Makeshift Marriage

by Marjorie Lewty

  It seemed that anything that could float on water was congregated in the vast harbour, moving at different speeds in every direction at once. It looked to Maggie extremely dangerous, but she supposed they knew what they were doing. A week ago she would have laughed about it with Blake, but now Blake was miles away from her, a remote figure behind his high wall of anger and frustration.

  When they stepped off the jetfoil on to the landing stage the air was hotter and more humid than ever. Maggie longed for a breath of real sea air, the kind you get in Cornwall, or even Brighton, but the air from the sea here was just as hot as the air on the land.

  She pushed back her damp brown curls and murmured, 'I think I shall end up as a little puddle on the ground fairly soon.'

  It was a brave attempt at lightening the atmosphere between them, but Blake merely looked stonily down at her and said, 'You're not going to collapse on me, are you? I'm not likely to be taken in twice, you know.'

  He bundled her into a taxi and she sat huddled in a corner, longing to be back in her cool bedroom at home and wishing with all her heart that she had never gone to work for Blake, never fallen in love with him.

  The hotel they arrived at seemed huge and luxurious in a showy kind of way, but Maggie didn't notice much as a grinning Chinese boy took them up in a lift and deposited their luggage on the floor in an enormous bedroom.

  'Everything O.K.? Thank you, sir.' The grin widened as he pocketed the tip Blake gave him and closed the door behind him.

  Blake waved a hand round the room. 'Here you are, then. The bridal chamber. That was what you wanted, wasn't it?' His lip curled.

  He tossed his briefcase down on a table in the window and prowled round the room, sliding back doors. 'Shower in here. I'll occupy it first while you're unpacking our cases—like a good little wife,' he added mockingly.

  He stripped off his shirt and disappeared through a door on the far side of the room. A moment later the sound of splashing could be heard.

  Maggie sank on to the huge bed and looked at their luggage. The room was blessedly air-conditioned and she was beginning to revive a little, but even so she didn't feel equal to the effort of struggling with the heavy cases. She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, refusing to allow herself to imagine what was going to happen next.

  A few minutes later Blake emerged, a dark green towel knotted round his middle, drops of water gleaming on his dark hair, the muscles of his arms rippling. He looked magnificent, dynamic, crackling with vitality, and Maggie's heart suddenly started to beat unevenly. If only this had been a real honeymoon, he would have come across the room and taken her in his arms and kissed her and—

  She sat up. 'Have you finished with the shower? I shan't be even part-human until I've had one myself.'

  He scowled at her. 'I thought I told you to unpack our cases.'

  She didn't like the tone of his voice at all. Oh God, she thought, there's going to be a fight, and she didn't feel capable of fighting anyone just now, least of all this big, powerful man who stood close to the bed, glowering down at her.

  She slid her legs sideways to the floor. 'I'll have a shower first,' she said, trying to make her voice ordinary, but it came out squeaky and two tones higher than usual..

  He came closer. 'You'll do as I say,' he told her savagely. 'You chose to marry me, and I'll be calling the tune from now on.'

  His expression changed, his eyes narrowed and he moved a little away and leaned against the door of the closet, surveying her insolently. 'And while we're on the subject,' he said, 'I may as well inspect the goods I've acquired. Wives should know the proper way to undress before their husbands. Let's see what you can do.'

  She stared at him in blank horror. This was worse than she had imagined in her darkest moments, this— this travesty of lovemaking that he was demanding of her.

  'No!' she gasped, her eyes wide as she pulled the limp collar of her thin suit closer round her neck. 'I can't— you can't make me—' She was shivering violently now.

  He smiled nastily. 'Oh, indeed I can. I can make you do anything I choose. Go on, take off that suit—it looks a wreck anyway.'

  Maggie panicked. She was on her feet in a second and stumbling towards the door, not knowing what she would do when she got through it. She only knew she must get away from the ruthless, cynical gaze in the hard grey-green eyes fixed on her with such contempt.

  It was hopeless from the start. He reached her in two strides and caught her round the waist in a steely grip. 'Oh no, you don't,' he hissed. 'You made a fool of me in the church. You're not going to make a fool of me again by causing a commotion here.'

  He was forcing her back towards the bed and she took refuge in quick, breathless argument. 'Blake—I didn't make a fool of you in the church. Don't you see, you'd have looked pretty silly if I hadn't turned up.'

  'Don't give me that as an excuse,' he snarled. 'Are you trying to tell me you changed your mind in order to preserve my dignity? If you expect me to believe that you'll expect anything!'

  He stood over her, large and formidable. 'Go on, take those clothes off. Or would you like me to do it for you?'

  She cowered back as he raised his hands. 'No,' she whispered. 'I'll do it myself.'

  He moved back a couple of paces. 'Go on, then.'

  Maggie fumbled with the fastening of her short coat. It's nothing, she told herself desperately. You've undressed on the beach lots of times without bothering too much about how far you could keep yourself covered up. No doubt some of the men in the party have had more than a glimpse of you and you never gave it a thought. Nobody thinks anything about it these days of topless bars and nude theatre shows.

  But this was different. Incredible as it might seem, this was Blake standing watching her with a taunting look on his face—Blake, whom she thought she had known so well, and whom she had never known at all.

  Her cheeks flaming crimson, she peeled off the damp, creased jacket and threw it on the bed.

  Blake's eyes never left her for a second. 'Go on,' he jeered, 'you're doing fine.'

  She unfastened her skirt and let it slide to the carpet, stepping over it.

  'Now will you let me go and take a shower?' She met his eyes in pleading.

  He smiled mockingly. 'Oh, not yet.' His eyes passed over her meaningfully. 'Surely the best is still to come?'

  Anything, she thought desperately, anything to get away from that insulting gaze! In a kind of frenzy she dragged off the final flimsy garments and stood before him naked, her cheeks flaming with misery and humiliation.

  Blake stood there, his eyes passing over her slowly, insolently, from head to foot and back again. Then a small, sardonic smile touched his mouth. 'I don't remember how much the marriage licence cost me,' he sneered. 'But however much it was I doubt if the goods are worth the money.'

  He turned away from her and snapped open his travel-bag. 'You can have your shower now,' he said indifferently, pulling out a silky brown shirt. 'I'll go down and order a meal and we can appear in the restaurant like a happy honeymoon couple. That'll be a good joke, won't it?' He pulled the shirt over his head, picked up a hairbrush and turned to the dressing table mirror, ignoring her.

  The scalding tears threatened to choke her as she groped her way blindly towards the shower room. Inside, she closed the door and leaned against it, sobbing, allowing all her hurt and shame to pour out with her tear's. Dimly she heard Blake moving about in the bedroom and then the door closing behind him.

  The tears went on and on until she was gasping for breath, but they stopped at last. Shivering and utterly exhausted, she turned on the shower and stepped into the stream of tepid water.

  The feeling of the cool jets of water beating against her body seemed to revive her, to start her brain working again. Maggie was no adolescent girl to wallow in emotional trauma. She had spent her years in the tough environment of the university, competing with the men on her course, and come through. She had won herself a good job and risen nearly to the top of
it. She drew in a long breath and made a decision: somehow she must go on and not allow herself to be crushed and defeated by the situation. She admitted now that she had made a terrible mistake in marrying Blake against his will. She should have fallen in with his plans and let him make a mess of his life in his own way.

  But she had had this stupid, romantic idea that somehow, if they were married, he might fall in love with her. And the pathetic thing was that in spite of the way he had treated her, in spite of his humiliating rejection, that hope refused to be quenched entirely.

  There was still the work to share. He had pleaded with her to come out to Hong Kong with him, he valued her help that much. And surely, if they were working together they could regain their old comradeship, that would be something to work on.

  And—most important of all—even if he refused to accept her as a real wife at present, they were still married.

  She stepped out of the refreshing shower, towelled herself dry and padded back into the bedroom. The important thing was that Blake should not find her a damp, weepy mess when he came back, as he would probably expect.

  She put on fresh, fragrant undies and one of the dresses she and her mother had chosen on their shopping trips—a silky little number in a beige and white pattern with a close-fitting top and slim shoulder-straps. It was clipped at the waist and swung loosely round her knees. She brushed her damp curls into a casual style, to dry as they liked, and put on a light make-up, paying particular attention to her eyes, which still showed faint traces of tears.

  She surveyed herself in the mirror, smoothing a hand over her pretty breasts and allowing herself to admire her long, smooth legs. There was nothing wrong with her shape, she assured herself. Blake might reject her, but there were plenty of other men who wouldn't.

  She was Maggie Webster—no, Maggie Morden—and that felt very strange indeed—aged twenty-four, good to look at (reasonably), lively and cheerful (usually), with an eye for the ridiculous which she had shared with Blake (until now), efficient and confident at her job (no doubt about that). What had happened had been an unfortunate mistake, but it wasn't the end of the story yet, and in spite of herself she could still feel hope.

  In short, Maggie treated herself to a concentrated dose of positive suggestion, so that when Blake opened the bedroom door some time later she was able to turn and smile at him in an easy, natural way.

  'Hullo,' she said. 'Have you fixed up a meal for us? I'm feeling distinctly peckish, aren't you? Shall we go down?'

  She twirled before the long mirror, arms wide. 'Do I look all right? Do you like me better with clothes on?' Her brown eyes glinted with mischief.

  For once Blake had no ready reply. He stared at her blankly and she saw that she had managed to surprise him. It gave her a small feeling of elation. The elation might not last—indeed she was fairly sure it wouldn't— but perhaps it would see her through the evening ahead.

  'I've booked a table,' Blake announced, and seemed to have nothing to add.

  'Oh, that's splendid—let's go.' Maggie linked her arm with his as they went out to the lift.

  Blake swung the lift doors shut on them and regarded her darkly. 'I'm not sure what game you're playing,' he said sourly, 'but I hope it's amusing you.'

  'Oh, it is,' she told him. 'Let's play it together while we have dinner. Let's pretend all this didn't happen and we're merely here to work together.'

  Waiting for his reply, she held her breath as the lift sucked them downwards. It seemed to be taking her stomach with it twice as fast as it took the rest of her.

  But Blake said nothing. He led the way along carpeted passages to an enormous restaurant, crowded with diners. The sea of tables blurred before Maggie's eyes, the buzz and chatter of conversation and laughter assaulted her ears, the smell of well-cooked food made her feel slightly ill, but she held on to her resolution and kept her head high as they were led to a corner table by a smiling Chinese waiter, and handed huge menu cards.

  Maggie held hers up, hiding her face from Blake. She had made her gesture and he appeared to have rejected it. If he wouldn't even speak civilly to her she really didn't know how she was going to get through the meal.

  He put down his own menu card. 'What do you fancy?' he said, not looking at her. 'I believe the food is an interesting blend of Chinese and Portuguese.'

  His voice was not friendly, but it was no longer hostile. Maggie could have swooned with relief. Perhaps he was ready to accept the flag of truce she had offered.

  She grinned wryly. 'I'm ashamed to admit that I skipped my Chinese and Portuguese lessons at school. Will you order for me, please?'

  He gave her an enigmatic look. 'Will you trust me that far?'

  It was a sort of apology and her heart leapt in response. 'Of course,' she said sturdily. 'We're friends, aren't we? Back on our old terms?'

  Friends—she must hang on to that. She had always known that Blake had a quick temper and that he could be very nasty indeed when he was roused. It was something that was tacitly accepted between them, a part of their good, tolerant working partnership. Usually they laughed together about it afterwards, taking it for granted just as they took for granted the fact of Maggie's habit of writing notes on scraps of paper, which Blake found irritating, although she never seemed to lose anything that mattered.

  The Chinese waiter appeared beside them and Blake had a conference with him. Maggie didn't pay much attention; she couldn't have cared less what she ate. She felt a little lightheaded as she sipped the cool, spicy aperitif that was put before her. Blake had seemed more reasonable, more like his old self. Maggie had always been an optimist and it only took that to send her hopes soaring. Perhaps he would let her explain; they could talk things over and she would tell him it was because of her family, because of his career. The only thing she wouldn't tell him was that she had married him because she was crazy about him.

  Above all, she must try to keep the situation from becoming too emotional again, and then—then there might be hope. Just so long as she was his wife there might be hope, she told herself once more, hanging on desperately to that single fact.

  She stole a glance at him as he talked to the waiter, at his handsome saturnine face, at the way his glossy dark hair grew round his temples, at his mouth. She looked at his lips, sculptured and mobile, and her pulses began to throb heavily. Blake had never kissed her, not a man-to-woman kiss. Merely a friendly salute now and then, and that hard, cold kiss in the church vestry. But perhaps tonight, when they went to their room—Her pulses began to throb. He couldn't have meant his insulting words, spoken in anger. She had heard that for a man almost any pretty girl would do. She loved him and she would take him on any terms at all.

  Their food was brought to the table and arranged skilfully in small dishes. Blake said, 'I ordered Chinese, I thought we'd be safe with that. It looks O.K.' He glanced round the crowded restaurant and added, 'This seems a popular spot, so presumably the customers are satisfied. I was given to understand that Macau was a quiet backwater of a place, but not so, evidently.' His mouth twisted sardonically. 'It's just as well we didn't yearn to leave the world behind on a honeymoon-for-two, isn't it?'

  Maggie raised her neat eyebrows. 'How do you know I didn't?'

  Blake frowned. 'Didn't what?'

  She smiled innocently. 'Didn't want to leave the world behind on our honeymoon, of course.'

  His frown deepened. 'You're in a very strange mood tonight, Maggie. I thought you suggested that we should pretend we're simply here to work together.'

  'Oh dear, yes, of course I did—how silly of me.' She chuckled. 'The mention of honeymoons must have put ideas into my head.' She looked round the huge room with its decorated pillars, its highly-coloured murals, predominantly cherry-red and lemon-yellow, its glittering chandeliers, breaking up the light into millions of sparkling diamond fragments. 'It doesn't seem an awfully good spot to have a business meeting, but we'll try, if you like. How about the report for our Chinese colleagues? And when
do we meet them—is it arranged yet? And—'

  She was suddenly aware that someone was standing behind her chair, and turned to see Nicholas Grant.

  She gave a little gasp of surprise and pleasure. 'Nick! You didn't tell us you were coming here too. Were you on the jetfoil with us?'

  He walked round the table. 'I was, but you don't need three on a honeymoon. I was the soul of tact and kept out of your way until—'

  '—until I ran into him in the bar just now,' Blake put in. 'When I used the occasion to make a request to him. Good old Nick,' he added with a touch of malice. 'Always ready to oblige a friend!'

  Maggie stared from one man to the other. 'What are you two talking about?'

  'Haven't you told her?' Nick looked vastly uncomfortable.

  'Not yet, I thought we'd better enjoy our dinner first,' Blake said.

  Nick nodded. 'O.K. Fair enough. Well—' he shifted from one foot to the other '—I'll join my party.' He nodded to a table in the centre of the restaurant where three men were sitting, two Chinese and one European. 'I found a few buddies here from my last visit,' he explained. 'Be seeing you,' he said. He hesitated for a moment longer and then turned away.

  Maggie looked at Blake questioningly. 'What on earth was all that about?'

  He fingered his wine glass, his face expressionless. 'You get on well with Nick Grant, I think? He's an old friend of yours?'

  'Well, yes, I suppose so. I like Nick very much.'

  'That's all right, then, because I'm leaving him to look after you for a few days. I'm flying back to the U.K. tomorrow. I spun Nick a tale about a message that was waiting for me here and said that I have to go back to consult with my father urgently about some snag that's turned up and can't be sorted out by phone.'

  'B-but that wasn't true,' she stammered. 'You haven't had any message, have you?'