by Jessie Keane
Marcus grabbed her wrist. His eyes opened and stared up into hers.
‘Thought you were asleep,’ said Clara.
‘Nah. I was waiting up. For you.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Listen to that,’ said Marcus.
‘What?’
‘That song. We danced to that at our wedding, remember?’
‘I remember you were so mad at me you nearly snapped my spine in half,’ said Clara.
Marcus yanked her down so that she fell onto him. Clara let out a yell of protest, then laughed.
‘That could be our song,’ said Marcus.
‘It could,’ agreed Clara.
He stared at her with those black, black eyes of his. ‘You’re fucking beautiful,’ he said.
‘You think so?’
‘I do.’
‘As beautiful as – for instance – Paulette?’
‘Paulette’s history,’ said Marcus.
Clara narrowed her eyes at him. Her heart had picked up pace because this had been tormenting her ever since they got married; that he was still keeping Paulette, still seeing her, that she was and would remain his mistress.
‘Is that the truth?’ asked Clara, smoothing her hands over his chest.
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Marcus,’ said Clara. What the hell. Why not say it? ‘I love you.’
Now he was staring at her from inches away. ‘Not just my money?’
‘Not just that, no.’ Even if he was a pauper, she knew it wouldn’t matter to her. She must be going mad, insane, but it was true.
‘Clara.’
‘Hm?’
‘What the hell happened to you? Really?’
Clara sighed. He’d asked her this before, but maybe now she could give an answer.
‘You mean, what made me a money-grubbing golddigger?’ Her smile was ironic. ‘How long have you got?’
‘As long as it takes. Tell me.’
So she told him. About losing everything she’d once held dear, and the slums, and her mother and the birth of the dead baby; and then marrying Frank Hatton to keep her family together, and all that she had believed about Henry, and all that she had missed going on with Bernie, then Toby and his death. By the time she got to that, she was weeping, hard cleansing tears of sorrow and regret.
He stretched and put his arms around her and pulled her closer. When she finally stopped crying he said: ‘My turn now. I fell in love with you when I saw you looking so happy at Frank Hatton’s funeral. Didn’t even recognize the feeling, because you know what? I have never once been in love before. I thought, what a bitch, she’s pleased he’s dead. And then I thought,’ he gave a grin, ‘Wow! Look at the tits on that!’
Clara thumped his chest and had to laugh. Then she gazed at him and felt a hard lump in her throat. ‘You don’t just love me for my money? For the clubs? For all that?’
‘Money is the root of all evil, don’t they say that? I like acquiring the clubs, the thrill of the chase . . . but money? I’ve got enough, even without yours. You know that.’
Clara thought of how hurt she had been when she saw him and Gordon in the office, counting out the cash from her clubs. ‘My body then,’ she said.
‘Oh yeah, that.’ Marcus’s hands slid between them and he grabbed a double handful. ‘That’s a bonus, got to admit it.’
‘Marcus.’
‘What?’
‘Just shut up and kiss me.’
And as Ketty Lester sang on, Marcus happily obeyed.
By Jessie Keane
THE ANNIE CARTER NOVELS
Dirty Game
Black Widow
Scarlet Women
Playing Dead
Ruthless
OTHER NOVELS
Jail Bird
The Make
Nameless
Lawless
Dangerous
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my friends, old and new, to my contacts (you know who you are), to the team at Pan Macmillan, to all my Facebook and Twitter followers – a huge thanks, guys. Onward and upward . . .
First published 2015 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2015 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
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www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-5427-0
Copyright © Jessie Keane 2015
Cover Photo © Colin Thomas
Author Photo © Alexander James
The right of Jessie Keane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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