Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  From Back Cover…

  Desperation forced Miranda to encamp for the night in Jason Steele's luxurious office suite; unfortunately he returned unexpectedly and found her there—and was far from pleased! In fact, after the unholy row that ensued she certainly never dreamed that in spite of everything, in a few short months she would be his wife. For Jason Steele was reputed to be a rake where women were concerned, and he never made any secret of the fact that he preferred an affair to marriage every time. So what chance was there of lasting happiness for Miranda with a man who professed to scorn 'a scared little innocent straight out of a Victorian sermon'? And besides, there was the shadow of Lissa…

  Miranda's Marriage

  by

  Margery Hilton

  CHAPTER ONE

  For the second time in the space of twenty minutes the door of number three Byrne Square slammed violently, shattering the peace of the dignified, tree-lined square.

  The door shuddered in its frame, and a little grey tabby cat suspended her face-washing activity to look up reproachfully at the tall, furious man descending the six steps to the pavement. Well tailored grey Dacron brushed her soft fur, and well-shod feet flashed past her small white paws, narrowly missing one of them. Seconds later a third slam, metallic this time, echoed through the air. The wine-red Mercedes pulled away from the kerb, and the little cat blinked, then placidly resumed her toilet; strange how easily human beings lost their tempers.

  Jason Steele wove into the traffic stream and considered that he had every reason to lose his temper. He'd been made to look an all-time fool. He'd wasted time, he'd lost the few shreds remaining to him of trust in human nature, and he'd been too blind and besotted and idiotic to see it—to say nothing of what he'd spent on the bitch. Worst of all, he'd been used.

  Women!

  Jason narrowly missed the red Scimitar that shot out of a concealed turning and swore under his breath. He was through with women. Women with hearts of steel and grasping little minds hidden by innocent faces and soft yielding bodies. About as soft and innocent as a rattlesnake. Never again! He'd said it before, but this time he meant it. Twice in his life he'd been fooled by a woman. This time he'd got the message.

  Three sets of traffic lights in succession baulked him, and at the third frustrating hold-up he groaned aloud. God! He wanted a drink, and the honest-to-God company of men. At least you knew where you were with a man—and with a man you could hit back… His grip tightened on the wheel until his knuckles gleamed white. He could strangle Mike Frears; his own second in command, a man he'd trusted. And all this time he and Catrina…

  After a couple of stiff drinks Jason felt calmer but no less acid of temper. He came out into the night, glanced up at the clouded sky and then at his watch to find that it was still not long after eight, and on a sudden impulse he decided to drive round by the office and pick up his notes on the new collateral agreement with Strangco.

  His evening was ruined anyway; none of his cronies had been in the Gresham tonight and his appetite had deserted him. He might as well salvage something of the night, and he had enough work awaiting him in all conscience. Squiring the Catrinas of this world was a demanding business, and he'd paid too much heed to her demands these last few weeks and too little to the mounting pressures of the pile on his desk.

  The head office of Carona-Steele were housed in a glass and concrete tower of some twenty-four storeys overlooking the Thames near Blackfriars. A dim light in the reception foyer and an isolated gleam high up the dark side hinted that the building was not quite so deserted as it seemed when Jason parked the car and strode across the forecourt.

  The last of the cleaners was just leaving. She gave him a curious look as she passed him, turning up a tired, work-worn face which nevertheless registered instant recognition. Jason ignored the look and spoke briefly to the night guard who had appeared from a small side door. The big Alsatian dog at the man's side also stared at the tall man striding across to the lift, the slight lift of his sagacious head also betraying curiosity and no trace of awe because Jason Steele at thirty-seven headed the British division of a multi-million international combine and was reputed to be as ruthless as he was brilliant.

  The lift doors opened silently and Jason stepped through, to be borne up to his suite on the twenty-first floor. He stepped out on to carpet thick enough to deaden the heaviest of foot­steps, then halted abruptly, instantly aware of two things. First, a warning instinct told him all was not as it should be; secondly, that the isolated light he had noticed from below was coming from his own suite.

  He frowned. It was known he was in the building—the master and pilot switches would not be in operation, but there certainly should not be any light within his inner office. It was little over a couple of hours since he'd left it, and he'd certainly not been guilty of leaving any lights on.

  His mouth grim, Jason did not flick down the switch near the lift entrance. He walked silently across the dim reception room, the white chink under the far door seeming to grow brighter as his eyes became attuned to the dimness, and after the briefest of pauses threw open the door.

  At his first swift glance the spacious office appeared empty. But the audible gasp proved this appearance to be false.

  Jason advanced, his hand reaching out for the alarm bell. 'Come out,' he said grimly. 'I know you're—'

  Sheer surprise clipped his demand and stayed his finger over the bell. He stared at the head rising above the back of the deep white leather armchair and gasped.

  Two wide terrified eyes stared back at him, and two small hands clutched the back of the chair so tightly they made deep indentations in the leather. The girl's mouth rounded, a further expression of horror, and trembled, as though trying to utter some response, but all that came was a second gasp, small and choked and inarticulate.

  Jason recovered first. Three peremptory strides took him as far as the chair. The girl shrank back from his anger and tried to evade his grasp. She was half kneeling, half crouched in the depths of the chair, and he caught her arm, yanking her un-gently to her feet.

  'Who the devil are you?'

  The girl's soft lips parted. She seemed frozen with shock. Jason's grip tightened. He shook her without realizing what he was doing as he demanded: 'What the hell are you doing in here?'

  'I—I—' She licked dry lips. 'Don't you know me, Mr. Steele?' she quavered. 'I work here.'

  'Not in here, you don't.' His grip slackened, but his stare was icy. 'There are some five hundred employees in this section, maybe more,' he said sardonically. 'I've never had the time to make the acquaintance of all of them.'

  She rubbed at the marks already welling on her arm where his fingers had bitten into the delicate skin. 'I realize that,' she said unsteadily, 'I'm sorry if I startled you, Mr. Steele.'

  He saw the small convulsive movement in her throat as she swallowed, but his gaze did not soften. He went to the drinks cabinet and took out a glass. As he splashed soda into the bour­bon he said grimly: 'Well, I'm waiting for your explanation, Miss—Miss whatever your name is.'

  There was a pause. Jason raised the glass to his lips and watched her over the rim. Several suspicions, none of them particularly pleasant, occurred to him, and he frowned. 'Making it up?' he accused. 'Or would you prefer to wait for the police?'

  'Oh no!' she gasped, and took a step forward. 'It's Meake,' she said in a resigned voice. 'Miranda Rose Meake.'

  'Miranda Rose Meake!' Glass in hand, he almost choked. 'Oh, come off it, darling! You've got to be making it up.'

  'It's true! It is my name,' she protested.

  Jason's mouth curved sardonically. Yes, it must be. For who, outside the entertainment profession, would concoct a name like that? Miranda Rose Meake�
� If only parents realized… he checked his speculation, his glance turning from her to register various other oddities that defiled the aesthetic taste of his luxuriously furnished burgundy and white office. A suede shoulder bag lay on the floor beside the burgundy and white hide settee, an open shopping bag lay against the arm, spilling, among other things, a dark blue scarf and a—yes, a small and decidedly intimate article of feminine underwear.

  Jason expelled a heavy breath and passed on with disfavour to the array on his otherwise immaculate desk. A paper package that appeared to hold sandwiches and a half eaten pie, an opened carton of milk, a bar of chocolate, a torch, and a paper­back edition of one of Iris Murdoch's novels.

  The pressure of anger swelled in his chest. He returned a chill glance to her. 'I'm waiting for an explanation, Miss Meake.'

  She took a quivering breath. 'It—it's difficult to explain.'

  'These things usually are.'

  Her thin shoulders seemed to brace themselves defensively. 'I know it—all this,' she gave a despairing little gesture, 'must look awful, and you must have got—' Suddenly she saw the betraying bag and bent feverishly over the settee, scooping things off the white cushion and back into the bag. She straight­ened. 'I'm terribly sorry if you got a shock when you walked in and found—it must have—' She seemed to have difficulty in going on and turned away from his dark, accusing stare.

  He said cruelly, 'Tears will cut no ice with me. Now listen, I intend to have an explanation of this unwarranted intrusion before I give myself the pleasure of firing you personally and throwing you out of the building, along with all the junk you had the effrontery to bring in with you.' His voice rose. 'The explanation's beginning to look pretty obvious. Who else were you planning to smuggle in? A nice little party. Or your per­sonal hippy commune? Pity I had to come back and spoil your little game. Or is there a more sinister motive involved?' His eyes darkened. 'Perhaps I got here just in time. I can see I shall have to inquire into the security measures here before—'

  His flow of tirade checked. She was no longer making any attempt to hide the trembling of her shoulders and the tears spilling down her cheeks. Her mouth worked tremulously, choking her words as she whispered: 'I'm sorry, Mr. Steele. It was unpardonable, I know. If only I could make you under­stand, but—'

  She shook her head, starting to gather up the pathetic little packages of sandwiches and chocolate. She stuffed them blindly into the bag and looked helplessly at the carton of milk. She picked it up, then set it down again, giving the same little despairing shake of her head, and snatched at a dark blue suede jacket lying on the other chair. 'I'm sorry,' she repeated. 'I—I can only say that none of your fears are true. I don't come from a hippy commune, and I didn't come to steal—you can search my things if you don't believe me—and I quite under­stand that you have every reason to be angry—but I'll go now and—'

  'No!' He barred her way to the door.

  She stopped short and looked up at him. Her long silky lashes sparkled with tears and the bruises of weeping were already painting their dark smudges under her eyes.

  She said, 'Let me go, please. I can't do more than apolo­gize.'

  'Just a minute. I'm not through yet.' Almost without real­izing it he had seized her arm. 'Is that all you can say?'

  Imperceptibly, a change had come into her expression. 'What do you expect me to say?' she said flatly.

  'You might make a slightly more convincing explanation.'

  She sighed. 'Would you believe it? Even if you were pre­pared to listen without heaping up more accusations?'

  'Why, you insolent little minx!' There was bluster in his voice, yet it sounded forced in his own ears. A new sense was troubling him, something vaguely like shame, and the un­welcome realization that he had vented the full spleen of his anger on her. But he had given her a chance to defend herself. Damn it! He'd asked her, hadn't he? Grudgingly, he said, 'I'm listening.'

  She took a deep breath and upturned her face to meet his accusing stare. She had regained a measure of control now, and although her eyes still swam with unshed tears her mouth was taut and there was an unconscious air of dignity about the poised head.

  'Please let go—you're hurting my arm,' she said quietly.

  In some way the balance had swayed. He had become the one ill at ease and it was a sensation both foreign and displeasing. He said ungraciously: 'I didn't intend to. But why the devil did you give me such a hell of a shock?'

  'I never meant to. I've told you. If I'd known you were coming back tonight I'd have thought of something else. But I never expected…'

  'Thought of what?' He frowned. 'An alternative to what?'

  She sighed. 'I suppose I'll have to tell you, or you'll never believe me. You've fired me, anyway, so it can't make things any worse. I was going to spend the night here.'

  'Here?' He was flabbergasted. 'In my office?'

  She nodded.

  'But what on earth for?'

  'Why does a person spend the night anywhere?' she said ironically, and answered her own rhetoric: 'Because spending it on the street isn't much fun.'

  His eyes betrayed his amazement. 'Have you no home?'

  She smiled faintly at his incredulous expression. 'I share a flat with three other girls. I suppose one could call it home.'

  'Then why aren't you there tonight?'

  Her glance fell and she turned her head away. 'Can't I say a kind of—of emergency prevented me, and leave it at that?'

  'Illness?'

  There was no confirmatory movement of the averted head and Jason experienced a flash of unease he could not explain. He said sharply: 'Are you in trouble of some kind?'

  'No—at least,' her mouth twisted wryly, 'not if you don't count this.'

  Jason walked impatiently to the desk and swung round. 'Then why? Quite frankly, you're not making sense.'

  'I know.' Unexpectedly, she came towards him and faced him with unconscious appeal in her direct gaze. 'But I doubt if you'd understand if I did tell you the truth. Can't you believe me, that I didn't come to steal? That all I wanted was shelter for the night?'

  He did not respond instantly, and she made a despairing little gesture that somehow encompassed herself and the luxur­ious fittings in the big room. It was as though she implored him to refute his suspicions, and despite himself Jason felt that odd sense of shame again. His glance flickered to the gaudy plastic shopping bag and he remembered the innocuous little collection he had glimpsed, intimate and innocent… He gave a brusque gesture. 'There isn't a great deal here, except office equipment. Nor have I levelled that specific accusation.'

  'Not in so many words,' she said quietly, and he saw her glance travel across his desk, itemizing the silver desk lighter, a couple of rather expensive pens in an onyx holder, and the ostentatious crystal and gold cigarette box which had been Catrina's first and only gift to him. The wide gaze travelled on, back to his face.

  'Can't you just accept my apology and let me go?' she asked.

  'Where to?'

  She betrayed surprise at the abrupt question he had asked without thinking. 'Does that matter?'

  'You must have somewhere to go?'

  'That's my worry, isn't it?' She hitched the suede bag strap more firmly on to her shoulder and moved towards the door.

  'Just a minute.'

  The sharp turn of her head betrayed the instant return of alarm. He read defensiveness in the mute compressed line of her lips, yet the slender fingers whitening as they gripped the door edge were strangely defenceless.

  'What makes you so sure I wouldn't understand?' he asked, slowly.

  She looked at him and her eyes were candid. 'You're too angry, and why should you care?'

  Jason gave a sharp exclamation, and suspicion returned to his eyes as he stared at her. Just what did she mean by that? Was she deliberately trying to make him curious? They were all the same; as devious as a politician and as treacherous as a maelstrom. Then he saw beneath the assumed indifference to the w
an weariness that could not be faked. He said: 'Don't you think you owe me the benefit of the doubt, if not an explana­tion?'

  For a long moment she did not move. The play of emotion on her small, mobile features was rapid and easily read: the indecision, doubt, despair, and then resignation as she came to a decision. She stared steadily at a point somewhere over his shoulder as she said slowly: 'I told you; I share a flat with three other girls. I don't know if you've ever experienced living in three small rooms with three other people.'

  She hesitated, and he nodded impatiently.

  'There's very little privacy—none, in fact. It only works out if you're prepared to accept that, and try not to quarrel when it gets so inconvenient you want to scream.'

  Again she hesitated, and he barely suppressed a fresh surge of irritation. Why couldn't she get to the point? So what? It was obvious there'd been a squalling match and her mates had pitched her out, but did she have to take it so damned seriously? His mouth curved ironically: these kids swarmed down into the city, eternally hopeful of the wonderful swinging life they were going to have, and endured conditions that would make their parents blench if they could see them.

  He said, 'Yes, but these things happen all the time. You have to learn to stand on your own feet and not be too hasty. Did they throw you out or did you walk out?'

  She started, and the distant gaze switched abruptly to his face. 'No—it isn't like that at all. You don't understand. It's just for this one night. It wasn't convenient for me to be there tonight.'

  He began to see, and almost laughed. His imagination must be getting senile if he'd forgotten the problems of courtship in a house that wasn't your own. His mind travelled back to the time when he'd spent six months at the Paris branch. When that new kid came over, Suzanne—he'd forgotten her second name—and young Luke Byland had gone berserk over her. Jason grinned to himself at the memory. She'd really led Luke a dance, and every time he got his foot in the door the flatmate was sitting there. A beautiful blonde dragon of a flatmate. Jason had made the hastiest revision ever of his personal plans and agreed to aid the despairing Luke. To take care of the beautiful dragon for that week-end would be a pleasure. It was unfortunate that she happened to have a fiancé, and even more unfortunate that the fiancé happened to be a particularly tough Teutonic type possessed of, among other things, a black belt and a suspicious turn of mind. Jason had bowed out re­gretfully, leaving the despairing Luke to devise other methods of enticing the ewe lamb from under the dragon's wing.