Bought: One Husband

by Diana Hamilton

  Not that they’d need her brother’s approval, of course. But he wouldn’t want to alienate a man with all that money!

  And the Studley inheritance came into it. The thought hit her like a dash of icy water. Had he been, in effect, warning her of what would happen when he’d accused her of being too trusting, of not insisting on a pre-nuptial agreement because without one he could take her for all he could get, claim half she owned when they divorced? In spite of what he’d said, the marriage would end when it suited him.

  She stifled a sob, her aching heart telling her it couldn’t be true, clutching at straws. How could he have made love to her with such passion, such tenderness, if he was in love with another woman?

  But she’d seen the two of them with her own eyes, hadn’t she? Had recognised the woman he was with, her brain reminded her cruelly. And he was a man, wasn’t he? A highly sensual man. He’d certainly picked up her sexual response to him, taunted her with it. Why shouldn’t he take advantage of her body while he was waiting for the deeds of Studley to fall into her hands?

  She had to get a grip before she completely went to pieces, stop torturing herself with questions she couldn’t answer. Straightening her wilting spine, she told herself that she’d have the whole thing out with him tonight. He was taking her to dinner, supposedly—if he could tear himself away from Chloe Abbot. With a touch of cynicism she wondered if he would wear the grotty suit he’d worn earlier or that elegant slate-grey number.

  The cynicism was healthy, she decided. It helped. Helped her when she exited the cubicle. Helped when she found Chloe drying her hands under the hot air.

  Rinsing her own hands, Allie watched the other woman walk to the mirrored wall and said conversationally, ‘Do I know you from somewhere? Chloe Abbot, isn’t it?’

  Chloe had a lovely smile. She glanced back into the mirror, raised her left hand to push her cloudy dark hair back from her face. A wide gold band glinted on her wedding finger.

  She’s married! Allie thought with a stab of incredulity. Was Jethro poaching another man’s wife? When he’d talked so affectionately of his rich friend’s sister he hadn’t mentioned that she was married. Or did the scene she’d witnessed back in the restaurant have a viable explanation after all? Had she been thinking terrible things about him for no just reason? Her head began to spin.

  ‘No, I’d have remembered if we had met,’ the other woman said. Again the lovely smile. ‘And it’s Chloe Cole, not Abbot. Not a very euphonious moniker, but I’m stuck with it.’

  It took all the backbone Allie possessed to march out of the room.

  Apart from all the other horrors, she had married a bigamist. There could be no other explanation!

  Frowning, Chloe watched the abrupt departure of the tall, elegantly beautiful blonde. Then, shrugging slightly, she twisted the diamond of her engagement ring back into place. It kept slipping round, the stone digging into her palm. They would have to get the band made smaller.

  Back at their table, Allie re-seated herself and fended off Christa’s ‘What the hell took you so long?’ with the arch of one brow.

  ‘Don’t ask embarrassing questions, darling,’ she said smoothly, then speared a prawn and followed up, ‘What time do you want me for this evening’s do? And where?’

  She felt icily cool now. She had strength. No man would turn her into a lost wreck of a creature, or fill her with the acid of bitterness that would, in the end, ruin her life.

  She had her life; she had her future. She had herself to rely on. She didn’t need more.

  Fran had been right, and all her own earlier instincts had been spot-on. No man could be trusted. They all betrayed you in the end.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EVERYTHING had gone smoothly, Allie assessed coolly. But then, any event organised by that indefatigable fundraiser Madeleine Floyd-Palmer always did.

  Backstage, the usual chaos had reigned. One of the designers had thrown a tantrum, and at one point the principal co-ordinator had threatened to walk out. But, as far as their audience was concerned, the food and wine served at immaculate tables set around the ballroom and the fashion show had been perfect.

  ‘There you go.’ The dresser undid the last of the dozens of tiny silk-covered buttons that ran down the back of the fabulous wedding gown and Allie stepped out of it, was glad to.

  Modelling the beautiful confection, smiling as she did her slow solo walk beneath the softly strobing lights, had put the first dent in the armour she’d assumed since she’d told Christa she would accept this assignment. The dreamy, romantic music had brought a sheen of tears to her eyes, made her think of Jethro, of what might have been.

  Which was an exercise in futility, she told herself now tartly, ignoring the chatter—a lot of it bitchy—as half a dozen models got into their own clothes and endlessly fussed with their hair and make-up.

  They, and the designers, were expected to mingle with the dinner-suited or bejewelled diners back in the ballroom of this prestigious hotel. Dinner over, the stage would be cleared for dancing, and they’d be mingling with the crème de la crème, who had paid through the nose to attend, not only to support a fashionable charity but to be seen to be doing so.

  I’m turning into a cynic, she thought. But then she had every reason to, hadn’t she?

  As the changing room emptied she took the black silk with the daring sequinned top from a garment bag, stepped into it and pulled the zip at the back that cinched the slinky, glittery bodice to her like a second skin.

  She was going to do her duty, mingle and smile. She was going to party. She’d left a note for Jethro, propped up against the telephone. ‘I’m working tonight.’ She hadn’t added sorry, only, ‘Don’t wait up.’

  Because she’d be late. Because she needed to delay the final confrontation for as long as possible. She had to be sure she could handle it with icy dignity. She couldn’t afford to go to pieces, to let him see how badly his treachery had hit her. Her trust, her love, had been shattered. She had to keep her pride intact.

  She placed the suit she’d arrived in in the empty garment bag, stepped into high-heeled black pumps and faced the mirror. Despite the expert make-up her face looked pale, her eyes too big and haunted.

  Suddenly the idea of partying was out. She couldn’t do it. The thought of it made every nerve in her body go tight and painful. Unwilling to change yet again, she hoisted the strap of the garment bag over her shoulder, picked up her purse and made her way to the foyer.

  Pointless to delay the inevitable. The small dent occasioned by wearing that wedding dress had been successfully ironed out. She was right back in control. A few more hours wouldn’t make the coming confrontation any easier. The doorman hailed her a taxi and she gave the address of her flat, but, travelling along the Embankment, she ordered tightly, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Let me out here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ His middle-aged face showed his concern. Possibly, she thought, because her hand was shaking as she passed him his fare. She nodded, her throat too choked to allow her to speak, and she saw him shrug fatalistically as she turned away.

  She was all wired up again. How could she face Jethro, tell him what she knew about him, what she’d seen—the wedding ring on the finger of the girl who had been Chloe Abbot and was now, on her own admission, Chloe Cole—while her battered heart was raw and bleeding?

  She would have to make sure she was together before she saw him. Since lunchtime today she had believed she was. But that wretched wedding gown had triggered a relapse. She had thought she’d mentally dealt with that too, but obviously she hadn’t. She needed more time.

  Tears sprang to her eyes blurring the view over the river. The low evening sun had dipped behind a cloud and the river looked dark and oily. Lights gleamed, throwing dancing reflections across the water.

  Why couldn’t she stop loving him? Why couldn’t she stop hurting? He didn’t merit this much of her emotion. Her mind accepted that but her stupid heart wouldn’t.

 
The breeze from the Thames cooled her skin. She shivered, heard firm footsteps just behind her, felt a sudden rush of air, smelled exclusive aftershave, felt strong arms around her as he turned her taut body into the warmth and strength of him.

  Jethro. Her knees gave way. How could she be clinging so weakly to him when she knew what he was, was fully aware of how cruelly he’d used her, how callously he’d made her love him and trust him when all the time he had betrayal on his mind?

  The palms of her hands connected with the broad span of his shoulders. The fabric of his jacket felt smooth and expensive. Her shocked eyes evaluated the white dinner jacket, the black tie, his shadowed face piratical in the dying light.

  She gave an ineffectual shove, her breath choking in her throat, but he cupped her chin in one hand, forcing her to look at him, swearing softly beneath his breath as he saw the tracks of tears on her pale cheeks.

  ‘Get in the car,’ he commanded tersely, retrieving her scattered belongings with one hand, the other clamped around her waist. Wildly, she thought of digging her heels into the paving slabs, telling him she wasn’t going anywhere, not with him, not ever again. But already a few passers-by were hovering, looking curious. Heaven only knew what would happen if she caused a scene.

  Visions of a fracas, the police, the press, lurid details of her bigamous marriage splashed all over the sleazier tabloids flashed behind her eyes. She shuddered, giving in, allowing him to hurry her towards the waiting car.

  The well-bred engine of a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow was ticking over quietly, and Jethro opened a back door and slid onto the luxurious leather upholstery beside her, telling the driver, ‘The Blue Boar, James. Quick as you can.’

  What was happening? What was he doing? Allie panicked, tried to scramble out before the big car picked up speed, before a police car appeared behind them, blue light flashing, sirens wailing, but Jethro’s hands clamped around her narrow waist, anchoring her to the seat.

  ‘Calm down, sweetheart. I know what you’re thinking, and I know why you’re thinking it. And every last bit of this mess is my fault.’

  He’d gone cold all over when, at the end of a long afternoon, after he’d driven his sister to her bank to pay that cheque into her account, after his second meeting with her brand-new fiancé and his own company solicitor to thrash out the details of the partnership deal the newly engaged couple were entering into, Chloe had said, apparently apropos of nothing, ‘Now I think of it, her face was familiar. She’s either a top model or maybe an actress. She said she thought she knew me, but she got my name wrong. Abbot, she said. I think it was Abbot.’

  When he’d prised out every last detail of that fateful meeting in the restroom at Dosser’s he’d known what Allie would be thinking. He’d been cursing himself every second since.

  The car had gathered speed now, and he could feel her prickly antagonism. It was reflected in her voice as she asked him, ‘Where did you get the Roller? And don’t tell me you went out and bought it—along with the sharp suits—out of the money I paid you. I’m not that stupid.’ She turned to look at him, her pale face shadowed in the near darkness, her soft mouth pulled into a bitter line. ‘And where the hell do you think you’re taking me?’

  ‘To dinner. We had a date, remember? And I know you’re not stupid, sweetheart. You’re adorable and deeply loved.’ He took her hand, twining his fingers with hers, and almost she believed him, believed the deep, honeyed sincerity of his voice—until she remembered what an opportunist he was, using her for what he could get out of her, both financially and sexually.

  She withdrew her hand, wrapped her arms around her body and he told her, his voice low and gentle and laced, unbelievably, with a thread of humour, ‘I haven’t stolen the Rolls, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I keep it to ferry foreign business visitors around London. It seems to impress. And James Abbot, the driver, is my senior PA. His discretion can be relied upon absolutely. Nevertheless, I think we should keep this conversation on ice until we reach our destination.’

  In her emotional chaos she’d actually forgotten they weren’t alone. The driver’s ears were probably flapping. And what had he called him? James Abbot? Not Bill or Bob. Did he always forget people’s names? Was the driver his wealthy friend? Oh, she didn’t know what was going on!

  ‘How did you know where I’d be?’ she asked, keeping her voice as low as possible. ‘I didn’t leave an itinerary.’

  ‘You did—or as good as. I found your note, saw you’d written your lunch venue beneath your agent’s number, and phoned her. She told me where you’d be this evening. I waited outside, followed your cab when you left. Simple, really.’

  Simple! Nothing was simple or straightforward around Jethro Cole.

  She gave up trying to figure anything out, subsiding into the corner of the seat and telling herself that as soon as they reached their destination—wherever that was—she would ask the driver to explain what was happening, because she didn’t trust a word Jethro said!

  But the plan didn’t work. How could it when, almost as soon as her feet hit the gravelled forecourt, Jethro, already out and standing on the other side of the luxurious car, tapped his hand on the roof and the Rolls drew away, purring back down the long, tree-lined driveway.

  Discreet lighting displayed the gilded name of the hotel above the Georgian portico and security lights gleamed on the immaculate paintwork of expensive motors. Some of the cars even came complete with patiently waiting uniformed chauffeurs.

  So they weren’t alone. They were in a public place; he hadn’t brought her to some lonely, desolate spot. She had no reason to be afraid, knew she could never fear him, no matter what situation they found themselves in. He wouldn’t harm her physically; the very thought of that was absurd. But he could hurt her heart, break it so easily. Already it was battered and bleeding, and it was up to her to make sure he didn’t damage it even further.

  ‘What now?’ she asked tiredly across the small space between them. He was holding her garment bag and a compact leather overnight case of his own. It had been a long, traumatic day. In the space of a dozen hours she’d gone from being an ecstatically happy bride of less than two weeks to a bitter, betrayed dupe.

  ‘I’m giving you dinner. We had a date, remember? And we’re staying overnight. In the bridal suite. James will collect us tomorrow and drive us home. We have a home in Mayfair. You haven’t seen it yet, but I’m sure you’re going to like it.’

  He spoke softy, feeding her information bit by bit, his heart twisting inside him because she looked so fragile and vulnerable. He ached to take her in his arms again, to feel her immediate response to his body, to take away her hurt. But he had to tread carefully. He knew he was on very thin ice here. And the whole damn thing was his own pig-headed, selfish fault.

  Dismissing most of what he’d said, her mind fixed on the three words that terrified her so much she couldn’t take anything else in.

  The bridal suite.

  She couldn’t spend the night with him; she simply didn’t dare. Her emotions would betray her. She couldn’t fight the way her body needed his.

  He had closed the gap between them, and his hand on the small of her back was edging her towards the three shallow steps that led to the entrance. She had to find the strength she needed to resist, to quell the treacherous voice in her mind that was asking if it mattered if she spent one last night with him, accepted the ecstasy that only he could give her.

  Digging stiletto heels into fine gravel, she said forcefully, ‘Stay here if you must, but I want you to call me a taxi. If you’re looking for a romantic dinner for two and a night of purple passion, then call your legitimate wife! Or was lunch enough to satisfy her?’

  His hand slid further round her waist, tightened. He could so easily lift her off her feet and carry her in. His mouth softened with tenderness. ‘I saw our passion as being more gold than purple, sweetheart. Pure, twenty-four-carat gold! And as far as I can recollect, you’re the only wife I have. Or wan
t. It was my sister who had to be satisfied with lunch. Shall we go in? Or would you prefer to talk about it out here? Though I warn you, it’s all a bit of a tangled mess, and sorting it out could take an hour or two.’

  Her head was spinning. She allowed him to walk her into the muted elegance of the hotel’s foyer without even thinking about it. She wanted to believe him, but how could she?

  He had never mentioned the existence of a sister before. He never talked about himself. She knew as little about him now as she had done on the day she had offered to pay him for marrying her.

  And she knew for a fact that his lunch companion—very close companion—was the former Chloe Abbot whose married name was Cole. Hadn’t she seen the shiny gold wedding band with her own eyes?

  He was devious and tricky, a smooth charmer. Right now he seemed to be charming someone who looked like the hotel manager—a very deferential hotel manager. And now a porter had taken their ill-assorted luggage. A recent school-leaver, she guessed, looking very proud of his smart uniform. And she was with Jethro, mounting the sweeping staircase towards the dreaded bridal suite.

  She was only going along because she had to get at the truth, had to tell him that she wasn’t some empty-headed bimbo who would swallow a lorry-load of lies provided they led to a night of out-of-this-world sex!

  Nothing to do with wanting to believe him when he’d said she was the only wife he had, the only wife he wanted.

  The suite was fabulous. Even her tired brain was able to register that. Sitting room, bathroom, bedroom. Furnished in the period, softly lit, with lush carpets and the decor subtly blending tones of old rose, soft sage-green and cream. Fresh roses perfumed the air and champagne was on ice.

  At the sight of such opulence, the decadence of the huge four-poster bed, she crossed the room and closed the bedroom door firmly, hating the way her face seemed to be burning. Jethro was pressing something into the young porter’s hand.