A Secure Marriage

by Diana Hamilton

  Suddenly, his hands were at her throat, making her heart flutter in panic as the balls of his thumbs, beneath her chin, forced her head back, forced her to read the dark intent in his eyes.

  'You will not be seeing Fenton again, and as that means you'll be deprived of the pleasures of his bed and his body, I've decided to help you.' His voice lowered to the threatening purr of a tiger and she shuddered helplessly, cold with the chill of the hating mockery that was looking at her from those narrowed, glittering eyes. 'You are one hell of a highly sexed lady, as I found out when you begged me to make love to you, when you used me to satisfy your needs in Fenton's absence. So, just to help you,' his mouth curled derisively, 'I'll make love to you until you're reeling. I'll make damned sure you know who you belong to, and you won't have enough strength left to even think of Fenton!'

  He released her suddenly. And shaken, appalled, by what she was hearing she registered his voice, coming as if from a misty distance.

  'Now get downstairs and see if Meg needs any help. Start earning your keep!'

  * * *

  Meeting Jude's sardonic eyes across the table Cleo thought, I hate him! Hate him!, then inclined her head to listen to what Sir Geoffrey was saying. He was a short, round man who loved his food—as evidenced by the way he had relished the saddle of lamb and was now enjoying a second helping of syllabub. No doubt he would make hearty inroads into the cheese- board, Cleo decided, thus prolonging the agony of having to sit opposite Jude with his sardonic eyes and derisive endearments. But at least Sir Geoffrey's appetite made up for her lack of one, although Jude would have noticed, she conceded edgily, picking up her wineglass and drinking recklessly. He had hardly taken his eyes from her throughout the meal. It was a subtle form of torture.

  Whenever she had glanced up at the cold, hard, self- righteous devil, she had found him watching her with those clever, knowing, shaming eyes. And her skin had crawled with hot colour as she'd recalled his threat to make love to her until she reeled—and why. And so she had looked his way as little as possible, putting her mind to conversing with Sir Geoffrey and Hilda, his scrawny, overdressed wife.

  Neither of them would know that things were very far from perfect between the handsome, urbanely charming chief executive of Mescal Slade and his new wife. They wouldn't be able to read behind the cynicism of his superficial smiles, those lying words of endearment, to the utter contempt he felt for her.

  So much for her stupid belief that she only had to talk rationally to him to make him listen to her because he, more than anyone else she knew, was rational to his fingertips. And how could she have ever believed she could make things right between them again? Her arrogant husband had made up his mind. As far as he was concerned she was devious,, sly, unfaithful and greedy, and that was that. No amount of pleading or explaining on her part would make him change his mind.

  And so she wouldn't demean herself by pleading for a fair hearing ever again!

  Unguardedly, she caught his eyes again, saw the hateful, mocking gleam as he answered a gushing request Lady Blair had just lobbed into the air.

  'I'm sure Cleo will let you have the recipe for the syllabub, Hilda. Won't you, my darling?' And, expounding hatefully, his long strong fingers toying idly with his silver fruit knife, his smile holding a savagery only Cleo could detect, 'I'm fortunate in having such a devotedly domesticated wife. She, I'm delighted to say, neglects no area of my—comfort.'

  'Such a beautiful wife, too,' Sir Geoffrey chimed in gallantly, and Cleo felt her face burn with rage because domesticated she was not, and Jude knew it, and his reference to 'comfort' had an entirely different connotation.

  Hoping the Blairs would attribute her fiery colour to new-bride embarrassment over Jude's seeming compliment, she plastered a smile on her face.

  'I'll ask Meg for the recipe, of course. Now, shall we have coffee in the drawing-room, Hilda? Leave the men to what will probably be interminable business talk.'

  Thankfully, Hilda was a talkative lady and Cleo only needed to make smiling responses now and again, so she should have been able to relax, but she didn't. Sooner or later their guests would leave. And then what? Would Jude walk away from her with icy contempt, or would he make good his threat to make love to her until she couldn't even think? Both options made her feel physically ill. She didn't want to be alone with him.

  Almost hysterically, she wondered what Sir Geoffrey and his wife would say if she begged them to stay for the night—for the rest of the week, for the rest of the month!

  Curbing the impulse to stride around the room, pulling, her hair out by the handful, she injected what she prayed were the right noises into Hilda's non-stop chatter and almost leapt out of her skin when the door opened and Jude brought Sir Geoffrey through.

  The tubby little man looked pleased with life, rubbing his hands together, his smile effusive, and from that, and Jude's look of grim satisfaction, Cleo deduced that Jude had won the Blair and Dowd account, which was what he'd been angling for.

  It wasn't long before their guests left and the house was silent, the only sound Cleo was aware of was her own shallow breathing. And she scrambled to her feet as Jude came back into the drawing-room, closing the door behind him, leaning against it as he untied his tie, his eyes never leaving her face.

  'How much have you been able to gather from the Slade Securities books? I take it you made a start on them while I was away?'

  About to tell him she was on her way to bed—the frosty words on the edge of her tongue—she stared right back at him, her heart jerking. Did he have to be so cold, so unforgiving? Not that there was actually anything to forgive, but he wouldn't believe that in a million years.

  If only, a desperate little voice in her mind nudged, if only they could start conversing normally again, together about something in which they shared a common interest, then maybe she could find a way through to him and force him to accept he'd been wrong about her.

  'As far as I've been able to tell, it's looking pretty groggy.'

  She forced a level tone, forced herself to return to a chair. She had to stay calm. This wasn't personal, this was business, and they were perfectly attuned on that level, she had to remember that. But could she hold her own, given the churning state of her emotions? She doubted even that when he shot, smooth as ice, 'And?'

  Her eyes clouded, and her hands felt clammy. He clearly expected her to have some idea of how to remedy the situation, and he was short on patience. But she hadn't been able to bring her usual concentration to the project—how could she, when her equilibrium had been shattered by what had happened? Not to mention her worries about what Robert Fenton might decide to do next!

  'I'm waiting to hear your conclusions.' He had removed his tie now, his jacket, and the whiteness of his shirt contrasted starkly with the depth of his tan, his crisp, dark hair, the close-fitting black trousers that skimmed long, lean legs. He was standing, a brandy- glass in his hand, but although he was still there was a restlessness in him she could feel, an intimation of tension in the way he held his head.

  'I honestly don't know.' She was on the defensive now. 'I haven't begun to form any conclusions. I've had too much on my mind,' she qualified with a bitterness she couldn't hide.

  'Like Fenton?' he came back immediately, his mouth tightening, and Cleo felt drained and hopeless, her face paper-white. What was the use? What

  was the use?

  'No, not Fenton,' she told him wearily, and felt her head begin to ache. It wasn't the strict truth, of course. Fenton had been on her mind, but not for the reasons Jude persisted in believing.

  And her depression deepened when he stated flatly, 'I don't believe you. But you're going to have to root him out of your mind and start concentrating on how to pull Slade Securities out of the mire. After all,' he slammed his empty glass down on the drinks table, making her flinch with the leashed violence of the action, 'I've a sizeable interest in the company now—you signed your shares over to me as a payment for the right to
get your hands on enough ready cash to satisfy your lover, remember? So when you've come up with a few ideas, let me know, and we'll discuss them.' He picked up his suit jacket and hooked it over his shoulder. 'I'm going to bed now, and I suggest you do, too.' He paused at the door, his voice cutting, 'I don't need to remind you that those shares were only a down payment for my services as your husband.

  And I intend to extract what's owing. With interest.'

  He closed the door quietly behind him and she stared at its blank surface mutinously. There was no way she was going to climb into the huge bed they had shared since returning from their honeymoon. No way on God's sweet earth! Tight with rage, she paced the room, pouring herself a generous dose of brandy and swallowing it recklessly.

  She was seeing a side of him she hadn't known existed. She had always admired his objectivity, his ability to see all sides of a given situation, a given problem, his careful weighing of every angle. But in this situation he was seeing only the side he wanted to see, refusing to admit there could be another. And that wasn't like the man she had come to know, like and respect. He was acting out of character, being deliberately cruel, and his treatment of her was an insult.

  Every time he killed her attempts to tell him the truth he insulted her. And if he thought she was going to sharehis bed then he had to be out of his mind!

  And if she had any sense at all she would walk out on him now and never come back. And he could whistle for what he thought she owed him!

  But walking out would point to her . guilt—in his jaundiced eyes, it would!

  He would believe she had gone to Fenton. And besides, she admitted drearily, she still loved him, believed, crazily, that there was still a chance for them. Somewhere.

  But tonight she wouldn't sleep with him.

  There was a slip of a dressing-room adjoining the master bedroom and it contained a narrow bed. Jude had used it for the first two nights after their wedding because she had stipulated they wouldn't sleep together for the first two weeks of their marriage.

  He had respected her wishes, for some reason choosing to use the tiny room rather than the far more comfortable guest-room. And she had admired him for that, for the way he had Obviously wanted to spare her any puzzled looks she might have received from Meg. He had been a different man then, she thought miserably as she made her way reluctantly upstairs. He was a frightening stranger now.

  She couldn't use the dressing-room, of course, so Meg would have to draw her own conclusions. Because even if Jude were already asleep, which she doubted, he would hear her and wake no matter how quietly she moved across the bedroom. But she had to sleep somewhere and the guest-room was the only other choice, because she wasn't sleeping with him. She had too much pride to share intimacy with a man who hated and despised her, even if he was her husband.

  The bed in the guest-room was always kept made up and aired, and the room itself was only slightly less luxurious than the one she and Jude had shared until now. But she wasn't interested in her surroundings, and a sob built up in her throat, hurting, as she unzipped her dress and reflected that her marriage, which had once seemed to hold so much promise, was dead before it had properly come alive.

  Clad only in a pair of midnight-blue satin briefs and tiny matching bra, she pulled back the bedcovers and viewed the cool linen sheets with less than enthusiasm.

  'I prefer our bed,' Jude said, from right behind her, and before she knew what was happening he had scooped her up into his arms and her eyes widened with shock, for one still second, before she realised exactly what was happening and began to pummel her fists against his naked chest.

  'What the hell do you think you're doing?' she spat, burningly, shamingly aware of his near nakedness, and hers. He was wearing only silky pyjama bottoms, and her scantily covered breasts were pressed against the warm satin of his skin. And, shamingly, a sheet of heated sensation flooded her body at the contact and she grew still, her body painfully rigid as she tried to hold herself away from him.

  Her breath caught in her throat, a dry, painful sob, as he carried her out of the room. She would not be manhandled this way, but her renewed struggles had no effect at all on his effortless stride as he carried her along the dimly lit corridor to their own room.

  'I'm taking you to my bed, where you belong,' he answered her angry question tersely. 'Scream if you like. The Thornwoods are safely tucked up in their quarters at the rear of the house. I doubt if they'd hear if you blew a trumpet.'

  Pushing the bedroom door shut behind him with his foot, he crossed the pale ochre wool of the carpet in three long strides, dropping her to the smooth olive green cover of the bed and was down on top of her, his hips pinning her to the mattress, before she could move.

  'This will be rape,' she warned throatily, her eyes glittering feverishly between the tumbled strands of her silkily silver hair, her breath coming quickly, making the rounded peaks of her breasts rise and fall rapidly.

  'I don't think so.' He captured her clenched and flailing hands in one of his and shifted slightly, making her aware of his arousal, and she moaned, low in her throat, just once, as his lips descended to take hers.

  Desperately, she clamped her mouth shut, trying to ignore the fever of need he was already arousing within her as his tongue forced her lips apart. But, as she had unconsciously known he would, he won that battle and she capitulated weakly to the insistent pressure of his mouth. And then, as if he knew he had her subdued, mindless, he trailed moist kisses down the length of her throat and on and down to circle her breasts, tormenting the aroused peaks until she could have screamed her frustration, her unwilling yet insistent need.

  Then, gently, he eased the fabric of her bra aside, revealing first one tautly inviting breast and then the other, and she writhed frantically beneath him, moaning her rejection of the way he made her feel.

  He had warned her that he would make love to her until she couldn't think straight, and this was precisely what he was doing.

  Before, when they had made love, she had welcomed him eagerly, lovingly, knowing that at least he cared for her, that he found her body and her wanton response to him exciting. But this was something else, and, as he bent his dark head to suckle on the rosy-peaked breasts her traitorous body offered in open invitation, she made one last feeble attempt to stop him.

  'Leave me alone!' It was a plea, a muted cry of despair, and she heard a rough echo of that despair in his voice as he derided,

  'I would if I damned well could!'

  And his mouth closed over one taut nipple, sucking moistly, making blind desire kick to urgent life inside her and she was lost in the devastating sensation of his hands, his mouth, his body, as he kissed and fondled every inch of her silky, sweat-slicked skin until she was ready to beg him to take her.

  And then, poised above her accepting body, his face flushed with the dark blood of desire, he held her thrashing head in his hands, held it still so that she had no option but to meet the blaze of triumph in his eyes as his potent maleness tantalisingly nudged her ardent, feminine moistness.

  'Who am I?' Vivid blue eyes froze her soul yet seared her senses, and her body grew still, waiting, tormented, uncomprehending.

  'Do you know who I am, what I am?' he insisted, and she closed her eyes, her body aching for the relief only he could bring, the relief he was withholding.

  He was playing games with her, and she shuddered hopelessly as his voice ground out, 'Open your eyes, damn you! Look at me. I'm not Fenton, so don't even try to pretend I am! I'm your husband, the man who is going to make love to you, again and again, until you don't know who you are or what you are, until all you can know, feel, taste, think, is me!'

  And then he took her, almost savagely, as if he would never have enough of her, as time and time again he forced her to the delirious heights of shaming ecstasy.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CLEO tried to make her mind focus on what she was doing as she neared the bottom of the escalator. Stepping off, she took a fir
mer grip on her briefcase and was swept along with the tide of home-bound commuters. The Underground in the rush-hour was hell. But then, wasn't everything, these days?

  This afternoon, spent with Luke in his office, had been grim. He'd made no effort to hide his dislike. And in her heightened emotional state it had been difficult to take. But she'd managed, though heaven only knew how, ignoring his scathing, 'Wonder Woman to the rescue!' as he'd scanned her outlined proposals for the salvaging of Slade Securities.

  'Jude's approved this, I take it?' He'd finally laid the papers aside. 'Or is the whole proposal his brainchild?'

  His derisive look had told her that, no matter what she said, he'd would never believe a mere female could come up with such precise figures and projections. He couldn't believe it because it would damage his ego. As far as he was concerned, only a masculine mind was capable of a clear-sighted and logical grasp of finance.