatever pressure was brought to bear by colleagues or criminals. And he had loved her. It had seemed like a fairy tale, a dream, when he could have had any woman he wanted just by lifting his little finger. Beautiful, sophisticated, experienced women who would know all there was to know about pleasing a man.
She had mentioned Hudson in her letters home to her mother in Scotland, unable to hide her happiness, but had been less than pleased when her mother and stepfather had popped up in France the day before Hudson had asked her to marry him. Not that she hadn't been pleased to see her mother, but her stepfather…
Michael Caxton, an American living and working in Scotland for a big American company, had married her mother after a whirlwind courtship eighteen months before when Marianne had been at university, and from the first moment of meeting him after the marriage she had disliked him. He'd been too handsome, too charming—too much of everything. But her mother had loved him, and, having struggled on her own for five years after the death of Mar
ianne's father, she had seized the chance of happiness with both hands.
So Marianne had kept her reservations to herself on her visits home, maintaining a surface civility whilst praying that her distrust and misgivings were unfounded. But they hadn't been, she reflected flatly.
Michael had still been up when she had got home on the night of Hudson's proposal—her mother, aunt and uncle having long since retired—and she had known somehow, as soon as she'd walked through the door, that his guise of being unable to sleep because of toothache was a lie. His eyes had been too sharp, too cunning.
'Nice evening?' It was deliberately casual.
'Yes, thank you.' She forced a smile whilst hoping she could escape with the minimum of conversation. He scared her.
'Getting on well with Hudson, are you?' he asked smoothly.
'Very well.' She looked straight at Michael then to find the pale blue eyes tight on her face. 'Do you know him?' she asked quietly as some sixth sense sent cold trickles down her spine. This was all about Hudson somehow; she felt it in her bones.
'I know of him.' Michael smiled but it didn't reach the unblinking orbs, and she realised then, as a warning bell began to clang stridently in her brain, that his smiles never did. His eyes were the eyes of a shark—empty, cold, dead… 'Oh, yes, I certainly know of him. He's a one-man vigilante for law and order in the States, an advocate for the all-American way.'
'Well, that's good, surely?' she replied warily, the fierce joy and excitement that had carried her into the house on wings beginning to die. 'We need order and laws, don't we?'
'Probably… for the masses,' Michael drawled slowly. 'Those content to be led all their lives, who want nothing more than a paltry monthly pay cheque that enables them to scrape through to the next month.' It was clear he didn't put himself in that category.
'And you're not like that?' She suddenly would have given the world to step back in time an hour and not be there. She was going to hear something she didn't want to hear; the hairs that were standing up on the back of her neck told her so. 'You're different?'