by Daphne Clair
“I want you, Shannon.”
Shannon stared, the significance of the words sinking in. “You don’t mean…” Surely he wasn’t suggesting what she thought he was.
Devon spoke in that same level, apparently reasonable tone. “I mean exactly what I said. Do you have a problem?”
It was a moment before her voice would work, and when it did it was higher and more shrill than she intended it to be. “Damn right I have a problem! You can’t ask me to agree to that!”
“I can ask you to do anything I please.” He thrust both hands into his pockets and rocked back slightly on his heels, his eyes focused on her face. “I can’t compel you to agree, of course. The choice is entirely yours.”
There are times in a man’s life…
when only seduction will settle old scores!
Pick up our exciting series of revenge-based
romances—they’re recommended and red-hot!
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Daphne Clair
THE MARRIAGE DEBT
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
‘DARLING Shannon! Congratulations. A great little film.’
Shannon Cleary turned from the group she was with to accept an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek. ‘Thanks, Lloyd. I hope you’ll say so in your review.’ Half the country read his column.
‘But of course, darling! I always said you’re one of New Zealand’s most promising young directors.’ His eyes shifted to somewhere beyond her. ‘Excuse me, there’s someone I must see…’ He patted her shoulder and disappeared into the crowd milling about the foyer of Auckland’s trendiest cinema.
Shannon’s escort, a hand at her waist, murmured in her ear, ‘Pretentious little hypodermic.’
Shannon laughed, but the laughter snagged in her throat when a few yards away a dark masculine head turned at the sound, and gleaming obsidian eyes under thick black lashes and resolute brows caught her gaze and held it.
Her own eyes widened and her heart made a weird convolution. Everything seemed suddenly sharper, painfully clear and bright, as if she were looking through a lens being brought into perfect focus.
She was conscious of the babble of voices, of Craig Sloane’s protective arm at her back, of the gilt-framed mirrors on the foyer walls reflecting the colours of women’s dresses, a flash of jewellery, and then a glimpse of her own face stark with shock—lips slightly parted, the green irises of her eyes almost obliterated by the darkened centres as she wrenched her gaze from the man who was looking at her with undiluted attention.
The reflection was blocked out as he moved toward her, and she concentrated on the immaculate white shirt he wore under a perfectly tailored jacket, until he stood in front of her and the well-remembered wine-dark voice said, ‘Shannon…’
Somehow the other people around melted away, all except Craig. His hand tightened on her waist, and she was thankful because her knees were threatening to buckle.
Forcing her expression to a wooden indifference, Shannon dredged up her voice from where it had retreated deep into her lungs. ‘Devin. What are you doing here?’
His brows lifted a fraction. ‘I came to see your film. Your first director’s credit on a full-length feature, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Shannon’s voice was stiff. ‘I hope you enjoyed it.’
Straight black lashes flickered, his glance sharpening as though looking for a hidden meaning. Then he seemed to relax, one hand in a pocket of his trousers. The sculpted mouth moved in the barest semblance of a smile. ‘Very much.’ He paused, moved his appraising gaze to Craig and said coolly, ‘You were good too.’ Craig had filled the lead male role as a young city man lost in the bush and discovering his own inner strengths and weaknesses.
‘He did a superb job.’ Glad of the excuse to look away from Devin, Shannon turned a warm smile on Craig. ‘I’m lucky to have worked with him.’
Craig’s answering white-toothed smile and sparkling blue eyes showed his elated mood. ‘Thanks, hon.’ He bent and kissed her mouth, a friendly peck. ‘That’s mutual.’
Devin’s eyes had gone hard, with the glitter of polished steel. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ he asked Shannon.
‘Craig,’ she said fatalistically, ‘this is Devin.’
‘Hi.’ Craig held out his hand, and after a moment Devin took it in a firm grip.
‘Devin Keynes,’ he said.
‘Keynes?’ Craig looked tentatively impressed.
‘Shannon’s husband.’ Devin threw a lightning glance at her.
‘Ex-husband,’ she immediately corrected.
Craig looked from her to Devin, obviously startled.
Devin ignored him. ‘I don’t recall getting a divorce.’
More sharply than she’d meant to, Shannon reminded him, ‘We’re not married anymore.’
‘The law says we are.’
‘That’s easily fixed.’ She wished she were tall enough not to have to look up to meet his eyes.
‘Do you have plans to remarry?’ he asked her, a deadly mockery lacing his voice.
Shannon hedged. ‘That’s not the point—’
A young woman with spiked flame-red hair and an assortment of rings decorating her ears, nose and eyebrows, bounced up, hugged Shannon and offered more congratulations. ‘I heard you’re doing a feature film of your own next?’
‘I hope to.’ She planned to produce and direct it herself, rather than waiting to be hired again by a bigger production company, but the financial backing she was negotiating had not so far materialised.
‘Good for you. I could be available in about six weeks if you need a production manager.’
‘Thanks,’ Shannon said, ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
Another woman appeared out of the crowd. Sleek, blond, her curvy figure encased in a sheath of shimmering silver. ‘Dev?’ She tucked a hand into Devin’s arm. ‘We’re on our way. The Borlands have invited us to supper.’ She gave Craig a dazzling smile and held out her free hand. ‘I’m Rachelle Todd. I loved you in the film.’
Craig grinned at her and modestly ducked his streaked-blond head.
Rachelle looked inquiringly at Shannon, and Devin introduced them, this time confining himself to names only. Rachelle made a vaguely complimentary comment on her directing skill before urging Devin away to join their party.
‘Ex-husband?’ Craig queried.
‘I don’t talk about it,’ Shannon said shortly. ‘And I don’t suppose he does either.’ It was no real secret, but she’d continued to work under her own name during their marriage, and deliberately not trumpeted her connection with a much more prominent one. The fact that she’d briefly been a member of one of New Zealand’s richest families wasn’t widely known.
‘Touchy subject?’ Craig’s hand squeezed her waist. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t spread it about.’
More people approached them, and Shannon tried to forget the unexpected encounter.
The film was received with mild to almost extravagant praise for the most part, although some reviewers ignored it, and one was scathing about the acting, the direction and the script, throwing Shannon into deep depression for several hours. Then she dug out the positive reviews that had preceded it and cheered herself up by re-reading them.
But the day her last hope for financing her own project fell through, she wanted to curl up in a corner and cry.
Instead she phoned Craig. ‘If y
ou’re offered that TV part you auditioned for,’ she said, ‘you’d better take it.’
‘Someone else got it,’ he told her. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m not going to be able to make A Matter of Honour. At least not this year.’
‘Why?’
‘The money hasn’t come through after all. And I was so sure they couldn’t turn me down this time…’
Craig commiserated. ‘So we’re in the sugar pile.’ He sighed. ‘Tell you what, I’ll come round to your place, we’ll find a pub and drown our sorrows.’
In the event Craig did considerably more ‘drowning’ than Shannon, and leaned heavily on her shoulder as he escorted her somewhat unsteadily back to her tiny flat in the old inner-city suburb of Ponsonby.
Once there she tipped him onto the sofa in the living room where he fell instantly asleep, and Shannon took herself off to the bathroom and then bed.
In the morning she fed him toast and tea, sitting across the kitchen table from him as he squinted at her blearily.
‘How come you don’t look the way I feel?’ he demanded.
Shannon laughed. ‘I didn’t drink as much as you.’
‘We’re in the wrong business, you know that?’
‘You want to become a bank clerk?’
He cast her a look, not bothering to answer but going off on a tangent. ‘Your husband—’
‘Ex.’
‘Your ex-husband,’ Craig amended. ‘Is he one of the Keyneses that own half the printing firms in the country?’
‘His family does,’ Shannon acknowledged. ‘Devin made his own fortune out of digitised printing presses and copiers.’ His company sold them worldwide, and she knew he had interests in several other businesses.
‘Ah—fortune. That’s the operative word.’ Craig wagged a finger at her.
‘What?’ Shannon stared at him, deliberately obtuse. ‘If you’re thinking—’
‘I’m thinking that your husband—ex, whatever—might be a good bet for a backer.’
‘Uh-uh.’ Shannon shook her head.
‘You seem to be on reasonable terms with him.’
‘Brawling in public isn’t Devin’s style,’ nor hers, ‘but he wouldn’t dream of investing in any project of mine.’ She couldn’t imagine why he’d turned up at the premiere. Unless the blond and beautiful Rachelle had dragged him along.
‘Have you asked him?’
‘Of course not! I know he’d say no.’
Craig leaned forward. ‘Sometimes people surprise you. How long since you two separated?’
‘Three years. Why?’
‘People can change a lot in that time. I did hear that someone else is interested in the Duncan Hobbs trial.’
‘Who?’ Shannon demanded, dropping the knife she was using to butter toast. ‘That’s my story!’
‘History is anybody’s, Shan, you can’t copyright it. Jack Peterson’s supposed to be the director they have in mind.’
Peterson’s name was enough to have producers and investors scrambling for a piece of the action. ‘I don’t have a hope now of getting funding this year, and by next year it could be too late, if someone else gets in first.’
‘Why don’t you ask your husband?’ Craig urged. ‘After all, who else do you know with that kind of money?’
No one, of course. She stared back at him helplessly.
He got up from the table. ‘Do you have his number?’
Shannon shook her head. ‘I haven’t spoken to him for years—until the other night. What are you doing?’
He’d opened the telephone book on the shelf below the wall phone. ‘Looking him up.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Maybe.’ Craig’s roving finger stopped in the middle of a page. ‘This should be him.’
‘Craig!’ She pushed back her chair and got up, but he was already dialling.
Even as she snatched the receiver from his hand she heard faintly from the other end a deep, unmistakable voice say, ‘Keynes here.’ And then, ‘Hello?’
‘Go on!’ Craig took her hand and lifted it, pressing the receiver to her ear. ‘Ask him.’
‘Who is this?’ Devin’s voice was suddenly louder, imperative.
‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Shannon.’
She thought he might have cut her off, the silence was so complete. ‘Shannon?’ he said at last. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Craig was still close, trying to hear, only inches from her.
She grimaced at him. ‘Nothing.’ Craig made a fearsome face and growled in his throat.
Shannon couldn’t help laughing, a small, smothered sound. He mouthed ‘Go on!’ at her.
‘Um,’ she said into the phone, ‘I wondered if I could ask you something.’
‘Ask me what?’
When she didn’t immediately answer, her mind scrabbling for sensible words while instinct told her to hang up, Devin said impatiently, ‘I’m on my way to the airport. If this is important—’
‘No,’ she said hastily. ‘I mean, it’s very important to me, but if it’s a bad time…’ Blurting out the request wouldn’t do. He’d simply say no and that would be that. If she could only make him listen to her proposal there might be a slim chance of persuading him.
As she hesitated he said harshly, ‘I have better things to do than join in your games, Shannon.’
‘It isn’t a game!’ Did he think this was fun for her? ‘Maybe we could talk sometime?’ she suggested hurriedly. ‘After you get back from wherever you’re going?’
The line was silent again for a few seconds before he said, ‘Your timing was never all that good. I’ll be back tomorrow.’ He paused again. ‘We could have dinner if you like.’
‘Oh, I…th-thank you.’
Craig hissed, ‘What’s he saying?’
She covered the mouthpiece. ‘He’s inviting me to have dinner with him.’ Removing her hand, she tried to ignore Craig’s frantically nodding head.
Devin sounded markedly cool, but he was saying, ‘I’ll get my secretary to book us a table and I’ll pick you up around seven-thirty.’ He paused a moment, then rattled off her address as if he knew it by heart, ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ she said, mechanically.
‘Now excuse me, or I’ll miss my flight.’
Shannon put the phone down in a daze. ‘I’m seeing him tomorrow night,’ she said.
‘Great!’ Craig grabbed her and planted a light kiss on her lips.
‘He’ll probably laugh in my face, and I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.’
‘Because of my fatal charm!’ He grinned at her. ‘Come on, hon. You never know, he might just say yes after all. And at least you’ll get a decent meal out of it.’
She got rid of Craig as soon as she could, then returned to the phone and began calling up contacts.
There were indeed rumours that another production team was sniffing about what she’d come to consider her story. By the time she prepared to meet Devin she was nervous and increasingly determined to give this idea, mad though it might be, her best shot.
After discarding three possible outfits she settled on faux silk pearl-grey pants and a black satin top with a short beaded jacket over it. Releasing her thick brown hair from its practical tied-back style, she brushed it to a sheen and let it wave about her shoulders.
When the doorbell rang she opened the door to Devin, a black satin bag clutched in her hand.
‘We have plenty of time,’ he told her. ‘Are you going to invite me in?’
Shannon stepped back reluctantly and he joined her in the narrow hallway, looking down at her for a second. His eyes took in the discreet make-up on her eyes and lips, and slipped over the rest of her. ‘Very nice,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ She gestured at the darkened doorway behind him, and switched on the light.
He stopped in the centre of the Belgian rug, looking round with critical eyes.
Shannon had set the overstuffed pumpkin-coloured sofa against a cream wall
that held a collection of funky little mirrors she’d picked up in second-hand shops and hung in a random pattern, each reflecting a tiny piece of the room. One deep armchair was covered in ruby-red fabric, the other in dark forest green. Scatter cushions on the chairs echoed the colours of the patterned rug and gave a touch of luxury.
Devin strolled to a set of shelves and picked up a Venetian glass rooster with an extravagant plumed tail of gold, green and blue tail feathers, and an erect red comb that matched the ruby chair. His hands followed the fluid contours of the glass. ‘You still have it.’
He had given it to her on their honeymoon, when she’d taken a fancy to it in an art shop. ‘I still like it,’ she said. ‘And it goes with the room.’
She recalled picking it up on some confused impulse and putting it with some clothes and books when she’d packed up her things, severed her relationship with Devin. Pulling it out later when she’d furnished her new home she’d wanted to weep, and debated hiding it away. But in some obscure way it had been a comfort during a bleak, lonely time, a tenuous link with a happier past.
Replacing the rooster, Devin turned and surveyed the small room again. His gaze lingered on a large abstract painting, inspecting the vibrant primary colours splashed on the canvas in bold strokes. He moved closer to read the artist’s name. ‘Expensive, isn’t he?’ he queried. ‘Though I could never see quite why.’
‘He gave me a special price.’ She had met the painter at a party in his studio that a friend took her along to, and had bought the painting on sight. She wasn’t surprised that Devin didn’t appreciate her taste. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll have some wine at dinner.’
‘Well then…shall we go?’ He made her nervous, prowling around her home.
She switched off the living room light and he opened the front door for her. ‘Shall I turn off this light?’ he asked, his hand on the hall switch as she passed him in the doorway.
‘No.’ Descending the steps she said, ‘I leave it on when I’m out so I don’t come home to a darkened place.’
‘You live alone?’ He went ahead of her on the path and opened the door of his car, maroon and low-slung but roomy.