The Bride's Secret

by Helen Brooks

  Idris and Fatima had been in the group once or twice, both of them waving and nodding to her on the occasion when—the night before—they had caught her eye, and, ridiculously, it had somehow seemed to make things worse.

  So now, as Marianne left the lift and walked purposefully into the dining room, she carried her head high and held her back straight in spite of the trembling in the pit of her stomach that threatened to communicate itself to her legs. He could have a whole bevy of females dancing attendance for all she cared, she told herself viciously. It was nothing to her. He was nothing to her.

  'Hi there.'

  She had just been seated at a secluded table for two in a discreet, quiet corner of the dining room by her favourite waiter, after explaining that the rest of her party had left earlier, when Hudson's deep, husky voice caused her eyes to freeze on the menu before she nerved herself to raise her head.

  'Hello.' She was eternally grateful that he was alone—the way she had been feeling all day, she might well have burst into tears if his girlfriend had been with him, which would have been the ultimate humiliation. She even managed a fairly normal smile to match her cool voice.

  'Are you dining alone?' he asked softly.

  Her heart had given the most incredible lurch as her eyes had registered the dark, latent power in the big, immaculately clothed male body and powerfully handsome face, and now all she could do was nod weakly in answer to his enquiry, not trusting her voice.

  'Then do you mind if I join you?' he asked with easy confidence.

  'I… That is… '

  'Why don't I just sit down while you make up your mind?'

  It was the cool arrogance that put steel in her backbone, and she found herself saying, in tones that could only be described as tart, 'Because I might not want you to.'

  Too late.' He smiled, but the glittering gaze was intent on her face. I'm seated now, and it really wouldn't do to cause a scene on your last night, would it?' he suggested mockingly.

  'I don't care.' And at that moment she didn't; she really didn't.

  'Ah, fighting talk.' He leant back in the chair, stretching slightly as he surveyed her with narrowed eyes, before saying, 'Then take pity on the other diners if nothing else. They are just out to have a pleasant meal in comfortable surroundings. Don't deprive them of what is—after all—just a passing pleasure.' He looked very satisfied with himself and it rankled unbearably.

  'And you are an authority on passing pleasures.' The moment the words had left her lips she could have kicked herself. The last thing—the very last thing—she wanted him to think was that she was bothered, in any way, by his relationship with the redhead; the probability that he would assume she was jealous was not to be borne. She had to think before she spoke!

  'Retract those claws, pussycat,' he murmured drily. 'I'm suggesting we share a table for dinner, that's all.'

  The appearance of a smiling wine waiter, who was all white teeth and slicked-down black hair, stopped the angry retort she was about to hiss at Hudson, which was probably just as well, she reflected wryly as Hudson ordered a superior bottle of wine from the wine menu. This situation needed coolness, composure and calm control. But knowing it and doing it were two vastly different things.

  'And where is the gentle, good-natured Keith?' Hudson drawled lazily, parodying her earlier description of Keith with a cruel smile, once the wine waiter had departed with an attentive bow.

  She glared at him, biting back the furious retort hovering on her tongue with extreme difficulty. She didn't want to reveal that the others had already left Tangier because that would involve an explanation as to why she had stayed on, and suddenly the fact that she was taking a holiday alone was… embarrassing. She could have asked any one of a number of friends to accompany her—in fact several had suggested it when they had heard of her plans—but she hadn't wanted company. However, Hudson might assume she was alone through necessity—not choice—and the image of a tall, slim female with flaming red hair made that possibility unbearable.

  She shrugged carefully, forcing herself to think before she spoke. 'Keith? Why should I know where he is? I told you before, I work for him, that's all. He certainly doesn't have to answer to me for his whereabouts.'

  'I don't see any of the others around either.' He moved casually in his chair, glancing round the dining room with narrowed eyes before turning back to her. 'Are they joining you later?'

  'No.' She tried, very hard, for a languid nonchalance as she said, 'I was looking forward to eating alone for once, as it happens,' with a pointed lift of her fine eyebrows.

  'Oh, you do know where Keith is, then?' he asked easily.

  'Hudson, I don't care where Keith is.' There, she had gone and bitten back when she had wanted to do just the opposite, she thought tightly. But as always his casual coolness had hit her on the raw. He was so—so irritating.

  'Charming,' he drawled softly with infuriating censure. 'Is that really the way a devoted employee should refer to her boss? Especially when he's brought you to such a beautiful part of the world. Some would consider it the height of ingratitude.'

  'I happen to be working,' Marianne snapped angrily. 'This is not a holiday, in case you hadn't noticed.'

  'Of course it isn't,' he murmured, his voice coolly patronising.

  She took a long, deep, hard pull of air and counted to ten—and then another ten—before saying, in tones of honeyed sweetness, 'And your friends? They aren't around tonight?'

  'Sadly, no.' He smiled lazily. 'So it's just you and me.'

  The wine waiter reappeared at that moment, his wide smile bright and ingratiating, and by the time the ritual of tasting and approving had been completed another waiter was hovering for their order. The activity eased the atmosphere a little, but Marianne found her heart was still hammering against her breastbone when Hudson's glittering gaze stroked her flushed face some moments later, once they were alone.

  'It must soon be time for you to return to England,' he said idly, his long fingers playing with the stem of his wine glass and his eyes fixed tightly on hers. 'I take it the job's nearly finished?'

  'Yes.' She nodded, without elaborating, and said quickly, 'When do you leave for the States?'

  'In a few days.' He eyed her impassively. 'I'm in no rush.'

  'Oh.' Talk, say something, get the conversation away from departure dates, she told herself agitatedly. 'Back to masses of work, no doubt?' Oh, how banal; couldn't you do better than that, Marianne? she thought caustically. Riveting conversation it wasn't.

  'No doubt.' He continued to survey her with intent dark grey eyes for one moment more before straightening in his seat, his expression suddenly clearing and his smile dangerously innocent. 'But tell me some more about your work, Annie,' he said gently. 'It's clearly something that absorbs you and that you're good at.'

  She looked at him very hard, trying to appraise whether there was a hidden meaning to the apparent interest, but decided to accept his words at face value—it was safer. 'I love it,' she agreed quietly. 'My father—my real father—was a keen photographer, and he used to take me out at weekends with him when I was a child. Scotland is a photographer's dream. When… when I went down to London it was a case of being in the right place at the right time, and things just… happened,' she finished uncomfortably.

  'How fortunate.' It was a slow drawl.

  Again she wasn't sure if he was being nasty or not, but valiantly continued, 'Yes, it was. So many employers won't even grant an interview to someone without experience, but Keith was prepared to give me a chance.'

  'After he'd seen you,' Hudson said expressionlessly. 'How kind.'

  'Yes, and everything just… '

  'Happened.' He nodded slowly. 'Well, that's really good, Annie. And you're happy and contented and the epitome of a thrusting nineties woman, yes? Fulfilled, strong, satisfied… '

  She went brick-red but she couldn't help it. It was the way he had drawled the last word—as a subtle challenge but something else too, t
he word carrying a dark heat that connected in the pit of her stomach and caused a dull, sweet ache.

  'More wine?' Hudson suggested lazily.

  Too late she realised she had been sipping rather frantically at the mellow, fruity red wine and that her glass was empty. She watched, mesmerised, as he refilled the crystal with deep red liquid, and warned herself this glass would have to be her last. The deliciously expensive wine was potent and she needed all her wits.

  Nevertheless, the alcohol provided welcome stimulation, enabling her to hold her own in the conversation over dinner without too many awkward pauses, and by the time coffee was served—some two hours later—she realised she had drunk more than she had intended.

  What was he doing? Softening her up for the big seduction scene? she asked herself grimly as the waiter poured them both a tiny cup of the thick black aromatic coffee the Moroccans favoured. He knew her time in Tangier was drawing to a close. She was alone, he was alone… She might have guessed. That was it.

  'Something is wrong, Annie?'

  The piercing eyes were too intuitive and she struggled to clear her face and her voice as she said, with a touch too much brightness, 'Wrong? Of course not. Whatever could be wrong? That was a lovely meal—'

  'Then perhaps it is the company.' It was said with a smile, his voice teasing and light, but she was still looking at his eyes, and they were cold, their greyness deep and chilling.

  Marianne shivered suddenly, an icy awareness flickering over her skin as she realised that for the whole evening he had been playing a part—that of amusing, courteous dinner companion. But he wasn't feeling like that inside. All the clever talk, the light anecdotes with which he had kept her entertained were merely a smokescreen for what was really going on in that ruthless, rapier-sharp brain of his. This was a courtroom situation to him—he would give nothing away and capitalise on any weakness without mercy. Her skin began to tingle and burn, and she felt weak, light-headed.

  'No, it isn't the company,' she said quickly. 'It's just been a long day, that's all. The whole schedule has been a tight one. Perhaps I'm just tired.' She smiled nervously and he smiled back.

  'Perhaps.' His voice was smooth and soft, like raw silk, and he glanced at the heavy gold watch on his wrist before saying, 'Still, you can have an early night, can't you? It isn't late.'

  'Yes… ' She wasn't at all sure where he was coming from but something was putting that glittering coldness in his eyes.

  'Unless Keith has lined some work up for you tonight?'

  'No—I mean… I don't think so. There's nothing arranged—' Calm down; don't lose it now, she told herself tensely as she heard herself babbling, and stopped abruptly. 'I think everyone will have an early night tonight,' she finished lamely. 'We're all tired.'

  'I'm sure they will.' The chill deepened. 'In fact Keith and the others should just be landing by now, shouldn't they?'

  He had known. All the time he had known!

  'What did you think I was going to do if I knew you were alone?' he asked. 'Force my way into your room and take you by force? Or pester you? Make life unpleasant?'

  'I didn't think that; of course I didn't,' Marianne said defensively, her face flaming with embarrassment.

  'No? Forgive me if I say I don't believe you.' He looked at her steadily, some deep emotion at the back of his eyes that she couldn't fathom. Anger? Bitterness? Hurt pride?

  'Hudson, it wasn't like that—' Marianne protested, before he cut in in his usual sweeping manner, his voice arrogant and proud.

  'I'm not really interested one way or the other, Annie, so save your breath. Now, I'm sure you're tired, and I've things to do… '

  'Hudson—'

  'Goodnight, Annie, sleep well.' It was very frosty and very final.

  And then he had gone, rising in one swift, fluid movement and walking out of the dining room without a backward glance, his broad shoulders straight and firm and his head held high.

  Damn. Damn, damn, damn… She stared after him for long moments, her eyes jade-green with pain. She hadn't wanted it to end like this; she hadn't. Their last exchange would be one of bitterness and misunderstanding; he would hate her still more when he found her gone in the morning. Should she follow him? Explain about her trip? Say goodbye properly? She half rose in her seat.

  Properly? That deep inner voice mocked her, its sudden intrusion into the maelstrom of panic caustic and unwelcome. What was 'properly'? To weep all over him? To persuade him to feel sorry for her? To beg his forgiveness? To tell him the one thing she couldn't say? Was that what she wanted? Where was her backbone?

  She had set her feet on the path she had to follow two years ago and there was no turning back now, however much her heart craved otherwise. If she loved him, really loved him—and she did, oh, she did—she had to let him go. Anything else was self-indulgent and cruel. It was better for him to think she was heartless, to wash his hands of her once and for all.

  Marianne walked to her room on leaden feet, glancing over her shoulder once more before she opened the door and walked in annoyed at finding herself hoping… Hoping what? she asked herself with furious self-contempt. That he would be standing waiting for her? That he would have followed her because he couldn't bear to leave her on such terms? Fool, fool, fool. Even if her hopes had come true it would have spelt disaster for them both. And, anyway, she knew Hudson was a fiercely proud and cynical man, and such men didn't abase themselves for someone who had already jilted them once.

  It was over. It had been dealt a death-blow two years ago and the death-throes were finally finished.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The night was endless. Marianne sat in a small basket chair on her balcony after showering and changing into her nightie and towelling robe, the warmth of the sultry night pleasant without being sticky. The moon was shedding a thin, hollow light over the face of the ocean far down in the bay, and one by one lights were dimmed and extinguished as people slept.

  She had allowed him to touch the quintessence of her mind… She rubbed a tired hand over her face as she acknowledged the truth of the thought. He had got deep inside her head again, taken over every little part of her, but then… perhaps he had always been there. She had been fooling herself all these long, lonely months when she had been telling herself time was a great healer, that she was getting over him.

  Getting over him. The phrase mocked her. You didn't get over Hudson de Sance. She might learn to live with the pain, go on and exist—function—the way people the world over did when catastrophe hit them, but with bis departure from her life something essentially joyful and beautiful had died in her spirit Whatever she did in the future, wherever she went, she would carry him with her in her heart. A bleak desolation filled her senses.

  Dawn crept across the sky in a soft explosion of pink and cinnamon, touching the last remaining shadows with colour and making her cry with its beauty, and still she hadn't slept.

  At six she rose slowly from her seat, like an old woman, and made her way to the bathroom, standing for long, long minutes under the warm shower and letting the smooth, silky water drown her tears and wash her clean. Life had to go on; she had to go on.

  She dried her mass of golden hair sitting back in the basket chair as she watched the sun rise in a cloudless blue sky that promised a hot day, and later, after dressing simply in a loose white shirt and matching skirt, didn't bother to put it up, leaving it in a cloud of tiny curls about her neck and shoulders. She didn't bother with any make-up either; she just didn't have the energy, and since coming to Morocco the sun had tinted her smooth skin with its own honey shade which make-up couldn't enhance.

  The coach was picking her up early outside Reception and she had decided to have her breakfast as soon as the dining room was open, before most of the other residents would be awake. Consequently, she wasn't surprised that the huge, sun-splashed room was virtually empty, with just the odd tourist who had a plane or coach to catch dotted around its vast space.

  She had
just helped herself to a croissant, still warm from the oven, and a bowl of freshly prepared papaw from the magnificent buffet, and was turning to find a quiet table for one in a secluded corner, when a deep voice in her ear caused her to start so violently, most of the papaw jumped onto the floor.

  'Early bird.' Hudson's voice was like warm treacle and devoid of any trace of the emotion of the night before.

  'Hudson!' She took a step backwards from the papaw, which a helpful waiter was already rushing to clear up, straight onto Hudson's foot, and promptly dropped the whole bowl. 'Oh, now look what you've made me do,' she said fretfully, overwhelmingly glad the dining room was virtually deserted.

  'I beg your forgiveness.' His voice was dry now, and as she turned to face him properly she felt her heart jerk and thud and then race on at a furious rate. He was dressed in casual wide-cut cotton trousers in a pale shade of grey which sat on the lean hips in a way guaranteed to make any female take a second glance, and his silky charcoal shirt accentuated the brooding masculinity to perfection. He looked cool and controlled and dangerous—very, very dangerous, Marianne thought breathlessly. And gorgeous. Definitely gorgeous.

  'You're… you're up early.' It was pathetic, but all she could do with her heart hammering so hard it hurt and her face as red as a beetroot. She had thought she wouldn't see him again…

  'So are you.' He smiled, gesturing across the room to a small table for two. 'Go and sit down and I'll get you another bowl of fruit—papaw, was it?' he said as he eyed the mess on the floor.

  'Yes, please, but you needn't… I mean, I can manage—'

  'Go and sit down, Annie,' he said patiently, his all-encompassing glance at her flushed face taking in her confusion and embarrassment. 'You're making me nervous.'

  She went and sat—it was easier than arguing with him. Besides which the thought of a few more minutes with him, before the inevitable goodbyes were said, was too enticing to resist.