Bride for a Price

by Stephanie Howard

  She had her answer the following morning.

  Matthew threw her a glacial look when she demanded, tight-lipped, that he explain immediately what he had meant. ‘Very simple, my dear Olivia.’ The dark hazel eyes were steely hard as in answer he strode over to the bedside phone, lifted the receiver and dialled the operator. ‘Get me this number in England, please,’ he said in dear and careful French, so that Olivia understood every word. Then he proceeded to reel off the number of Jordan Electronics.

  As they waited in silence for the operator to call back, he sat on the edge of the unmade bed, a dark, hostile figure in a light grey suit, his eyes never leaving Olivia’s face. She stood like a nervous wraith near the doorway, hating him with every atom of her strength.

  As the phone began to shrill, he picked it up. ‘Put me through to the Legal Department.’ Then, a moment later, after a perfunctory exchange of pleasantries… ‘Those transfer papers you were working on for Garland’s—put them on hold. Indefinitely,’ he commanded.

  He laid down the phone and stood up slowly. ‘That,’ he said harshly, ‘is what I meant.’

  So it was precisely as she had feared. Olivia was close to tears. Half pleadingly, she looked at him. ‘But you can’t do that,’ she protested feebly, her heart as tight as a drum in her chest. ‘You signed a legal agreement that you would hand over Garland’s to me after we were married!’

  Matthew demolished her with a look. ‘An agreement which is not worth the paper it’s written on should I decide to have the marriage annulled.’ He paused, then proceeded on a note of menace, ‘And an annulment, in the circumstances, wouldn’t be difficult to obtain.’

  That was something she had not thought of. Olivia felt herself go pale. ‘Surely you can’t be serious!’ she wailed.

  Matthew’s eyebrows lifted in a silent indictment. ‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘You appear to be.’

  ‘But that’s different!’ she protested. ‘How can you possibly compare my objections to… the sort of intimacies you seem to expect… with this totally wilful decision on your part to break your side of the bargain? Surely even you can see there’s a world of difference between the two?’

  He smiled unkindly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t. All I can see is that you don’t seem to like being forced to take a taste of your own medicine for a change. Well, that’s too bad, my dear Olivia.’ His tone was mocking as he went on, ‘I believe in giving as good as I get. I’m afraid I’m not the soft touch you seemed to suppose.’

  Soft touch! If she had been feeling less crushed, she might have laughed. She doubted that even his mother had ever thought of him as that!

  She glared across at him in helpless anger. He was being totally unreasonable and there appeared to be little point in arguing. Totally deflated, she demanded, ‘So where do you suggest we go from here?’

  He smiled without humour, the dark eyes intransigent, as he came round the bed and stood before her. ‘Where we go, I would suggest, is up to you. As I told you before, I’m a patient man—though my patience is far from boundless, and already it’s starting to wear a bit thin…’

  As he raked her stunned and miserable form with those ruthlessly calculating eyes, Olivia suddenly felt herself tense—and burned with the memory of last night’s assault. But then, dismissively, he turned away. ‘In the meantime, where I’m going is downstairs to have breakfast. Suit yourself whether you join me or not.’

  That angry and bitter exchange more or less set the emotional tone of their relationship over the days that followed. The hours they spent alone together in the confines of the hotel were brittle and uneasy—and made all the more uncomfortable, somehow, by the faintly incongruous fact that when they were away from the hotel they actually got on surprisingly well.

  When he wasn’t being his usual overbearing, autocratic self, Matthew, Olivia was discovering, could be thoroughly agreeable and entertaining company. And it wasn’t simply because he knew Paris so well and had such a fund of stories to tell. There was an easygoing side to him that made relaxing with him easy. She was even beginning to appreciate his quirky, irreverent sense of humour.

  It was almost a pity, she found herself thinking, that they’d been forced into this ridiculous marriage. In other, less unnatural circumstances, it might have been possible for them to be friends.

  But only might, for he could change like the wind—as he roundly demonstrated one afternoon.

  As they window-shopped after an amiable lunch, he paused to gaze at the seductive display in the window of a high-class lingerie shop. ‘Which do you prefer, the black or the cream?’ he enquired with a wicked smile, indicating two gossamer nighties and their matching négligés.

  Instantly, an alarm bell started clamouring inside Olivia’s head. ‘They’re both a bit too exotic for me,’ she answered selfconsciously.

  ‘Yes, but if you had to choose, which do you prefer?’

  She hesitated, her cheeks suddenly burning. ‘Well… the black, I suppose.’

  The words were scarcely out of her mouth before he had disappeared inside the shop. Ten minutes later he re-emerged, carrying a lavishly gift-wrapped box. A devilish smile curled round his lips as he looked at her flushed, embarrassed face. ‘Don’t look so perturbed, chérie,’ he admonished. ‘Who said anything about this being for you?’

  His words had thrown her, even shocked her slightly. So the gift, appropriately, was for Celine. A jumbled mixture of irritation and relief, disappointment and anger went flooding through her. How often, she wondered, even in Paris, did a husband enlist the assistance of his wife in choosing lingerie for his mistress —particularly when they were still on their honeymoon? And again she put up a prayer of thanks that she was continuing to stand absolutely firm on the issue of their sleeping arrangements.

  That issue—like the threatened annulment —had never been raised again, though when they were alone in their suite together it hung between them like naked barbed wire. With any luck, Olivia was praying, Matthew would eventually come round to the fact that she was never going to change her mind—in spite of, or even partly because of this new threat he was dangling over her head. For there was no way she would agree to conceding sexual favours to win him round. She had already stooped low enough by agreeing, in the first place, to this marriage. But all the way down into the gutter she would never allow herself to go.

  So all she could do now was pray that his sense of honour would win through. She would not push him, she decided, as long as he did not push her. And, though he was not a man who would easily concede defeat, he must surely eventually realise that this game he was playing was not worth the fight—and that the only decent thing to do was to honour the agreement that they had made.

  In the meantime, the honeymoon was almost over, and for their very last evening together in Paris Matthew had booked a table on a bâteau mouche.

  ‘It’s a floating restaurant,’ he had explained when she had asked, ‘that wends its way up and down the Seine. I’ve never actually been on one myself, so it’ll be a first for both of us.’

  For the occasion Olivia had chosen to wear another exotic item from her new wardrobe—a sapphire blue two-piece, sculpted around the waist and hips, softly draped around the bust. And, once again, she had abandoned her unadventurous chignon in favour of the more chic, more flattering topknot.

  As she and Matthew were shown to their table, she was aware of a number of eyes on them. Admiring eyes. And she smiled to herself. Even amid all the elegant examples of Parisian manhood who were present, there was no doubt that Matthew stood out. He had an easy, panther-like grace about him that, harnessed to his naturally striking good looks, added up to the sort of man who quite unselfconsciously turned women’s heads.

  She watched him out of the corner of her eye and walked tall, knowing that this evening at least she was a match for him. Then, as she sat down opposite him at the table, she glanced round with a confident smile. Quite unaccountably, her spirits were high.

  Ma
tthew ordered champagne and they drank a toast before the meal began. ‘To Paris!’ Matthew proposed. Then, as Olivia raised her glass to endorse the sentiment, he added with a twinkle in his eye, ‘You should visit it more often. It appears to agree with you.’

  She drank and watched him over the rim of her glass. ‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean that I see before me a totally transformed Olivia. Whatever happened to the mousy little madam who arrived here with me just six days ago?’

  Olivia felt her cheeks flush slightly. Mousy little madam, indeed! Was that really the impression she had given? Instantly she felt her defences leap up as, in a faintly clipped voice, she assured him, ‘It’s only a borrowed dress and a temporary new hairdo. Underneath this exotic new plumage, I’m still just as mousy as before.’

  He smiled and brushed away the denial. ‘I’m not talking about the plumage, I’m talking about the light in your eye. I’m talking about your smile and the way your whole personality has suddenly unclenched itself.’

  Olivia laughed at the description. ‘And you think Paris has something to do with it?’

  ‘Well, something’s done it, that’s for sure.’ For a moment, the dark hazel eyes held hers, seeming to probe right down to her soul. ‘If not Paris, then what?’ he asked.

  There was nothing else it could be, yet, in sudden discomfort, she lowered her eyes.

  Matthew was still watching her. ‘Whatever’s responsible, it suits you. I must say I like this Olivia a whole lot better than the other one.’

  ‘Oh?’ She glanced up and caught the flash of humour in his eyes. ‘And what was so wrong with the other one, I’d like to know?’

  ‘Simple.’ He sat back, leaning broad shoulders against the back of his chair as he continued, minutely, to survey her. ‘This one’s a woman. The other one wasn’t.’

  ‘Oh, and what was she?’ There was a slight sting in her voice again. ‘Was she, perhaps, a man?’

  ‘No, no, she was never a man. But she was only half a woman.’ He paused, the dark eyes probing like lasers. ‘For some reason, she was struggling to turn herself into that sexless object, a businesswoman.’

  There was more than a touch of chauvinism in that remark, it occurred to Olivia. She narrowed her eyes and leaned towards him, moving from defence to attack. ‘And why should a businesswoman be considered sexless in your book? You describe yourself as a businessman. I’m sure you don’t consider that that makes you any less of a man?’

  He held her eyes. ‘I’m a businessman from nine to five, but twenty-four hours a day I’m a man. That’s where we differed, Olivia. When I first met you you seemed determined to submerge your entire identity beneath that businesswoman facade.’ His gaze brushed the contours of her face, softly, like a caress. ‘I don’t know what it was supposed to be protecting you from, but I prefer you with your armour off.’

  Suddenly, for her part, Olivia was half wishing she had kept it on. This far too accurate analysis of her secret self had brought a flame to her face and a flutter to her heart. She felt exposed, dissected, all her wordly weaknesses revealed. She was relieved as a waiter came alongside them and handed a menu to each of them in turn.

  As the man moved off, Matthew leaned across the table. Relax, Olivia,’ he urged. ‘I think we’ve peeled off enough layers for the moment.’ Then he smiled at her devilishly and threw her a wink. ‘But I warn you, the night is still young!’

  The night, however, proceeded to unfold without a hitch. It was as though they were both making an unconscious effort to end their Parisian sojourn on an agreeable note.

  And there was a surprise in store…

  It was just as they were finishing dessert that suddenly a female voice called out, ‘Matthew! I knew it was you!’ And the next instant an elegantly dressed woman about Matthew’s own age was standing alongside them, smiling broadly.

  As Matthew glanced up at her, his own face broke into a smile. ‘Chantal!’ he exclaimed, rising to his feet. ‘How wonderful to see you!’

  As they embraced like old friends and exchanged warm kisses, Olivia had to fight down a strange new sensation that suddenly twisted at her insides. She knew it could not be jealousy, but it felt remarkably similar.

  Then Matthew was turning away from the woman and towards Olivia once again. ‘Chantal, I want you to meet someone very special. This is Olivia, my new wife.’

  ‘Wife?’ The woman’s eyes widened with surprise and delight as Olivia rose to offer her hand. ‘But she’s absolutely lovely!’ she exclaimed. ‘Matthew, you wicked boy, why didn’t you tell us you were married?’

  Olivia watched with oddly mixed feelings as, without a stutter or a pause, he slipped instantly into the act he performed so well. If she hadn’t known the cold, hard truth, even she might easily have mistaken him for a lovestruck newly-wed. ‘It all happened very suddenly. And very recently. As a matter of fact, Olivia and I are here in Paris on our honeymoon.’

  Chantal beamed with doubled delight. ‘You must come at once and tell Pierre—both of you.’ She took Olivia’s arm. ‘We’re down there at the other end with a couple of Pierre’s clients from the States. Join us for coffee,’ she almost pleaded, tugging gently at Matthew’s lapel. ‘I know the two of you would rather be alone, but it’s been so long, and Pierre would love to see you.’

  There was nothing to do but succumb to her pleas, and the next three-quarters of an hour were spent in the affectionate, ebullient company of Chantal and Pierre and their American friends.

  ‘I knew Matthew when he was twelve years old,’ Chantal confided with a giggle to Olivia. ‘He was horrible!’ She curled up her nose. ‘All skinned knees and frogs in his pockets and nasty schoolboy tricks.’ Then she sighed and winked playfully across at her husband as she added, a note of mischief in her voice, ‘If I’d known how he was going to turn out, I might have tried a little harder to make him fall in love with me.’

  Matthew grinned across at her. ‘You’re far too modest, Chantal. You know perfectly well I was always in love with you.’

  ‘Hah!’ the Frenchwoman scoffed, and turned to Olivia. ‘Pay no attention to him! I was never his type—too much of a tomboy. He always preferred the gentler, more refined and feminine types. Like yourself,’ she added admiringly. ‘You’re exactly the kind of girl I always knew Matthew would end up marrying.’

  ‘She knows me so well.’ Matthew held Olivia’s eyes, the doting husband, play-acting again, and Olivia couldn’t resist observing, in an equally doting tone of voice:

  ‘He’s such an utterly shameless charmer. Was he that bad as a little boy?’

  Chantal laughed, delighted, and wagged her finger across the table at Matthew. ‘She’s got you sized up, I see!’ Then, to Olivia, ‘I’m afraid he always was a shameless charmer.’ She smiled an almost solemn smile. ‘You’re a lucky girl, you know.’

  They returned to their own table for brandy and liqueurs, having promised faithfully that next time they were in Paris they would have dinner with Chantal and Pierre. Olivia sipped her green Chartreuse, feeling faintly regretful that the promise would never be kept. They were nice people. She would have rather enjoyed meeting them again.

  But for now she was strangely, secretly pleased to have Matthew all to herself again.

  A small dance band had started playing and several couples had left their tables and made their way on to the floor. Feeling pleasantly mellow and relaxed, Olivia turned for a moment to watch, a happy smile on her lips, feet tapping cheerfully in time to the music.

  Matthew’s eyes were on her. ‘Shall we?’ he invited, reading her mood, and she nodded, glad that he had asked. Suddenly she was in the mood for dancing. With a flush of excitement she got to her feet.

  He danced well, as she had known he would, his movements natural and fluid as he guided her across the floor, the pressure of his hand against her waist firm and sure, yet soft as a whisper. The long, lean fingers clasping her own felt hard and strong, yet their grip was light, a
nd the brush of the broad chest against her breasts was warm and not at all unpleasant. She felt not a glimmer of an urge to draw away as his chin leaned softly against her cheek. She closed her eyes and drifted with the music, aware that her senses were suddenly singing. It was true what he had said earlier about Paris. It was doing magical things to her.

  At the end of that first dance, they danced some more. And then they danced some more again. But all too soon the music ended and the bâteau mouche was docking at the quayside.

  As Matthew escorted her ashore, one hand still lightly around her waist, Olivia half heard herself complain, ‘What a pity we have to go back. I could have danced all night.’

  He was smiling down at her. ‘Then there’s no reason why you can’t. There are plenty of nightclubs we can go on to if you’d rather not go back to the hotel just yet.’

  ‘But we have to get up so early tomorrow to catch our wretched flight back home.’ She sighed despondently as he hailed a cab. ‘I suppose we’d better not.’

  ‘We could always have a private little party of our own, back at the hotel,’ Matthew suggested as the cab drew up alongside them and they climbed inside.

  Olivia glanced up to meet his eyes. The proposition had a pleasing ring. ‘OK, you’re on!’ she agreed with a smile, not objecting in the least to the arm that was slipping around her, drawing her close. With a sigh, she dropped her head against his shoulder, enjoying his companionable warmth. It had been such a very special evening, she didn’t want it to end just yet.

  Back at their suite, as she kicked off her shoes, Matthew rang down to room service for a bottle of champagne while she fiddled with the radio till she found some suitable late-night music.

  ‘So, where’s the party going to be? Your room or mine?’ asked Matthew with a smile.