The Price of a Wife

by Helen Brooks

  And then she saw him, deep in conversation with Mr White, and, almost as though the power of her glance had drawn him, he looked up and straight over to where she was standing, and she knew, she just knew, they had been discussing her. But before she could react, think, even, he had moved swiftly across the space separating them and to her side, his dark face cool and blank.

  'Do I take it you are available for that talk now?' he asked quietly with a polite nod at Penny, who nodded back, then made her goodbyes and left.

  'Certainly, Mr Hawkton.' She had to raise her eyes some considerable way to meet the silver-grey gaze, and again the sheer breadth and height of the man sent something hot flickering down her spine, especially when her senses registered a whiff of the most delicious aftershave.

  'Have you finished here?' he asked smoothly, his face quite expressionless.

  'Finished…?' She looked sideways at him. 'I—yes, I've done all I can do—'

  'Good,' he drawled, watching her with narrowed eyes. 'Then we can talk in comfort, perhaps? There is an excellent little Italian restaurant just a stone's throw away, so perhaps you would allow me to take you to dinner?'

  'Dinner?' If he had said he wanted to take her to the moon she couldn't have been more surprised. 'B-but—' Oh, hell, she thought furiously, what was it about this man that made her stutter and stammer like a gawky schoolgirl? She had to pull herself together, and quickly. 'I'm sorry, Mr Hawkton.' She forced a cool smile and tried for the busy-career-woman brush-off that had always been so successful in the past. 'I'm afraid I'm busy tonight—'

  'Rubbish.' It was said so matter-of-factly that for a moment the import of the word didn't register. 'Your able assistant—Penny, isn't it?—told me she had had orders to keep this evening free in case of any disasters here that needed sorting out. Now, I don't think you are the type of boss to tell the minions something like that and not do the same yourself. There are no disasters; you were about to leave… Need I go on?'

  Disasters? If ever a disaster had been facing her this six feet plus of cold steel fitted the bill. 'I really don't think Penny had any right—'

  'You are going to be difficult.' It was a statement, not a question. 'I don't like difficult women, Miss Owens; I don't like them at all,' he drawled slowly, his cool eyes assessing her so thoroughly that she could feel the heat from her skin like a brazier burning from the inside.

  'Don't you, indeed?' Suddenly all the gloss and carefully nurtured aplomb of the last thirteen years took a nosedive. Who on earth did this man think he was anyway? She had never met anyone like him in her life before; he took the word 'arrogance' into another dimension! 'Well, perhaps what you like and don't like are not my problem, Mr Hawkton.' She smiled icily.' And I was being quite genuine when I said I was busy. I have an important meeting tomorrow that I have to prepare for.'

  'And you won't eat tonight?' he asked sardonically.

  'I—' She bit back the hot words that were hovering on her tongue as she noticed one or two interested glances in their direction. Oh, this was ridiculous, crazy. She couldn't remember being put in a position like this since she was in her teens. 'Yes, I'll eat,' she said, with a calm that was purely surface level. 'Probably a sandwich, or something, while I work.'

  'I see.' The silver eyes narrowed still more, and as he crossed his arms, his big chest formidable, she forced her eyes not to waver before his. 'What a daunting female you are,' he drawled thoughtfully. 'Do you frighten away the male population in general, or is it me in particular you have an aversion to?'

  'Don't tell me I've frightened you, Mr Hawkton?' She managed a mocking smile.

  'Oh, I wouldn't,' he assured her with wry amusement. 'In fact just the opposite, my fiery-haired little sprite. You see, I am a stubborn man, perhaps even inflexible and tenacious at times—' he smiled grimly '—and I have a reputation for always getting what I want. That might be a little exaggerated…' the narrowed eyes glinted ominously '…but only a little. And I have never been frightened by anyone, male or female, in my entire life.'

  She could believe it. Oh, she could certainly believe it, she thought silently. Quite why he had caught her on the raw from the very first moment she had seen him she wasn't sure, but she was sure of one thing at least. Everything about him—his demeanour, the big, hard, aggressive male body, the aura of command and contemptuous authority— grated on her like a nail scratching down a metal surface and brought out the worst in her. It was unreasonable and certainly unfriendly but she couldn't help it. She didn't like him. She didn't like this Luke Hawkton at all, and she knew he knew it.

  'Well, perhaps if you would like to tell me what you wanted to talk about?' she asked with studied politeness now, as the silence became so charged it crackled. 'I really do have to get home…'

  'And I wouldn't dream of delaying you, Miss Owens.' He was annoyed. He was trying to hide it behind this mask of cool cynicism, but he was annoyed, she thought, with a moment of satisfaction she was immediately ashamed of. She imagined he didn't have too many women refusing an invitation to dine with him; it was probably a new experience for him and one he clearly didn't relish. 'Another time will do.'

  'It will?' Suddenly, and quite irrationally, she wanted to know what he had been going to say. He wasn't the sort of man who would stage a casual pick-up; she was sure of that—besides which, he had already intimated that he had come to the opening of the gallery knowing she would be here. But how had he known? 'Who are you with?' she asked, with an abruptness she realised bordered on rudeness. 'Here—now?'

  'Here—now?' He repeated her words with an insolent smile that had no warmth in its mocking depths. 'I am alone, as it happens. Does that matter?'

  'But—' She gazed up at him, her creamy skin and dark red hair a wonderful foil for the wide honey-gold eyes with their emerald flecks. 'I sent out the invitations and—and your name wasn't there,' she continued bravely as the silver eyes iced over still more.

  'True…' He clearly had no intention of embroidering on the one word of agreement, and she didn't know quite how to continue without turning it into an accusation. He must have had a special invitation, or been with someone who had, to get past the security set-up, she thought flatly. He must have…mustn't he?

  'Would you like to see my credentials, Miss Owens?' With a little shock of anger she realised he was laughing at her, albeit silently; the gleam in the silver-grey eyes and the slight twist to the hard, firm mouth spoke of definite amusement.

  'I don't think that will be necessary.' She tried for a coolness that didn't quite come off when matched with the fire in her cheeks. 'I'm sure you're bona fide—'

  'How? How are you sure?' His tone was harder now, sharp. 'How do you know I'm not a terrorist, or some other undesirable who has tricked his way into this place? There's a hell of a lot of money on these walls today, after all-several paintings have been borrowed from private collections and are worth a great deal. How do you know I haven't been planning some sort of heist for weeks?'

  'I—' Oh, help—he hadn't, had he? she thought, momentarily panic-stricken, before both the recollection of the security arrangements she had made and her natural common sense reasserted themselves. 'By several things,' she answered calmly as their glances locked and held. 'One, you are wearing one of the little metal tags we had made which are specially coded and numbered against the invitations.' She indicated a small narrow clip-badge on the lapel of his jacket. 'Two, there is only one way in through the front door today; the other door at the back of the gallery is bolted and alarmed and I checked it some time ago. And there are several other security precautions which it wouldn't be advisable for me to reveal that also make it impossible for anyone to gatecrash,' she added primly.

  'Also, I have heard one or two people speak to you by name, so you are clearly known to them.' She hadn't meant to add that bit; it had just sort of slipped out. Now he would think she had been watching him, listening, and that was the last thing she wanted this mass of inflated ego to think, she th
ought irritably.

  'I'm impressed.' The dark head nodded reflectively. 'Yes, I have to say I am quite impressed, Miss Owens. You are all they said and more.'

  'All who said?' she asked quickly as her stomach tensed.

  'Ah, now, that's another story, and you've already indicated your time is precious,' he said lazily. 'I mustn't keep you.'

  The supercilious swine was certainly getting his own back, she thought tightly, but it didn't look as if his interest in her was on a personal level, as she'd thought at first. She waited for a feeling of relief that didn't materialise and put it down to the fact that she still didn't know why he had approached her.

  'Goodbye, Miss Owens. I'm sure we'll meet again soon.'

  He was leaving? And then, before she could do anything about it, he had reached forward and taken her small hand in his, raising her fingers to his lips in a brief salute that nevertheless reacted on her taut nerves like liquid fire as his flesh made contact with hers.

  She was aware that she had snatched her hand away with more vigour than tact at the same time as he straightened, his face expressionless as he looked down into her hot eyes.

  'Daunting…' The murmur was faint, but quivered with a dark amusement that made her want to kick him, hard, although she found herself frozen in front of him as the silver gaze held hers, merely staring up at him with large, expressive eyes. Then he bowed slightly before turning abruptly and leaving the gallery without a backward glance.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Josie found that she was frowning ferociously out of the window the next morning as she travelled to Hammersmith by taxi, a bulging briefcase and a wad of papers at her side on the back seat.

  Luke Hawkton. Hawkton. She should have known the name but she just hadn't connected it with Hawkton Marine—not until she had got home from the gallery the night before, that was. She still remembered the shock of the moment when she had glanced at the data Mike and Andy had thrown at her earlier in the day, and realised she had just given the brush-off to one of the most powerful men in London.

  'Luke Hawkton…' She groaned the name out loud as she twisted in her seat. But who in their right mind would have expected the illustrious head of the Hawkton empire to be at the opening of a small art gallery that he could buy and sell a hundred times over? she asked herself wretchedly. And she had dared to think he was actually interested in her as a person, that he was making a move on her!

  She shut her eyes tightly as she remembered her cavalier treatment which had bordered on rudeness. That would teach her to keep her vivid imagination under control, she told herself bitterly. Oh, wouldn't it just! She'd had the opportunity of a lifetime, to sell both herself and the firm as the best thing since sliced bread, and she'd blown it.

  The data from Mike and Andy stated that Hawkton Marine, one of the interests of the Hawkton empire first created by the present Luke Hawkton's great-grandfather, decades ago, were contemplating a grand-slam publicity extravaganza to launch their new yacht in the South of France later that year and were interested in hearing ideas from several promotions firms—of which they were one. Or had been, she corrected herself miserably, before she had put the proverbial boot in. Mike and Andy would kill her if they ever found out what she'd done. She opened her eyes as the taxi drew up outside the tall building in which Top Promotions was housed and gathered her things together quickly.

  Once she had realised the enormity of her gaffe the evening before she had stayed up most of the night working on ideas for the publicity venture, her conscience searing all thoughts of sleep.

  Mog had decided she was quite mad as she had paced the flat periodically, muttering and mumbling to herself, and he had finally retired, dignity and hauteur severely dented after she had fallen over him twice within as many minutes, to the comparative safety of the large sitting-room balcony, from which Josie had teen quite unable to coax him in spite of the fact that it had begun to rain in the early hours.

  He was clearly disgusted with her and she couldn't blame him, she reflected now as she walked up the wide steps to the building. She was disgusted with herself. How could she have missed such a gift of a chance to get in before their competitors? How could she? She glanced down at the briefcase in her hand, seeing in her mind's eye the photograph of Luke Hawkton that had been included in the data.

  If only she had had time to glance through the information Andy and Mike had given her before she had left for the gallery the day before. But she hadn't. She shook her head as the lift took her swiftly upwards. All the regrets in the world, the sickening disappointment, wouldn't help now. Top Promotions would be the last firm, the very last firm Luke Hawkton would use. Damn! Damn, damn, damn…

  'Josie…' Top Promotions occupied one floor of the large office block and as she left the lift, her small figure clad in a smart white linen suit and pale grey silk blouse that were both businesslike and feminine, she almost collided with Andy as he came shooting out of his office like a bullet out of a gun. 'Thank goodness you're here. Are Mitchell and the others with you?'

  'No.' She stated at the elder of her two bosses in surprise. She had never seen him so agitated before. 'Should they be?'

  'The meeting.' Andy took her arm as he hurried her along the corridor to Mike's slightly larger office. 'I told them eight-thirty sharp. Where the hell are they—?'

  'Andy!' She shook his hand off her elbow at the same time as she came to an abrupt halt and glanced at her watch. 'It's only ten past eight now, for goodness' sake. What on earth is the matter with you this morning? What's happened?'

  'It's Luke Hawkton.' For an awful moment, a breath-stopping moment, she thought Andy was going to tell her that Luke Hawkton had rung up to complain about her, but in the next instant she found her head against Andy's as he thrust his face so close to hers they could have been embracing. 'He's here.'

  'Here?' Josie glanced wildly about the empty corridor. 'Where—?'

  But before she could ask more Andy had taken her arm again and pressed her in front of him, reaching out and opening Mike's door as he urged her forward into the room and almost into Luke Hawkton's arms. He had clearly been standing just behind the door, and her urgent entry, aided by Andy's agitation, brought her to within an inch or two of the big, masculine body she remembered so vividly.

  'Good morning.' The tone was deep and expressionless, but his eyes were wicked as they looked into her face, which she just knew was turning a deep shade of pink. 'You're obviously eager to start work, Miss Owens,' he said silkily.

  'You know each other?' Both Andy and Mike spoke in unison, their faces quite unable to hide their hope at such an unexpected bonus, and Josie found herself struck dumb as she opened her mouth like a tiny stranded goldfish in the middle of a group of sharks.

  'We've met briefly.' Luke Hawkton spoke smoothly and swiftly into the infinitesimal pause. 'I happened to be at the opening of the Duet art gallery yesterday which Miss Owens was overseeing for this firm. My aunt is a great art-collector and had received an invitation.'

  'But you said—' Josie had found her tongue, but not words in any coherent form, and as the silver-grey gaze turned back to her she found herself fighting the urge to turn and run. 'You said, yesterday—'

  'Yes?' The word wasn't encouraging but she couldn't leave it.

  'You said you were at the opening to see me,' she stated breathlessly. 'Yon said that.'

  'And I was.' He eyed her unblinkingly, his mouth twisted in a cold smile. 'This latest project is very near to my heart, Miss Owens—the new yacht. My father died last year and it was he who first started the marine side of the business nearly forty years ago, always having had a great love of boats and water. This yacht was his own baby, if you like, something he had waited to see come to fruition for some time.'

  'Of course, the Hawkton name is second to none in the boat-building business, but this particular yacht is special, both to my family and myself. I want it to be successful-very successful.' His gaze now swept over the three of them
and not one of them could have moved even had they wanted to.

  'I always expect the best, Miss Owens, expect and receive it, and your name cropped up with monotonous regularity in my secretary's investigations regarding the best. Your name along with several others, I might add,' he finished drily, with a glance at Mick and Andy which warned them not to get too confident.

  'I see.' It was all she could manage. She was stunned.

  'And so I did my own investigations on each name and firm I had been given.' His eyes slanted on her pink face. 'And I discovered Top Promotions was owned—partly owned—by an old university friend.' He nodded at Mike, who returned the nod with eager enthusiasm, obviously anxious to make the most of the connection. 'Yesterday you were the last of three possibilities I have narrowed the field down to. The other two are excellent, incidentally…'

  That's right, turn the knife a little more, she thought furiously as she kept her face pleasant with a superhuman effort.

  'And what do you think of her work?' Mike asked earnestly. 'I'm sure you found Josie's reputation was well founded, Luke?'

  'Are you?' The silver eyes were unreadable, which in itself was a warning for the 'old university friend' not to presume on their past acquaintance, and Josie held her breath, waiting for the Sword of Damocles to fall—although she had to admit there was more justification in her case than in that of Damocles, the poor courtier of Dionysius of Syracuse's court, who had had to endure a whole banquet underneath a sword suspended by a single hair, merely to prove his king's point that human life was insecure at best, irrespective of wealth or power.

  The knock on the door in the next instant was an answer from heaven, and she could have kissed Mitchell and Tony as they filed into the room immediately afterwards, necessitating the normal social introductions during which Mike's question was forgotten.