CHAPTER ONE

by The Devil's Kiss (html)

  'Relax.' Warren tried to reassure her on the way down. 'They'll be crazy about you.'

  They would certainly try to be, for his sake, Miranda thought, looking at him. But they were bound to wonder where on earth he'd found such a pitiable creature. Miranda didn't like that description of herself and when they reached his home in Hampshire pride came to her rescue; she got out of the car and tossed back her hair, lifting her chin to defiantly face the day. His parents were kind, welcoming, but Miranda knew full well that she was on trial and it took a great effort to get through the day. When it was over and the house was out of sight at last, she crumpled like a puppet which had had its strings cut. Warren immediately stopped the car and took her in his arms.

  'You did wonderfully well, Miranda.' He stroked her hair. 'I was proud of you.'

  She gave a long sigh, her head against his shoulder. 'You haven't got any more relations, have you?'

  He laughed. 'None to worry about.'

  'Good.' She moved away from him. 'I don't want to go through that again in a hurry.'

  Now that the ordeal was Over, Miranda fell asleep, and was still deeply asleep when they reached Docklands. Undoing his strap, Warren turned to look at her, curled in the seat, a look of innocent vulnerability in the soft shadows of her face. An odd, almost bitter look came into his eyes as he studied her, then Warren bent to kiss her awake.

  Miranda woke slowly, murmuring something against his lips, and not knowing where she was, but then she realised that she was being kissed and reached up to put her arms round Warren's neck, returning his kiss with dreamy voluptuousness. It was only when his kiss deepened sharply that Miranda came fully awake and realised where she was. She gave a little laugh, and sat up. 'Have I really been asleep that long? I'm sorry, it must have been a boring drive for you.'

  'Not at all,' he said politely.

  He walked with her to her door, waited until she'd turned the key, but, instead of saying goodnight as he usually did, Warren put his hand over hers, and waited till she looked at him. 'Would you like me to stay?'

  It was the first time that he'd asked, although she'd often expected him to. After all, he was going to marry her; he was entitled to some reward, wasn't he? She bit her lip, then shook her head silently, unable to find a kind way of saying no.

  She sensed his withdrawal. 'Goodnight, then. I'm sorry I'm going to be away for the next couple of days but I'll come round on Wednesday evening and we'll finalise our plans for the wedding.'

  'Yes. OK. Goodnight.'

  Miranda went into the flat, thinking that his last words had almost been a threat, because she was refusing to fall in with his wishes about the wedding. Warren wanted them to be married from her local church in Norfolk, to have a proper white wedding, in fact. But to Miranda, the thought of walking down the aisle in a white dress was completely hypocritical. No matter that countless thousands of girls in her condition had already done so; to her it felt wrong and nothing could change that. The fact that theirs wasn't a love match also had a lot to do with it, but this Miranda didn't voice. She wanted to get married in a register office, here in London, and just let their families know when it was all over.

  When Warren came round on Wednesday she was ready to fight for her way, and was more than willing to say that or nothing. But Warren, as he constantly did, took the wind out of her sails by saying that he'd thought it over and was willing to settle for a register office. 'In fact, I've already booked the ceremony for two weeks on Saturday,' he told her.

  'You have?' She gave him an indignant look. 'You might have asked me if that was OK first?'

  Warren raised a sardonic eyebrow. 'Of course, if you have a more pressing engagement I'll cancel it.'

  She laughed, surprising him. 'No, I don't have any prior engagement. Thanks for giving in over the church wedding. I don't think I could have gone through all that dressing-up and having all the relations watching and wondering. Not when—well, you know, when it's such a sham.'

  A rueful look came into Warren's eyes, but it was explained when he said, 'I've already phoned our parents and told them the date of the wedding. They'll all be coming down, but I've explained that we want a quiet ceremony with just them present.'

  'You had no right to do that,' Miranda burst out. 'They—they'll know! They must have guessed.'

  'Yes, I expect so,' Warren answered calmly.

  Her voice sinking to a whisper, Miranda said tightly, 'What did they say?'

  'That they'd be there. What else?'

  Picking up a cushion, Miranda knelt down with her head on the floor and put the cushion over it. 'My dad will kill me,' came the muffled groan.

  Warren laughed. 'He's far more likely to take his shotgun to me. And your father told me that he's an extremely good shot.' Lying down beside her on the floor, he lifted up the cushion. 'Is this a private ostrich act or can anyone join in?'

  'I wish you hadn't told them.'

  'They had to know some time.' Tossing the cushion aside, Warren drew her down beside him, her head pillowed on his arm. 'Don't worry about it. It will all be over in a couple of weeks. I'm only sorry that the move to the, new building is going ahead now and we won't be able to get away for a proper honeymoon. I think it would have done you good to get away to the sun for a while. As it is, we'll have to settle just for a weekend away, but I promise I'll take you somewhere extremely exotic just as soon as I can.'

  'I'd like that.' Tilting her head, Miranda looked round the room. 'I shall miss this place.'

  'Yes, I'm sure you will. But my flat will be much more convenient for us until we can find a house with a garden for the baby.'

  The baby, she thought. Everything revolves round that now. I suppose it will for the rest of my life. And because of it I shall be married in two weeks' time. I shall be Mrs Warren Hunter, and Miranda Leigh, career-girl, will be nothing but a lost ghost of the past. I shall be Warren's wife, my child's mother, my parents' daughter, even Rosalind's sister, but where's me, where will I be?

  'What are you thinking?'

  She turned to look at Warren, thinking again how good-looking he was. Many women must have loved him in the past, might even have tried to set this trap for him, but she had tried so hard to avoid it. And yet they were to be married, although they wouldn't be lovers, not in the true sense of the word. A sense of desolation filled her. Slowly she said, 'We'll be man and wife. There'll be no you, or me, any more.'

  Lifting up his hand, Warren stroked the hair from her face, then began to kiss her. Miranda re¬sponded willingly enough, and moaned when he undid the buttons of her shirt to explore her breasts, but presently his hand strayed to the zip of her jeans and pulled it down, moved inside. Immediately she stiffened and tried to draw away.

  'We won't hurt the baby by making love, Miranda; it's too soon for that.'

  Her hands clenched in distress. 'No, I know, but... Couldn't we...? We—we'll be married in two weeks' time.'

  A grim note crept into Warren's voice. 'And you want to wait till then; is that what you're trying to say?'

  She gave him an imploring look. 'Yes. Please.'

  Warren hesitated, wondering whether to force the issue, but then sighed. 'All right, Miranda, if that's what you want. We'll wait till we're married.' He gave a sudden harsh laugh. 'But in the circum¬stances I can hardly believe it!'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS a fine day for the wedding, although Miranda hardly noticed the weather. She was a bag of nerves, her eyes dark-shadowed by lack of sleep. Her parents had travelled down the day before and she had spent the evening with them at their hotel. It hadn't been pleasant; her father—a plain-speaker at the best of times—had been downright angry, and her mother upset. 'You could at least have had a proper wedding instead of this hole-and-corner affair,' her mother said more than once.

  In the end Miranda had silenced them by rounding on them and blurting out, 'You should be pleased I'm getting married at all. I didn't want to; it wasn't my idea.'

  As s
he got ready, Miranda wondered whether Warren had been getting the same kind of stick from his parents, but decided he was man enough to handle it. She dressed carefully in the outfit that she'd taken a long time to choose. Not because there wasn't an ocean of choice in London, but because she hadn't been able to make up her mind what would be right. She didn't feel like a bride so didn't want anything full and pretty, and definitely nothing in white, so in the end had settled for a rather severe, long-jacketed suit in blue, but couldn't resist a dream of a hat that exactly matched it, and which looked very sophisticated when worn with her hair up.

  The wedding was grim, with both sets of parents meeting each other for the first time and trying to pretend that it was a happy occasion. Rosalind was there, too, having insisted on travelling down from York, and she flushed deeply when she saw Miranda arrive at the register office. Immediately guessing her thoughts, Miranda went over to her and took her hand. 'You shouldn't have come,' she said quietly. 'I didn't want you to be upset.'

  'Why didn't you—do what I did?' Rosalind whispered back.

  Miranda gave a small smile and touched her sister's cheek. 'I'm not as strong as you.'

  Rosalind stared at her, would have said something else, but Miranda squeezed her hand and moved away to greet Warren's parents.

  Afterwards Miranda couldn't recall a word she'd said or any of the vows they'd made at the ceremony. She stood beside Warren, who seemed more than ever a stranger in his immaculate dark suit, and repeated what she was told to say. But halfway through she glanced at all the long, solemn faces of the watching relations and her voice fal¬tered. Lord, they might have been at a funeral rather than a wedding. Suddenly she was filled with a fit of the giggles and had to put a hand up to her mouth to cover them. Warren looked at her in concern, then saw the flash of laughter in her eyes. His own widened in surprise, but then he gave her an answering grin and his hand tightened on hers so that for a few blessed minutes she forgot everyone else and thought only of him.

  The ceremony over, they posed for a few photo-graphs before driving to a nearby restaurant for lunch. Everyone was very polite to each other and the parents did their best, but Warren's father was an architect and hers a farmer, so they had little in common. And the mothers were patently blaming each other's offspring for the situation and trying not to show it.

  'You haven't even got a wedding-cake,' Miranda's mother said to her in a grieved undertone.

  'Haven't we? I don't expect Warren's imagination ran to a cake.'

  'Warren's? Didn't you order this meal, then?'

  'No. He did it all: the meal, the ceremony, the flowers.' And she reached out a finger to gently touch one of the pale yellow roses in the bouquet he had given her.

  Her mother gave her an odd look. 'Miranda, are you sure you're doing the right thing?'

  Miranda laughed, but there was a jarring note to it that made everyone look at her. She flushed and said, 'Of course,' trying to sound convincing.

  Shortly afterwards everyone drank a toast to them and Warren stood up to make a brief speech in reply, referring to her more than once as his wife, which felt very odd. It came as a great relief when he said it was time for them to leave.

  Outside the restaurant Rosalind showered con¬fetti over them, which was such a surprise that tears came into Miranda's eyes. The sisters hugged tightly and Miranda pushed her flowers into Rosalind's hands. 'Here, look after this for me.' Then she was saying goodbye to everyone else and Warren was helping her into the Lotus.

  It was too low for a hat; Miranda had to duck down while she waved goodbye and then took a couple of minutes taking off the hat and re-pinning her hair, which gave her a little time in which to face up to being married and on the way to her honeymoon. As they could only get away for a weekend, their destination was less than a couple of hours' drive away, to a country hotel in Shropshire. Warren had asked her where she would like to go, but Miranda had left it to him, as she had left all the arrangements for the wedding.

  'You OK?' he asked now. Adding with a grin, 'Not feeling car-sick?'

  She smiled briefly in return. 'No, I'm fine.' Then sighed. 'I'm glad it's over. I expect they are, too.'

  'Don't worry, they'll soon get used to the idea. My mother has been longing for a grandchild for years.' He glanced at her. 'Why don't you take a nap?'

  Leaning back against the head-rest, Miranda closed her eyes but she didn't sleep. The wedding might be over but tonight was going to be an even bigger ordeal, because she'd run out of excuses. Tonight, when Warren took her to bed, he would insist on making love. Well, that was OK, wasn't it? It had been good between them before and he would make it so again. But last time had been so different, Miranda thought wistfully. Then they had been drawn together by a mutual need, fuelled by a sensual awareness that had overcome them both. Plus the booze, of course, she thought with an inner stab of bitter irony. But this time, what would it be? Sex on Warren's part, of course, because she knew that he wanted her, and her putting him off had only increased his need. And on hers? Duty? Keeping her part of the bargain?

  Miranda's hands tightened in her lap and she bit her lip hard, knowing it would be neither of those things. For her it would be as it had been before but increased a hundredfold, for there would be love there, too. Because somewhere along the line she had fallen head over heels in love with Warren, but hadn't realised it until it was too late to draw back, until there was no way she could have drawn back. And that was why she was so reluctant and afraid to go to bed with him: because she knew he didn't love her and she couldn't bear to see him turn away from her again.

  When they reached the hotel they were given tea in a room with a big inglenook fire, before going for a walk round the grounds. It was the beginning of March and there was a carpet of snowdrops on the slope leading down to a narrow river, and they had to be careful where they trod to avoid the fat-budded daffodils. They walked hand in hand, and, by pretending that they were really in love, Miranda knew a period of pure contentment. If only it could always be like this; if only it were true. When it grew dusk they walked back to the hotel and went up to their room, taking it in turns to use the bathroom to change as if this were a real wedding-night, and she an innocent virgin.

  Miranda kept her hair up for dinner, wearing a deep red velvet dress with a square neck and long sleeves, and a wide black belt at her still-narrow waist. Dinner was an excellent meal but Miranda didn't eat much and Warren only allowed her one glass of wine, for fear of harming the baby. After¬wards they sat in the lounge with the other guests to drink their coffee, but it wasn't long before Warren reached out to take her hand. Glancing up, she saw the dark, undisguised flare of need in his eyes and gave a small gasp. He stood up, his eyes still on hers, and Miranda got slowly to her feet.

  Drawing her out of the room, he put his arm round her waist and held her close to his side as they went up the stairs.

  There was a lamp already burning in the room. By its light Warren reached up to take the pins from her hair and let it cascade over his hands. Then, his hands still in her hair, he began to rain tiny kisses on her face, exploring each feature with his lips as if he had never touched her before, as if she was very fragile and precious. Then his hands went to her clothes, removing them slowly, one by one, kissing her soft white skin as the removal of each garment revealed it to his eyes. Miranda stood very still, her eyes closed, letting him do what he wanted. As his touch and his kisses became more intimate, her breathing quickened, until at last there was nothing left to take off.

  Slowly, then, she opened her eyes to find him watching her, his face dark with naked desire. He seemed to be waiting and for a moment she didn't understand, but then she lifted her hands and began to undo his tie.

  The sheets of the bed struck chill to her hot body, reminding Miranda of their night in the snow. But the room smelt of the flowers that Warren had filled it with, whereas the Chimera had smelt of damp and diesel. He laid her in the bed, then lay down beside her, the lamp st
ill on, the covers drawn back. 'You're so beautiful, Miranda,' he murmured thickly. 'So lovely.' His hand went over her, warm, caressing, making her gasp and move sensuously. He kissed her again in growing, urgent passion and she could sense the anticipation in him as he moved over her.

  Immediately Miranda grew tense, rigid. Desper¬ately she tried to relax, telling herself that it would be all right, all right. But then she felt his hand on her thigh and suddenly she had pushed Warren aside and jackknifed out of bed. 'I can't! I just can't!' She ran to the end of the room and cowered in a corner, shaking convulsively.

  For a moment there was a shattering silence in the room, then Warren leapt across to her and jerked her out of the corner. 'What the hell are you playing at?'

  'I'm sorry, but I can't. Not in cold blood.'

  'Not in... What's that supposed to mean, for God's sake?'

  Miranda tried to pull away, to cover herself, but he had hold of her wrists in a vicelike grip. Desperately she tried to control her voice, but could only manage, 'Last time. We—we'd had a lot to drink. So—so ...'

  Warren stared down at her in incredulous comprehension. 'You can only make love when you're drunk! Is that what you're saying?'

  'No. Yes. I don't know! I only know that I can't now,' Miranda returned in deep distress. 'Let me go, Warren, please.'

  But he was too angry to listen. 'I've been as patient with you as I damn well know how. And for what? To be told you can't make love unless you're drunk. Or is it only me that you can't go to bed with unless you're sozzled out of your mind?'

  Shaking her head as if it hurt, she said, 'You don't understand; I want to go to bed with you, but I—I just can't. I'm sorry.'

  'You're right, I don't damn well understand. Were you like this with Graham?'

  'I never went to bed with Graham,' Miranda flared in sudden anger.

  Warren stared grimly into her face. 'After tonight I have no trouble in believing that.' Slowly he relaxed his grip and turned away. Picking up their robes he threw her one and put on his own. 'So where the hell does that leave us?'