Bride for a Price

by Stephanie Howard

  ‘Like a log,’ Olivia lied. He was already looking far too pleased with himself, without her presenting him with a gratuitous opportunity to gloat!

  He was dressed more casually today in a blue-flecked tweed jacket and mid-grey trousers, his plain white shirt open at the neck, making Olivia reel just a little austere in her black wool skirt and matching cashmere cape.

  ‘In that case,’ he told her, quite clearly not believing a word, ‘you’ll be feeling anxious to get started with the day. I thought we could start off with a bit of sightseeing. Notre-Dame, that sort of thing.’

  Olivia eyed him across the table. ‘If you have business to attend to, please don’t feel the need to interrupt it in order to entertain me. I can quite happily look after myself.’ The truth was that nothing would suit her better than to be left in peace to her own devices.

  But Matthew, for his own perverse reasons, was quite clearly not disposed to oblige. ‘How could I possibly allow my darling bride of just one day to go wandering the streets of Paris alone?’ The caustic humour in his eyes belied the note of mock-concern in his voice. ‘Besides,’ he insisted, still mocking, ‘with a desirable young woman like you to distract him, how could a man even think of work?’

  As he said it, he held her eyes and paused to stretch his long legs out under the table, causing Olivia to snatch hers away. Idiot, she chided herself, drinking her black coffee and avoiding his eyes. They were sitting in the middle of the hotel’s crowded breakfast-room, yet he still had this disconcerting ability to make her feel threatened’ and vulnerable somehow.

  ‘If you insist,’ she answered drily, keeping her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. At least it was a relief to hear that he planned to spend the day away from the hotel. Away from the bedroom specifically. If they had to spend time together at all, the more of it that was spent out and about, the better. She was unlikely to get into any situations she couldn’t handle in the middle of the Champs Élysées!

  The morning, to her quiet astonishment, in fact went off remarkably well. Olivia was feeling much more relaxed, if a trifle footsore from tramping round the sights, when a taxi dropped them off at a little restaurant, well off the beaten track, for lunch.

  It was one of Matthew’s favourites, he had told her, a small, family-run place, all traditional check tablecloths, sturdy glass tumblers and plain white workaday plates. But the food more than justified the clutch of Michelin stars proudly displayed on the outside door. As Olivia finished off a rack of lamb that was one of the most delicious things she had ever tasted, she glanced across at her companion with a sudden twinge of curiosity.

  ‘You know Paris well, don’t you?’ she put to him. In the course of the morning that had become very clear. He knew his way around the city almost like a native, and was full of those little gems of information that the guide-books never told you.

  He helped himself to another portion of dauphine potatoes and smiled back at her mysteriously. ‘I spent a lot of time in Paris in my youth. My parents lived here for a while. My father was a musician. He taught at the Paris Conservatoire.’

  Olivia blinked at him in disbelief. ‘A musician? Your father?’ She could not have been more astounded if he had told her he was the son of the Pope.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he challenged with a smile. ‘Did you think we Jordans knew nothing about anything except electronics?’

  That was precisely what she had thought. A family of single-minded, money-making robots was how she had labelled them in her mind. ‘No doubt you were never tempted to follow in your father’s artistic footsteps,’ she observed with a touch of acid in her voice. She might have been off target in her judgement of his family, but she had him sized up accurately, she was sure.

  ‘I was never good enough to consider music as a career—and besides, if I’m honest, I was always more drawn to the world of computers. Unlike you,’ he added, unmasking her, but without the faintest trace of condescension, ‘I have a temperament more suited to business than to art.’ He smiled as she glanced away. ‘However, I do still play a bit, for my own amusement.’

  The mind boggled. ‘What do you play?’

  ‘Piano, mostly. A bit of guitar.’ He smiled at her bemused expression. ‘Don’t you believe me? I’ll play something for you, if you like. There’s a piano back at the hotel.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she assured him tautly, suddenly anxious at the mention of the hotel. And equally anxious, too, at the sudden strange intimacy between them. Deliberately, she glanced away. She did not want to know Matthew Jordan’s secrets, nor to be subjected to glimpses of his private life. She did not want to know anything about him. All she wanted was to keep him at a distance. At as great a distance as possible.

  However, she needn’t have worried. He seemed no more intent on divulging further secrets than she was on sharing them. He took a mouthful of his wine and told her with a provocative smile, ‘While we’re on the subject of things artistic… I’ve booked us a table at the Lido tonight.’

  Olivia curled her nose in distaste. ‘How nice!’ she responded, her tone barbed with irony.

  ‘I hope you’ve brought something suitable to wear.’

  She threw him a crushing look. ‘Do you mean, did I bring along my topless evening dress? No, I’m afraid I didn’t.’

  He smiled at that. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. Only the girls on stage are topless, not the audience.’

  She smiled back sarcastically. ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

  ‘It may be to you.’ He held her eyes, his expression ambiguous, bringing a faint flush to her cheeks, before adding on a more serious note, ‘So, did you bring along something suitable for such a sophisticated night out? Those prim little outfits you favour so much, I promise you, just won’t do at all.’

  Prim little outfits! She glared at him. He made her sound, sartorially, like a Women’s Institute volunteer! Stung, she straightened defensively in her seat. ‘I’m sorry that my taste in clothes is a little too restrained for you.’ An image of the blonde Celine in the striking scarlet outfit she had worn to the wedding flashed unsummoned across her mind. ‘No doubt you prefer something a little more showy.’ And more vulgar, she elaborated to herself.

  Matthew held her eyes. ‘I’ll show you what I like.’ With a cool smile, he beckoned to the waiter. ‘But let’s have coffee first.’

  He had the gleam in his eye of a man responding to a challenge, Olivia thought, as they left the little restaurant about half an hour later and climbed into a taxi. ‘Rue du Faubourg-St-Honoré,’ she heard him instruct the driver, and her heart gave an excited little squeeze as she recognised the name of possibly the most exclusive fashion street in Paris.

  Nor were they merely window-shopping, she soon discovered as Matthew bade the cab driver draw up outside a particularly well-heeled establishment, then, as soon as he had paid the fare, took her firmly by the arm and proceeded to drag her inside.

  Olivia gulped and protested weakly. In spite of his blanket condemnation of her wardrobe, she prided herself on dressing well, if somewhat conservatively. She had even been known to indulge in the occasional extravagance. But this was in another league. Without even looking at the price tags, just by the smell of the place, she could tell that one of their leather belts probably cost the equivalent of what she would spend on a winter coat.

  A salesperson with that immaculate brand of chic and grooming that only the French knew how to achieve had appeared apparently out of nowhere and was bearing down on them with a predatory smile. ‘Bonjour, madame, monsieur,’ she intoned. ‘Puis-je vous être de service?’ Can I help you?

  ‘I want something special for my wife,’ Olivia heard Matthew explain in faultless French. ‘Something for evening. Semi-formal.’

  ‘Bien.’ The woman turned to Olivia with an appraising smile. ‘Venez ici,’ she invited, and proceeded to lead her dumbstruck client to the other end of the shop, where a rail of monumentally expensive-looking silk dresses hung. Perfectly manic
ured red fingernails ran along the contents of the rail, then paused to pick out a green silk taffeta creation which was promptly held up for madame’s approval.

  From what Olivia could make out, it had a neckline that went plunging right down to the midriff and a slit up the side from knee to thigh. She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, adding with heavy irony for the benefit of Matthew, who was hovering at her side, ‘Green’s not really my colour, I’m afraid.’

  The woman turned to study the rail some more, but before she could lay hands on some other scandalous concoction Olivia stepped forward and made her own choice. ‘I like this one, she said, pointing to a black crêpe tube with just a sprinkling of diamante on the shoulders.

  But before the assistant’s fingers had time to reach for the hanger, Matthew cut in. ‘Pas noir,’ he decreed autocratically. ‘No black. That’s my only reservation.’

  Olivia made a face. ‘But I like black!’

  ‘And you already have a wardrobeful.’ Before she could argue further, he leaned forward decisively and picked a dress from off the rail. ‘This one,’ he declared, holding aloft an eye-catching cerise creation that Olivia would never normally have dared to consider.

  The sales assistant smiled her approval— ‘Parfait, monsieur!’—as Matthew thrust the garment at Olivia. ‘Try it on,’ he commanded. ‘I want to see how it looks.’

  A few minutes later, in the privacy of the dressing-room, Olivia had to admit that it looked quite stunning. It was high at the front and low at the back, and it fitted her like a second skin. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, but inwardly she was shaking her head. It was an exquisite dress, no doubt about that, but with its slinky, almost vampish cut it definitely wasn’t her. Even Matthew would realise that the moment he set eyes on her.

  ‘Quelle merveille!’ The sales assistant virtually applauded as Olivia stepped out selfconsciously from behind the dressing-room curtain. And Matthew proved himself equally undiscerning. ‘Terrific! We’ll take it,’ he responded at once.

  Olivia stared at him, aghast. ‘But it’s not my type of thing!’ she protested. ‘I couldn’t possibly appear in public in a dress like this!’

  ‘Nonsense! You can and you will. You look absolutely ravishing, my dear.’ Then, overriding her feeble dissent, he bundled into her unwilling arms a pile of carefully selected hangers bearing an assortment of elegant day dresses, stylish skirts and jewel-coloured blouses. ‘Now try these on,’ he commanded. ‘I’m not through with you yet.’

  Olivia was seething as she disappeared behind the curtain again. Who did the damned man think he was, taking her over like this? She sifted resentfully through the hangers, searching in vain for something with a familiar cut to it, something she knew she would feel comfortable in, yet knowing it didn’t matter a damn whether his choice had her approval or not. He would doubtless insist on satisfying his male vanity by buying what he had picked out anyway.

  Well, let him throw away his money if he liked! She would do likewise with the clothes as soon as she was free of him.

  She was right about him insisting on buying the lot—with one small concession to her own expressed preference. ‘Since you’ve been such a very good girl,’ he told her with a twist at the end of the marathon, ‘I’ll allow you to have the black as well.’ And, as, laden with parcels, they climbed into a taxi and headed back to the hotel, he informed her with a malicious grin, ‘Now you’re ready for Paris. And for life as Mrs Matthew Jordan.’

  For the latter she would never be ready, Olivia confided privately to herself. But for Paris, who knew? With sceptical interest at her own transformation, she regarded her reflection in the sitting-room mirror later that night, as she got ready to go out.

  She had tried on the black dress first, having reluctantly conceded that none of her own things would fit the bill, and knowing that at least in black she always felt comfortable. But something had drawn her towards the cerise, the slinky little number that had been Matthew’s first choice, and for some outlandish reason, totally inexplicable, even to herself, she had decided to stick with it. The whole situation’s crazy, she told herself. I may as well act crazy too.

  Out of habit, she had pinned her hair in a neat chignon, but it looked wrong somehow. She studied herself in the mirror. The dramatic colour and lines of the dress demanded a more dramatic hairstyle as well. Deftly she twisted her shiny dark tresses into a high topknot, then added the big, bold earrings that the woman in the shop had picked out for her. That looked better. She made a face. Well, at least it looked different.

  Matthew’s approval was less ambivalent as, with a discreet tap on the door, he came into the room. ‘The duckling has turned into a swan,’ he pronounced, coming to stand alongside her in front of the mirror.

  He was dressed in a slim dark suit, white shirt and burgundy tie, his dark hair glistening, his tanned, handsome features relaxed and smiling as he came to drape her new silk shawl about her shoulders. He looks like every girl’s dream escort, Olivia couldn’t help thinking to herself, aware of a strange, unsettling new feeling somewhere in the pit of her stomach. It was almost a pity, she decided, that he was nothing but an unscrupulous sham underneath.

  It was to be as much an evening of revelations as the day itself had been.

  The Lido was nothing like Olivia had expected. No sleazy nightclub this, and certainly no sleazy clientele. The tiered rows of tables in a hall as big as the London Palladium were packed with elegant, well-dressed couples. An air of opulence and good taste prevailed. She was suddenly immensely glad of her new dress. Anything less glamorous would have appeared dowdy—and she had to confess to a secret pleasure in the sensuous, ultra-feminine way it made her feel.

  The show itself was a million light years away from the nasty little strip-show she had been half dreading. A mixture of the Folies Bergère and Busby Berkeley, it was a veritable feast for the eyes. As the stage exploded in a riot of colour, with each scene more spectacular than the one before it, Olivia sat mesmerised, drinking in every magic minute. Never in her life before had she seen anything quite like it. Not for a long time had she enjoyed herself so much.

  ‘Well, was that so decadent?’ Matthew enquired with a smile as the final curtain came down and they sat drinking a last cup of coffee.

  Olivia was on the point of answering, ‘It wasn’t really decadent at all,’ while simultaneously acknowledging to herself that she really ought to have known all along that Matthew Jordan was not the type of tasteless man who would subject a woman to some spectacle that she might find offensive. But, for some perverse reason, she answered instead, ‘Do you take all your girlfriends to the Lido?’

  ‘You’re not my girlfriend. You’re my wife.’

  ‘Not in any real sense, thank goodness.’

  ‘That’s true. At least, for the moment.’ As his eyes locked with hers, their expression grew hard, no trace of the warmth and friendliness of before. ‘But situations,’ he warned, ‘can change.’

  ‘Not this one,’ Olivia assured him harshly, responding to the change of mood. Then she added maliciously, just for good measure, ‘So, just in case you were hoping that by bringing me to see this erotic little show you might manage to get me in the mood to succumb to your sexual advances, I’m sorry to tell you you’ve wasted your time!’

  Even as she was saying it, she felt faintly ashamed. For, in her heart, she knew perfectly well that such a gauche seduction was not his style at all. And all at once, for no reason at all, a perfectly pleasant evening had been spoiled.

  In the taxi on the way back to the hotel the two of them exchanged not a word, though Olivia was aware, from time to time, of glittering dark eyes fixed on her face. In angry silence they took the lift up to their suite—and it was only once they were safely in the privacy of their own rooms that Matthew finally retaliated.

  As, without a backward glance, she proceeded to head for the sitting-room door, he reached out and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her to hi
m in a brutal embrace.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he snarled. ‘You forgot to say goodnight.’ And the deep, dark eyes with their thick, black lashes burned down threateningly into hers as he went on, contemptuously mimicking her earlier outburst at the club, ‘That erotic little show may have failed to get my prim little wife in the mood, but it sure as hell worked wonders for me!’

  Then he was jerking her helpless body against his as his mouth ground down in a punishing kiss, strong fingers clamped against the back of her skull, making it useless for her to resist. Without preamble, his free hand moved round to administer a rough caress to her breast, probing the thin silk of her dress, sending hot, humiliating shafts through her veins.

  Olivia was gasping for breath as he devoured her roughly with his hands and his lips, her limbs trembling from the force of his assault as he paused to demand in a harsh, roughened voice, ‘So, my darling little wife, will you be sharing your husband’s bed tonight?’

  In panic and fury, Olivia drew back. ‘Never!’ she spat at him in vicious response.

  Still he held her, his fingers cruel steel, his eyes like lances as he cuttingly informed her, ‘Then perhaps you should consider the fact that you’re not the only one who can renege on a deal. Since you refuse to be my wife in any real sense, it’s equally within my power to refuse to go ahead with my side of the bargain!’

  As roughly as he had grabbed her, he released her now and pushed her bodily towards the salon door. ‘Perhaps you ought to think about that while you’re lying next door on the sofa protecting your precious cold-blooded virtue!’

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was a deeply troubled Olivia who crawled beneath the blankets on the sofa that night. What the hell had she got herself into? And what exactly had Matthew meant by that threat?

  At the time she hadn’t hung around to enquire. Her lips bruised and burning from his humiliating assault, she had staggered gratefully through the salon doorway, slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock. But throughout the night, as she tossed and turned, one question was burning in her brain. Surely Matthew hadn’t been serious about reneging on their deal? Surely she hadn’t locked herself into six months of purgatory to emerge empty-handed at the end of it all?