by Annie West
Business was an end in itself, giving total satisfaction. His commercial success gave him a purpose nothing else could. There was always a new goal, inevitably harder, more satisfying than the last. Hence his move into new territories with this Bakhari deal and his recent mining acquisition in Africa.
‘I’ll be working tonight, video conferencing with Australia, and I leave tomorrow to deal with a crisis.’ The rest of his London meetings would have to wait. An oil-rig accident took priority. ‘In the meantime it’s time for us to talk.’
‘Good idea.’ Leila nodded but her shoulders looked stiff.
Why was she tense? Because of him? Or was she ill again? He frowned.
Last night, arriving in Britain, she’d barely stirred when they landed, knocked out apparently by the medication she’d taken. He’d had to carry her to the car and again from the basement car park to the apartment.
He’d left it to his efficient housekeeper to get her to bed. Then he’d put in a couple of hours in his private gym and study before retiring in the early hours.
Yet instead of sleeping instantly as he’d trained himself to do, Joss had lain awake pondering the enigma that was his wife.
There’d been no mistaking her fragility as he’d held her in his arms. She’d weighed next to nothing when he’d scooped her up and onto his jet. He’d felt the bony jut of her hip and the outline of her ribs.
That had stirred long-buried memories. Of Joanna at fifteen—all skin and bone, turning in on herself rather than facing the selfish demands of their parents. Parents who’d never given a damn about either of their children, except as weapons in their vindictive, ongoing battle against each other.
Holding Leila, feeling the tremors running through her, evidence of the weakness she strove to hide, Joss had been hit by a surge of protectiveness he hadn’t known since he was ten, wanting to save the big sister who had wasted away before his eyes.
But Leila wasn’t Joanna. Leila wasn’t some wounded teenager. She was a grown woman, well enough to sell herself for an easy life of wealth.
It was no concern of his if she’d overdone the pre-wedding dieting. Yet he found himself checking. ‘You’re better today?’
‘Much better, thank you. The wedding preparations must have tired me more than I knew.’
The kettle boiled and clicked off. ‘Would you like something? I’m making chamomile tea.’ She favoured him with one of those small, polite smiles. The perfect hostess.
‘Sounds appalling. I’ll stick with coffee.’ He strode to the door, ready to call his housekeeper, only to find her scurrying towards him.
‘What can I get you, Mr Carmody?’
‘Coffee and a sandwich. My wife will have chamomile tea and...?’ He raised an interrogative brow.
‘Nothing else, thanks. I’m not hungry.’
Joss surveyed the demure beige silk dress hanging loose on her. She’d lost weight since they first met. Then she’d been slim but rounded in all the right places. Now even the line of her jaw was stark, too pronounced.
His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t just the weight loss that disturbed him. She looked...drab. He was no fashion expert but even he could see that shade leached the colour from her face. The dress was completely wrong, suited to an older woman rather than a young and pretty one.
At least her legs were as delectable as he recalled.
At their first meeting he’d been distracted, enjoying the counterpoint of her sexy legs and lush mouth with her composed, almost prim demeanour. Plus there’d been those tiny flashes of spirit that had reassured him she had the capacity to hold her own as the society hostess he required.
She was a fascinating combination of intellect, beauty and cool calm. Or she would be to a man who allowed himself to be fascinated.
Joss wasn’t in that category. He had no intention of disrupting a sound business arrangement with anything like an intimate relationship.
He strictly separated his business and private lives. Though physical intimacy probably rated in the business side of his life: sex for mutual pleasure plus the expensive gifts and five-star luxury he provided to whatever woman he chose to warm his bed.
‘Mr Carmody?’
Joss found his housekeeper surveying him curiously.
‘I leave it to you, Mrs Draycott. Just bring a selection that will tempt my wife’s appetite.’
Leila’s stare sharpened. That look provoked a tiny sizzle of pleasure in his gut, like anticipation at the beginning of a new venture.
‘Of course, sir.’
‘We’ll be in the small sitting room.’
Leila held his gaze unblinkingly. Then without a word she crossed the room, her head regally high, her walk slow, drawing attention to the undulation of her hips.
But Joss kept his gaze on her face, trying to read what lay behind her calm countenance. For there was something. The frisson of energy that charged down his spine when his gaze locked with hers proved it.
He could almost hear the words she wasn’t saying.
Almost, but infuriatingly not quite.
He followed her, stopping abruptly as she halted in the doorway.
Her scent invaded his nostrils, not the heavy attar of roses from the wedding, but something light and fresh, barely discernible as he tilted his head towards her neat chignon.
This close he felt it again as he had on the runway yesterday: tension crackling in the air as if she generated some unseen power that magnetised his skin.
What was it about Leila that drew him?
‘Which is the small sitting room? You have several.’
‘To the right,’ he said. ‘Third door along.’
Following, Joss allowed his gaze free rein, cataloguing each dip and sway as she moved. His wife didn’t flaunt herself with an exaggerated strut. Yet with each slow step the slide of silk over her backside and flaring around her legs screamed ‘woman’ in a way that had all his attention.
Was his wife sending him an invitation?
The possibility intrigued him. Yet remembering her cool look in the kitchen it didn’t seem likely.
Besides, this was a marriage of convenience. She’d be an excellent society hostess and her connections would be invaluable. For her part Leila would acquire prestige, an even more luxurious lifestyle and unprecedented spending power.
A win-win deal. Only a fool would mess with that for the sake of sex. It would complicate everything.
With a wife he couldn’t cancel all calls or silence protestations of devotion with an expensive farewell gift. Nor did he intend to face a moody spouse, smarting over some apparent slight, when they hosted an important dinner.
Sex with his wife might raise her expectations of a family one day; though he’d made it clear children weren’t on his agenda.
His flesh chilled. No, this arrangement would remain simple. Impersonal.
Yet Joss’s gaze didn’t shift from Leila as she entered the sitting room and took a seat, the picture of feminine grace. He had the unsettling suspicion he’d got more than he’d bargained for in this marriage of mutual convenience.
* * *
Leila chose a deep chair. The soft leather cocooned her and the frisson of disquiet she’d felt since Joss had arrived eased a fraction. She didn’t feel ready to deal with him when there was so much else on her mind.
Waking disorientated in an apartment that was all minimalist luxury she’d felt a wave of relief, finding herself alone. No one else had shared the huge bed, and the wardrobe was devoid of Joss’s clothes. Yet she’d barely had time to register thankfulness that he’d kept his word and his distance.
Too quickly her thoughts had turned to yesterday’s suffocating fear at the airstrip.
It was something she’d never experienced before. When she’d stepped onto the airfield th
e vastness of the open air had pressed down as if squeezing the life out of her.
Was it something to do with the sudden change after being forcibly kept indoors, confined for long periods?
She could only hope yesterday had been a one-off. She had no intention of letting the past dictate her future.
‘Your room is comfortable?’ Joss sat, stretching his long legs with the assurance of a man supremely comfortable with their glamorous setting. The place screamed wealth from the stunning views down the Thames, to the original artworks and designer furniture that impressed rather than welcomed.
With his back to the window it was hard to read his expression but she’d bet it was satisfied.
‘Very comfortable. Thank you.’ Leila had grown up with wealth, but nothing like this place. And the last few years she’d led a spartan existence, until her stepfather had pulled out all the stops to impress Joss Carmody.
Even the feel of silk against her skin was an unfamiliar sensual delight. As for wearing heels...she’d chosen stilettos today, hoping to get used to the feel of walking on stilts. She intended to take every opportunity to break with the past.
Silence descended. Did her husband have as little idea of what to say to his stranger-spouse as she did?
‘Have you lived here long?’
Broad shoulders shrugged. ‘I bought the penthouse a couple of years ago but I haven’t been here much. I tend to move wherever business takes me.’
She nodded. Mrs Draycott had intimated it was a pleasure having people to look after. Leila understood it was rare for Joss to be on the premises.
That suited her. She’d rather be alone to take her time sorting out her new life.
‘How long will you be here?’
His long fingers drummed on the armrest. ‘We’ll be here at least a month.’
No mistaking the subtle emphasis on the pronoun. Leila’s heart skipped a beat. ‘We?’
‘Of course. We are just married, after all.’
Leila pushed aside panic at the thought of sharing even such spacious premises with Joss Carmody. Despite their agreement to pursue separate lives, her hackles rose defensively at the idea of being close to him for even a short time. He was powerful, self-satisfied and used to getting his own way. Characteristics that reminded her too forcefully of Gamil.
Yet she understood Joss wouldn’t want to broadcast the fact their marriage was a paper one only. No doubt their separation would be arranged discreetly later.
She’d use the time to investigate her study options and find the perfect home. She longed for a house with a garden, but maybe a flat would be more practical till she found her feet.
But a whole month here? Surely that wouldn’t be necessary. Once she had her money—
‘Leila?’ She looked up to find him staring. ‘What is it? You don’t like the penthouse?’
‘On the contrary, it’s very pleasant.’
‘Pleasant?’ One dark eyebrow shot up. ‘I’ve heard it called many things but not that.’
‘I’m sorry if I offended you,’ Leila said slowly. ‘The apartment is spectacular.’ If you enjoyed cold modern minimalism that broadcast too ostentatiously that it cost the earth.
‘Here you are, sir, madam.’ Mrs Draycott entered with a vast tray. ‘There are sandwiches and—’ she shot a smiling glance at Leila ‘—Middle Eastern nut rolls in syrup and cakes flavoured with rosewater. I thought you might appreciate a little reminder of home, madam.’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ Even though memories of home were now fatally tainted.
Leila accepted a plate heaped with delicacies and smiled at the housekeeper as she left the room.
‘These are good,’ Joss said after polishing off one of the pastries and reaching for a second.
‘You have a sweet tooth?’ Leila put her plate down on a side table and reached for her tea. ‘Did your mother make you sweet treats as a child?’ Though they’d always had a cook, Leila remembered her mother’s occasional baking as the best in the world.
‘No.’ The word seemed shorter than ever in that brusque tone. ‘My mother didn’t sully her hands with anything as mundane as cooking.’
‘I see.’ His tone didn’t encourage further comment.
‘I doubt it.’ Joss’s voice was cool but the fierce angle of his pinched eyebrows told of harnessed emotions.
‘My mother abhorred anything that might interfere with her girlish figure or delicate hands.’ His gazed raked her and Leila’s skin prickled as if he’d touched her. ‘Plus she believed the world revolved around her. She had no inclination for anything domestic if it involved dirtying her hands. That’s what other people were for.’
Leila frowned at his scathing assessment. Or perhaps it was the burn of ice-cold fury in his eyes.
She looked away, uncomfortable with the sudden seismic emotion surging beneath his composure.
They were strangers and she’d prefer they stayed that way. The trembling hint of sympathy she felt at what sounded like an uncomfortable home life wasn’t something she wanted to pursue.
Instinctively she knew he wouldn’t thank her for it.
Leila cast around for a response. ‘Your mother must be very impressed at all this.’ Her gesture took in the architect-designed penthouse in a building that was the last word in London exclusivity.
And maybe that explained the soulless feel of the place. Apparently Joss didn’t have the time or inclination for anything as domestic as furnishing his home. This looked as if it had been decorated by a very chic, very talented designer who wanted to make a bold statement rather than a home.
‘My mother isn’t alive.’ Joss’s gaze grew hooded as he let the silence between them grow. ‘I don’t have a family.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘The absence of relatives at the wedding didn’t alert you?’ His tone was abrupt and Leila cursed herself for not noticing. Given the number of Gamil’s invitees, the imbalance should have been glaringly obvious. Except she’d been on tenterhooks wondering if she’d finally managed to escape his clutches. Most of the day had been a blur of fear and elation.
‘No. I...’
Her words petered out in face of Joss’s frown. From his steely expression it was clear he considered her abominably self-absorbed.
‘Nor do I want a family. I have no interest in continuing the family name.’ His eyes bored into her, their intense glitter pinioning her. ‘And I don’t see any point bringing more children into a world that can’t feed the mouths we’ve already got.’
He looked pointedly at her plate, still laden with Mrs Draycott’s carefully prepared treats.
Leila’s stomach cramped at the thought of all that intense cloying sweetness. After her recent meagre rations she hadn’t a hope of eating all this rich food. That had to be part of the reason she’d felt unwell yesterday, trying to force down the elaborate wedding feast under Gamil’s watchful glare.
But, short of revealing to Joss the real reason for her lack of appetite, there was nothing she could do but eat. Joss might not be cast in the same mould as Gamil but she’d take no chances. He was bossy, powerful and authoritarian. She’d learned to her cost that domineering men couldn’t be trusted. There was no way she’d trust Joss with the story of Gamil’s brutality and her own helplessness against him. Who knew how he might use that against her?
Besides, the memory filled her with shame. Logic told her she’d done all she could to withstand Gamil’s abuse, but part of her cried out in self-disgust at the fact she’d been a victim.
Reluctantly she reached for a tiny cake. Inhaling its rich honeyed scent, she felt a wave of nausea hit her and she hesitated.
‘I happen to know Mrs Draycott went to a lot of effort to make something special for you.’
Leila felt the weight of Joss
’s scrutiny as she bit into the delicacy.
Bittersweet memories drenched her with that first taste. Of a time when she’d taken happiness for granted. Her mother laughing in their Paris kitchen with their cook’s enormous apron wrapped twice around her slim form. Leila’s father, debonair in evening jacket, sneaking a cake from a cooling rack and having his hand smacked, so he wreaked his revenge with a loud kiss on his wife’s lips. Memories of childhood birthday parties and smiles.
‘It’s good,’ Leila murmured and risked another bite.
Too soon the memories were dislodged as bile rose in her throat. Her stomach churned in a sickening mix of distress and unsatisfied hunger.
She made to rise. ‘Excuse me, I need—’
‘The bathroom?’ Joss’s tone was rusty with anger and she swung her head up to find him scowling down at her. ‘Why? So you can dislodge any trace of food from your system?’
Leila shook her head, stunned by his anger.
‘I’m feeling a little unwell, that’s all. I—’
‘You’re making yourself unwell, don’t you mean?’
‘No!’ She surged to her feet. ‘I don’t mean that at all.’ She was tired of having people put words into her mouth and overseeing her every move. She was weary and out of sorts and—
‘Tell me, Leila.’ His voice was lethally quiet as he stalked across to block her exit. ‘Is it bulimia or anorexia?’
* * *
Joss was determined to sort this out now.
His fragile patience for pampered princesses grew threadbare. And somewhere, deep inside, was a thread of real fear, the knowledge of precisely how dangerous an eating disorder was.
It did no good to tell himself Leila wasn’t his concern. He couldn’t turn his back.
‘It’s neither!’ Her head reared back in what looked like genuine shock. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my eating habits.’
He surveyed her slowly, pleased to see her sick pallor had abated, replaced by spots of high colour in her cheeks and fire in her eyes.
It struck him that his wife was beautiful when roused.
‘Then why have I never seen you consume more than a bite? Why are you sick after eating?’
