'You've picked yourself a great guy, and I should know! And I just know you're going to be happy.' Fiona was the first to greet them when they reached Slade House. 'Welcome to the family, poppet!'
Cleo was roundly kissed on both cheeks, and her hat slid further down over her nose. Laughing, she took it off and tossed it on a nearby chair, instinctively liking Jude's sister.
After retirement his parents had settled in New Zealand, so Jude had told her, leaving Fiona as his only effective family. Cleo hadn't missed the pride in his voice as he'd talked of his sister. She was lovely to look at, strong-minded, and at thirty years of age she was still unmarried because she preferred the uncomplicated single state, putting all her energies into her nationwide string of boutiques.
'The Mescals don't take lightly to the state of matrimony,' Jude had commented after giving Fiona's potted biography, and that had left Cleo wondering why the Slade Securities shares had been important enough tomake him finally plunge into the married state—something he had carefully avoided before.
The shares would be useful to him, but important? Well, fairly. That important? Very unlikely—unless there was something she had missed.
Later, she had come to the conclusion that she must have missed something.
Jude's brain was clever, quick, and, astute in City matters as she liked to think she was, she knew that his grasp of financial affairs left her as far behind as a snail trailing in the wake of a comet.
Granted, he had decided that the time had come to start a family, but he could have had his pick of women only too eager to have his ring on their wedding fingers. So those shares had to be far more important than she had imagined.
Looking at him across her aunt's beautifully arranged lunch-table, Cleo's heart performed a series of totally disconcerting acrobatics. Fear, she supposed, sipping Dom Perignon to steady herself, fear of the consequences of the chain of events which had led to this day, this moment of sitting opposite a brand new husband— a man whose mind she had grown to know well, to respect and admire, but whose body was a stranger, a stranger she was going to force herself to learn to know.
Oh, dear heaven! She dabbed at her mouth with her white linen napkin, not allowing for one moment that the flip and flop of her heart might have anything whatsoever to do with the sheer masculine charisma of the man whose lithely muscled body was covered with such easy and understated elegance by the fine, dark grey fabric of a formal suit, impeccably white shirt and pearl- grey tie.
Dragging her eyes away from him, she slid a sideways smile to Simmons who, impassive as ever, replaced the plate a housemaid had moved with an oval platter bearing a thick, succulent steak of sea-trout. And while the performance was repeated around the table she caught Jude's eyes, swallowed her breath at the cool directness in those azure depths and turned quickly away, fastening her attention on Grace, who was unusually , animated, chatting between Luke, Fiona and John. And Cleo wondered if what her uncle had said regarding her aunt's disapproval of the way the break between them and Mescal Slade had come about had any bearing on her coldness towards herself.
People were complicated creatures, present actions and attitudes often stemming from the effects of the past- even if they didn't realise it themselves. It made them incapable of acting differently. Cleo could no more blame her aunt for her cool rigidity towards the daughter of the man who had, in her opinion, enticed her husband away from the more socially acceptable world of merchant banking than she could blame a hedgehog for having prickles.
'I think we ought to attempt a little light conversation, don't you?' Jude's cool, soft voice splintered her solitary thoughts as he laid a hand over hers, imprisoning her fingers as she absently played with the stem of her wineglass. The sensation of skin on skin, of the tensile strength of those long, square-ended fingers, made her catch her breath. Her teeth sank into her lower lip and Jude said, 'Don't scream, you're safe for another two weeks, my dear,' then commanded, a trace of acid in his voice, 'Smile for me. Or is that too much to ask?'
And because she sensed the others were watching, their conversation broken while they turned their attention to the newly weds, who surely should be looking ecstatic, Cleo pinned a brilliant smile on her face, then felt like crying because she could see by the sudden bleakness in his eyes that he knew just how false it was.
♦ ♦ ♦
'There's a gentleman to see you, madam.' Meg stood in the doorway of the study where Cleo had just finished a phone call to an estate agent about the marketing of her home in Bow. She frowned, wishing Meg wouldn't insist on that formal, ageing mode of address. 'Call me Cleo, or Mrs Mescal, if you can't manage that,' she had instructed when she had arrived here as Jude's bride two days ago. But Meg, friendly and co-operative as she was, wasn't having that. Meg was of the old school, and that was that!
'Oh—put him in the drawing-room.' Cleo closed her notepad and pushed her fingers through her hair, asking belatedly, 'Who is it?'
'A Mr Robert Fenton, madam. He said it was urgent.' Meg sniffed, her expression showing that in her opinion nothing could be urgent enough to keep the new mistress of the house from what she should be doing—getting ready for her honeymoon! 'Shall I tell him you're too busy? Ask him to leave a message? There's all the packing still to be done for tomorrow.'
'No, I'll see him.' Cleo turned, able now to smile briefly at the housekeeper.
At the mention of that hated name she had gone icy cold, averting her head and pretending to search through a drawer in the desk for something. Now, her scrabbling fingers were stilled, her features composed, or reasonably so, she hoped. She had to see the creature some time, she knew that, but had hoped that their next contact would be by letter or telephone.
But she could be thankful for small mercies because at least Jude was out, enmeshed in paperwork back at the office, she told herself as she walked through the hall as steadily as she could on disgracefully trembly legs. She could thank heaven, too, that Jude had insisted she use the day or two before they left for that Greek island to get better acquainted with her new home and begin the disposal of her old one. Had he not, then that snake Fenton might have tracked her down to the office, and that would have taken some explaining away.
Suddenly, though, and with a depth that shook her, she longed for the reassuring presence of the man she had married; longed for his strength, for the gentleness that had been the hallmark of the sensitive way he had handled their ambiguous relationship ever since they had arrived here after the wedding lunch at Slade House.
Jude, I need you! The words took wing in her mind, echoing, and she bit her lips in exasperation for the maudlin, weakly character those silent words conjured up.
She needed him here, at this precise moment, like she needed a sledgehammer to drop on her head from a great height! What he would have to say if he discovered she was being blackmailed, and why, would make a Colossus quake! And she wasn't weak, not weak at all!
Squaring her shoulders, she opened the drawing-room door and walked quickly through and Robert Fenton drawled, 'May I offer my congratulations on your marriage, Mrs Mescal?'
Cleo ignored that, although she felt her face, her whole body, go hot. The mere sight of him made her blood boil.
'Don't come here again, under any circumstances,' she told him, her eyes letting him know how much he disgusted her. To think she had once found him charming company! To think--But no, her brain shifted gear, moving swiftly, decisively; she must not think of the past. It was done with, over. Or almost. This creep meant less than nothing to her now. She loathed and despised him, and the act of handing over a sum of money would rid herself of the poison that was Robert Fenton finally and for ever.
'I won't—if I don't have to.' His eyes were nasty, his mouth curved in a sneer.
He had helped himself to a large measure of Jude's brandy, she noted savagely. And to see him here, lounging on Jude's sofa and drinking his brandy, turned her stomach. But she had her rage under control, because to rant
and rail at him might give her temporary relief but it would accomplish nothing useful.
So she said tonelessly, 'There was no need for you to come here today. A telephone call would have done.'
'Would it, now?* He mocked her careful dignity. Swirling the contents of his glass, he leaned back, his smile deadly. 'I'd like to see you try to feed twenty-five thousand smackers down a telephone line.'
'I haven't got it yet.' Cleo's hands balled into tight fists. But she trod warily, guessing how nasty he would become if he weren't reassured that the money he demanded would be forthcoming. 'I have been married for two days.
Things can't move that quickly. As soon as I can, I'll let you have it. I don't want this sordid business hanging over my head any longer than necessary.'
'How soon? Next week?' he asked, his eyes sharp, and Cleo dragged in a deep breath, feeling the wetness of sweat on her forehead, the palms of her hands, her back.
'No. The week after. We're leaving tomorrow on our honeymoon.' Sharing any details of her life with him made her feel ill and the words were stiff, difficult to push past her teeth. 'Leave me a phone number. I'll contact you when I have it.'
'Just see you do.' He had pushed himself to his feet, moving to stand close, and Cleo was too frozen with loathing to move away, her feet rooted to the silky oriental carpet. 'Because, quite apart from poor old Uncle John, you have someone else to consider now, don't you, my love?' An eyebrow arched with hateful mockery. The sort of stuff I could dish out about you would make that new husband of yours look something of a laughing-, stock in the City, wouldn't it? A bit of a fool, wouldn't you say? And he wouldn't be one bit pleased, would he?'
She couldn't speak; there was nothing to say. But she longed to lash out at him, to hit, kick and batter, but the moment of temper, of hot temptation, passed. And Fenton drawled, 'Yes, we must consider your husband's feelings in all this, mustn't we, my love—my clever, clever love? And you are clever, damnably so. I admire you for it! To get your pretty little hands on a large fortune, you marry an even larger one! Nice thinking! Go right to the top of the class!'
And behind them, in a voice that would have frozen a molten lava flow, Jude said, 'Won't you introduce me to your friend, darling?'
And Cleo, her eyes darkening with panic, watched with horrified fascination as Robert Fenton gave her a leering wink over the rim of the brandy glass he was lifting to his lips.
CHAPTER FOUR
AFTERWARDS, Cleo had been unable to remember precisely how she'd coped. Her heart had been slamming, her stomach clenched in a sickening knot, but she'd managed to perform the introductions gracefully although she'd been agonisingly aware of Jude's eyes on her as she'd watched, as though mesmerised, as his brandy had slid down Fenton's throat.
'Can't stay, I'm afraid,' Fenton had handed the empty glass to Cleo, his eyes flickering to Jude as he swaggered to the door. 'Just dropped in to offer my congratulations. Lovely lady you have, Mescal. Quite lovely.'
'I'll see you out.'
Jude's voice had been toneless as he'd followed the other man out through the door, ignoring Fenton's airy, 4No need, I can find my way.'
And Cleo had sagged against the wall, still clutching the empty glass, her hands shaking. How much had Jude heard? Panicking, she tried to force her mind to remember exactly what Fenton had been saying. Something about how clever she'd been to marry Jude's fortune in order to get her hands on her own! He would think she'd been bragging about it—and to Fenton, of all people—and plying him with the best brandy to add insult to injury!
Quickly, she put the glass on a table, drawing in deep breaths and trying to compose herself as she heard Jude's approaching steps along the hall.
'Known him long?'
The enquiry was almost polite and she said, 'About two years,' searching his eyes for a clue to his mood. But there was nothing, just a blank careful coolness, only a hint of a question in the gravelly voice.
'Just called to offer his congratulations?'
'Yes, that's right.' She was sure he must hear the lie in her voice, see it in her eyes, and she had turned away, rearranging an already perfectly balanced bowl of tulips, feeling the cool, waxy petals beneath her shaking fingers, waiting for the accusation that must come if he had indeed overheard the remark Fenton had made.
But there had been nothing, and, when she'd steeled herself to look around, the room had been empty.
And now the sun beat down from a paintbox-blue sky, shimmering on the fine golden sand, bouncing off the cluster of angular white buildings of the fishing village further down the coast.
Cleo stirred, stretching her long legs, revelling in the heat of the sun, and Jude said, so very casually, 'Turn over. You've had as much sun on your back as your skin can stand.'
Her heart picking up speed, Cleo's body went rigid and wary, very still. She hadn't heard him come over the sand. But then she wouldn't, would she? The sand was very soft and she'd been drowsing, and the hypnotic suck and drag of the waves as they lapped the shore and retreated again would have drowned out any sound he might have made.
Then he spoke again, repeating his directive, his voice sharper this time.
Recognising the sense of his command, Cleo turned, feeling the beach towel rumple beneath her, wishing she'd been more prepared. She still trod carefully through the minefield of uncertainties, unspoken anxieties, that was her week-old marriage to this man.
She fumbled for her sunglasses and put them on, something to hide behind.
There was little else. Her tiny black bikini revealed most of what there was to reveal, and she wouldn't have worn it if she'd known he would be back from that fishing trip so soon. She had imagined she had the best part of the day to herself.
'You're back early.' So light her voice, so carefully neutral. Cleo was proud of the way she was containing those creeping, unnerving anxieties, the doubts, the dread. He was looming over her and she snapped her eyes away.
Dressed in only a pair of brief black denim shorts—faded and ragged—the dark golden body which was dusted with crisp black hair seemed impossibly male, superbly athletic and very, very threatening. The sight of him made something inside her shudder, tremble with a sensation she couldn't identify.
It was fear, she told herself, primitive fear. But there was something more, something nameless.
'I didn't want to be accused of neglecting my wife.* There was a bite to his tone that she hadn't heard during the week of their marriage, and she sensed a difference in his attitude. A subtle difference that made her feel tense, more wary than ever.
It had been as much as she could do to adequately cope with the way he had been since their wedding: cool, polite, but pleasant with it. And the four days they'd been on the island hadn't been quite the ordeal she'd anticipated. He had been courteous, making sure she was content, had all she needed. And what the maid, who apparently came with the villa, thought about the arrangement of separate bedrooms, the way they spent most of their days following separate pursuits, Cleo didn't know, or care.
She clung gratefully to that separate room, her own private space, like a child counting and re-counting those last few precious days of a school holiday, because she had seen the way he looked at her from time to time, seen it and instinctively known what that look meant. He was a normal, virile male, after all, and she was his wife.
But if he was going to be tetchy because there was another week to go before he could, with honour, claim his conjugal rights—the very phrase made her squirm- then she didn't know how she could bear it. And she didn't know how she would bear it when she would be expected to share his bed. Close her eyes and think of England, she supposed! And--
'Eeek!' she yelped, her dreary thoughts sharply interrupted by a sensation of cold squelchiness, then of warmth and strength as Jude's hand began to massage sun-cream into the soft, heated skin of her naked midriff.
'I can do that!' she gabbled, galvanised into action and struggling to sit up. A mistake, she realised; h
is hand was now trapped between her updrawn thighs and her breasts.
Smoky grey eyes, wide behind dark lenses, winged sideways apprehensively, met his, and held. His ebony- fringed eyes were as blue as the improbably blue sea that sucked at the shore and, like the sea, contained small depths of clear emerald, brilliant flecks of light. The glinting lights of laughter, damn it!
He was laughing at her, not openly, but inside—which made it worse.
Laughing at her foolishly coy and virginal behaviour, making her feel foolish, clumsy and gauche.
•I know you can do it.' His husky voice came close to her ear, his breath fanning her skin as he leaned forward, prising his hand from its softly sensual trap and laying her prone on the towel again. 'But so can I, so why not just stop twittering, and lie back and enjoy?' he added, his words pricking her mind on different levels.
Other than lashing at him with hands and feet, there was nothing she could do. And fighting him physically would achieve exactly nothing. He could,-if he wished, flatten her with one hand, the muscled Strength of his naked torso left her in no doubt about that at all! Besides, it would be undignified, and it would make him think he had a hell-cat for a wife. He didn't deserve that.
And so she gritted her teeth and endured, and closed her eyes and tartly reminded herself that she had to get used to such liberties, liberties that in exactly one week's time would sharply escalate up the scale of intimacy!
They had made a bargain and she had too much respect for him, and for herself, not to keep her side of it, and she wondered whether to try self-hypnosis. Not very hopeful as to the outcome, especially when the self-prescribed treatment was instigated in a moment of panic, but willing to try anything, she silently repeated, 'I will be a good wife. I will. I will.' And eventually the silent exhortation assumed the soothing rhythm of the sea, of the gentle pressure of his hands as he massaged the cream on to her long, slender legs.
A Secure Marriage Page 5
