Christmas Child

by Diana Hamilton

  Lying awake far into the night, he’d thought about it. Come to the inevitable and perfectly correct conclusion that it would be wrong—a positive crime—to force her, through the fear of the consequences, to fail to live up to her potential as a beautiful, desirable woman.

  That she’d failed to listen to his countermanded instructions was evident. He would have to try harder in the reassurance department. Convince her that she had nothing to fear from him.

  But—the thought hit him like an angry sledgehammer. If she could be persuaded to discard the frump additions to her wardrobe and go back to the provocative, then it was inevitable that some man would come along, fall head over heels in lust with her and take her away from him.

  And she’d go—as sure as hens had feathers she’d go. Realising her full female potential went deeper than artfully applied make-up, flirty dresses, new hairstyles. It would make her want what she’d never seemed remotely interested in before—a man in her bed.

  Rage possessed him, it seemed to be burning a hole in his chest, and moments before the final curtain he hussled her out of the theatre and stood on the pavement dragging the cold night air into his lungs. He needed to get her to himself, talk to her, decide whether the idea that was gripping his brain in a vice was viable or not.

  Crassly, he’d believed he could handle his sexual attraction to her; he’d even rescinded his order that she stopped dressing provocatively. But, dammit, he couldn’t handle it.

  So he could seduce her himself, make sure no other man took his wife from him.

  It would be no hardship where he was concerned. Despite his weary distaste for all women, Mattie wasn’t ‘all women’. Mattie was different.

  But would it be a betrayal of her? The essential her?

  He took her elbow, his fingers biting into the soft flesh beneath the thick grey cloth, the muscles of his hand tense. ‘The restaurant’s a five-minute walk away. So let’s get our circulation moving.’

  ‘James—’ Sinkingly, she raked her eyes over his stony profile. Something had made him hopping mad. Boredom with the play? Or teeth-grinding aggravation because he felt he’d been forced into being seen in public with her, wasting a whole evening?

  ‘We could go home,’ she said. ‘There’s no need to eat out, really there isn’t. You were right, we don’t have to pretend. What happens, or doesn’t happen, in our marriage is our business,’ she assured him breathlessly, forced to trot to keep up with his rangy stride, her clumpy shoes slapping the pavement.

  ‘We’re here now.’ He made a conscious effort to relax and felt something melt inside him as he smiled down into her troubled face. He didn’t want her to be troubled; he wanted the poor scrap to be happy.

  But she wasn’t a poor scrap, was she?

  The brisk exercise had painted her cheeks with wild-rose colour, the cold air making her eyes sparkle like golden jewels. And that dull grey suit and the fawn woolly thing she was wearing beneath it didn’t make her any less gorgeous. His eyes had been opened as far as Mattie was concerned and he wanted her.

  But would wanting be enough for her?

  Somehow, this evening, he was going to try to find out. Try to lay the foundation for a future together that was far different from the one they had embarked on.

  His hand slid down to take hers. ‘Let’s eat,’ he said thickly. ‘I’m ravenous.’ Ravenous for her. But would she, could she, feel the same?

  If she did it would be the icing on the no-nonsense cake of their marriage. Nothing was more certain than that.

  He felt her slim fingers curl around his and something fiercely protective twisted inside him. Whatever happened he wouldn’t rush her into something she didn’t feel was right for her.

  They were shown to the table he’d automatically insisted on reserving, a softly lit alcove partially screened from the main body of the classy restaurant by the fronds of sweetly scented jasmine, intertwined with the arching, feathery leaves of a miniature date palm.

  A perfect setting for a romantic dinner for two, Mattie thought miserably. Right down to the white camellias floating in a crystal bowl, the flickering candle, the champagne on ice. He must have ordered it when he’d reserved a table. If she drank any she’d get silly. She couldn’t afford to get silly.

  Somehow she had to convince him that there was no need for all this. What she’d said to him last night was nonsense; she hadn’t thought it through. Pretending they were a loving couple, sharing a candlelit meal was agony because she so desperately wanted it to be true.

  The champagne cork was drawn. Mattie flinched. Glanced at the menu and ordered the first thing her eyes lighted on, and gave him a firm look from behind her lenses when he handed her a flute of the foaming wine and ordered softly, ‘Relax, Mattie.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she promised, not at all sure she could fulfil.

  They were alone now, both waiters gone, alone with soft lights, the seductive scent of jasmine. Alone with her growing need to reach out and touch him…

  She cleared her throat briskly, settled her glasses more firmly on the bridge of her nose, and said with genuine commiseration. ‘You don’t have to put yourself through this kind of charade. I’m sure you must hate it. You were right, I was wrong. We don’t need to pretend.’

  ‘No pretence. I’m enjoying this.’ The beautifully proportioned fingers of one hand were curled around the slender stem of his wineglass, the immaculately cut jacket of his dark suit emphasising the breadth of his shoulders, the grey eyes smoky, the carved line of his mouth made smoulderingly sensual, courtesy of the subdued lighting, she supposed. And he was only saying that for her sake. What had she said the night before?

  Absently, she took a gulp of champagne, and remembered. She’d told him she didn’t want to be sneered at because she was married to a man who didn’t fancy her at all.

  That was why he was pretending to enjoy himself now. For her sake! Her heart lurched and twisted. The effort he was making only made her love him more. How deeply could you love a man who didn’t love you back and still retain your sanity?

  ‘And I want you to enjoy it, too.’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘Enjoy the experience of being out on the town with your husband.’

  But he wasn’t, not truly her husband. But she wanted him to be. Her throat went dry. Why was he looking at her as if she were the only woman in the world for him when nothing could be further from the truth?

  She said, her voice sounding strangled, ‘It’s not really my scene. I feel out of place.’

  ‘Shh—’ He laid a finger over the soft, rose-petal pink of her mouth to silence her, dragged in a charged breath as he felt the silky smoothness, the quivering softness of her lips beneath his touch, and told himself harshly to cool it. There was no rush. None at all. That was what his brain said. His body had other ideas.

  His body had to learn to wait.

  ‘You can fit into any scene you want to be in.’ He replaced his hand on the stem of his wineglass, holding her lovely eyes with his. ‘And there’s no need for either of us to lay down hard and fast rules. Let’s look on our relationship as a voyage of discovery, relax, see where it takes us.’

  It was as far as he could go towards sowing the seed of future intimacy in her mind. As far as he dared go at the moment. With Mattie he would have to tread carefully; she hadn’t the worldly-wise sophistication to be anything other than scared witless if he told her he had changed his mind, that he wanted sex in their marriage on top of everything else.

  He saw the quickening of the pulse that beat at the base of her throat, saw the question that leapt in the translucent gold of her eyes, wondered how best to answer if she gave it voice and inwardly cursed as their first course arrived, breaking the moment.

  And could have beat both fists on the table, scattering dishes to kingdom come when a drift of heavy perfume, the spike of a cut-glass accent invaded their space.

  ‘Darling—I caught a glimpse of you at the theatre and guessed you’d come on here. It’s
what we always did, after Haymarket, one of our special places—you bad thing!’ A tinkling laugh that carried no warmth. ‘I heard the unbelievable rumour. I simply had to find out if it was true—that you actually went and married— Oh, hi, Matilda, so we meet again. What a scream! Goodness, you’ve cut off some of that hair!’

  Mattie felt ill. She was sure her face had turned green. She wanted to hide, fall through the floor. Dressing down, very down, had backfired on her. James would be comparing the two of them and feeling as ill as she was!

  She had only met Fiona Campbell-Blair that one time, when James had brought her to Berrington to introduce her as his fiancée. She’d been the house guest from hell and both Mattie and her father had ended up disliking her intensely.

  But looking at her—tall, elegant, so very beautiful, the pale satin sheath she was wearing showing her voluptuous figure to stunning advantage—she could see why James had wanted her as his wife.

  But she’d jilted him and he’d married on the rebound, got himself landed with a very poor second best.

  Courteously, he’d risen to his feet. Fiona was standing close to him. Too close? Yes, Mattie decided. Much too close. And he was hurting. James never showed his feelings but now his face was tight with some painful emotion, his lithe body tense.

  Bristling, Mattie wanted to slap the other woman. Hard. Why couldn’t the hateful creature leave him in peace to get over her as best he could? Why eat up his features with those hard blue eyes, pout her lips at him as if she were waiting for his kiss? Why rub salt in his still-raw wounds?

  ‘Are you intending to join us? Or do you enjoy standing around so that other people can’t eat?’ Mattie asked with a withering rudeness that was completely alien to her.

  ‘What?’ Fiona gave her a look that conveyed the surprise of a woman who’d just been spoken to by an inanimate piece of furniture. ‘Good Lord, no! I’m with my own party.’ She tipped her blonde head on one side, a half-smile playing round her mouth as she trailed the fingertips of one hand down the stony cheek of the man she’d so cruelly and publicly rejected. ‘Just had to totter over to give my congratulations. I take it they are in order, James?’ Her tone implied the precise opposite. ‘Ciao, darling. Be happy. If you can!’

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE rest of the evening was a wash-out. The food was barely touched and the champagne went flat. Mattie was making uncomfortable small talk and James did his best to respond but knew he was failing miserably.

  ‘I’ll get someone to find us a taxi,’ he said when the silences between the spurts of stilted conversation became distinctly edgy.

  Abruptly, he beckoned their waiter over, asking for the bill. The evening was unsalvageable while his mind was frantically trying to make some sense out of what was happening here.

  He’d learned at an early age that emotions made you vulnerable; they were counter-productive, a waste of time and energy, energy that could be used along much more useful and controllable lines. It was a lesson he’d learned well.

  So why, since Fiona’s interruption, was he in the remorseless grip of what had to be the mother and father of all emotion? It was anger, he recognised. Because Fiona had spoiled the mood of the evening? Because the wretched woman had sunk her barbs into Mattie, hurting her? Couple that with a fierce, gut-wrenching need to protect Mattie from anything and anyone who could hurt her and he was landed with something he was going to have to get his head around.

  Wryly he noted the wash of relief that flooded her expressive features at his ending of the evening that had become so awkward for both of them. He slid his plastic credit card back into his wallet and told her flatly, ‘I’ll be flying out to Jerez tomorrow. The new hotel and leisure complex, remember?’

  The ground work had been done, the deal signed and sealed. His site manager and the firm’s architect could manage perfectly adequately without him; nevertheless, he’d be with them in the company’s Lear jet tomorrow.

  It would give him the necessary time and space to get his head straight, decide whether he and Mattie had a future together. Fiona’s brief intrusion, the unprecedented emotions it had aroused, had turned everything upside down.

  ‘For long?’ Mattie asked, trying not to sound too relieved about it.

  She really did need some time without his forceful presence, time alone to get this feeling of draining misery under control. Before Fiona’s arrival she’d had the distinct feeling that he’d been suggesting that, some day in the future, their marriage could have become a real one, that he could have learned to love her.

  A voyage of discovery, he’d said. It could have led anywhere.

  But she’d been so wrong. He’d only had to see his ex-fiancée again, a reminder of what he’d lost—and a hammering home of what he’d actually got—for his relaxed, warm mood to change to something terse, unfalteringly abstracted. He couldn’t even pretend to be enjoying her company.

  ‘Difficult to say.’ He stood up, moving round to pull out her chair for her, wondering bitterly how he could ever have entertained the thought that he could seduce her, take her to his bed and after that everything would be hunky-dory, uncomplicated.

  Life wasn’t like that, unfortunately. She deserved more than that. And he needed time to look deep inside himself and discover if the emotions he’d always steered well clear of, and had so recently hit him for six, were lasting and true. For both their sakes he had to find the answer to that.

  He watched as Mattie scrabbled about beneath the table for her handbag, whipping the unnecessary disguise of her reading glasses off her nose, dropping them into the bag’s capacious depths. ‘I’ll keep you posted, of course,’ he told her. ‘And if you really don’t want to get back to your work just yet you could fill your time by helping with your father’s move.’

  That could be weeks away! Mattie’s eyes widened with something approaching panic. Was he planning on staying away that long? Why? Because after seeing Fiona again he couldn’t bear to be anywhere near the woman he’d married on the rebound? Was he only now realising what a terrible mistake he’d made?

  If he hadn’t leapt into this ill-considered paper marriage he could have bent his considerable will into the challenge of getting Fiona back. Was that what he was brooding on?

  He’d already left before she surfaced the next morning. The house felt empty without him. She thought about contacting the agency, asking if they had anything for her, but knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate her mind on anything cerebral. She acted on James’ parting advice instead and phoned her father.

  Everything was moving more quickly than they’d dared to hope. The Sussex house had been on the market for less than forty-eight hours before they’d had a firm offer for the full asking price and the apartment near Sloane Square was secured. The formalities had been dealt with very quickly and it wouldn’t be long before they moved to London. So, yes, her help would be much appreciated.

  Helping her father and Mrs Flax—‘Call me Emily’—decide what should go to the apartment, what go to auction, and what should be thrown out, helped take her mind off James’ prolonged absence and the probable reason for it.

  But her father said, making her flinch, ‘If James knew he would be spending this amount of time in Spain—and I honestly don’t see why he should because there’s no problem as far as I know—then he should have taken you with him. It would have gone some way to making up for not giving you a honeymoon.’

  ‘I didn’t want to go,’ Mattie answered quickly. It wasn’t a lie. If he’d offered—and they didn’t need to know he hadn’t—she would have declined. She needed time to accept the fact that she would never take Fiona’s place in his heart and decide whether she had the necessary strength of mind to go on with this charade of a marriage.

  They were sitting in the kitchen, surrounded by packing cases because they’d be moving out tomorrow. And Emily Flax, taking a casserole out of the oven, said comfortably, ‘I agree with you. Home’s the best place to be at this time of
the year unless you’re heading for the opposite side of the globe and the sun.’ She put the heavy dish on the centre of the table and suggested firmly, ‘Edward, I think it’s time, don’t you?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, yes—of course.’ He looked flustered, fiddled with his cutlery. His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. ‘Mattie, Emily and I have something to tell you—’ He dropped his fork.

  ‘You’re getting married. Congratulations!’ she smiled, happy for them, staunchly refusing to be miserable for herself. ‘When?’

  ‘How did you know?’ He retrieved his fork from the floor and straightened, his face red, and Emily said lightly, ‘Women have a nose for these things, isn’t that right, Mattie? And we decided on an April wedding. Paris in spring for a honeymoon. It’s not too far to travel, and there’s so much we both want to see. Could you open the wine, Edward, while I dish up?’ The look they exchanged was nothing short of doting, the sudden shrilling of the wall-mounted phone an unwelcome intrusion.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Mattie said. ‘It’s probably the removal people confirming their time of arrival in the morning.’

  But it wasn’t. It was James. He’d phoned punctiliously, once a week, and as his last call had been two days ago she hadn’t been expecting to hear from him. And she returned to the table a few minutes later, her heart thumping.

  ‘It was James,’ she said. Then took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘He’ll be home in six days’ time, and the day after that we’re flying out to Barbados and staying there for a month. He’s rented a house on one of the small islands, apparently.’

  He hadn’t said why, or told her what was in his mind. Just asked her if her passport was in order, told her to shop for suitable clothes. He’d sounded so matter of fact.

  Mattie resumed her place at the table and let the enthusiastic comments over the belated but romantic honeymoon destination go over her head.