A High Price to Pay (13 page)

body go limp in his arms, as if signalling her submission.

Slowly Nick lifted his head, the blue eyes glittering down at her. He

said huskily, 'Why the hell do you make me lose my temper? Darling,

let me show you how it should be between us ...'

Alison lay very still, her eyes fixed on his intent face, her swollen

mouth trembling into a faint smile. Then she lifted her hands, sliding

them inside the neckline of his robe, hearing the catch of his breath as

her fingers moved tentatively on his hair-rough- ened skin. For a brief

moment she let herself savour the forbidden pleasure of learning him

through her fingertips, then she tensed, the slim hands becoming

claws, raking and scratching at his bare chest.

He swore involuntarily, pulling himself upright away from the

sudden savagery of her nails. He clicked on the lamp, and Alison

winced, closing her eyes partly because of the sudden dazzle of the

light, but more to hide from the sight of the long angry weals she had

raised on his skin. She thought she might even have drawn blood, and

shrank inwardly, wondering what kind of retribution she had invited

in turn.

'You little bitch,' he said evenly, at last. 'What the hell was all that

about?'

She made herself open her eyes and meet the cold anger of his gaze.

Her voice faltered a little. 'I'm—sorry. There are some tissues on the

fitment...'

'I'm sure you're not sorry in the slightest.' Nick got to his feet,

tightening the sash of his robe. 'So spare me the solicitude. And if by

any chance you were hoping I'd die of blood poisoning, then forget it.

We all heal quickly in our family, even from blows to the ego.' He

paused. 'Under that demure exterior, you're pure hellcat, aren't you,

Mrs Bristow?'

Alison knew an overwhelming desire to burst into tears. Instead, she

said stonily, 'I never guaranteed anything different. Perhaps you

should learn to take no for an answer.'

His contemptuous smile scorched her. 'Well, have no further worries

on that score,' he said too pleasantly. 'You've made your point. I don't

intend to ask that particular question again.' He walked to the door,

and paused to fling her one last glance, as she crouched white-faced

against her pillows. 'Sleep well, darling. And dream about your sterile

little contract. I hope it keeps you warm at nights!'

The door slammed behind him.

Alison put out a shaking hand and plunged the stateroom into

darkness again.

She lay still, waiting for the deep trembling inside her to subside.

She'd won, she supposed drearily, a kind of victory. So why then did

she feel as if she'd suffered a major defeat?

As Alison emerged from the needlework shop she heard the first

rumble of thunder, and she glanced up, grimacing at the inky clouds

which were gathering. It had been a fine afternoon when she had set

off into town, but her numerous errands, including a visit to the

hairdresser, had all taken more time than she'd bargained for, and she

was now running late. And likely to get wet too, she thought ruefully,

cursing herself silently for not having brought an umbrella or even a

headscarf with her.

For a moment she toyed with the idea of making a dive straight back

to her car where it waited in the parking area at the far end of the High

Street. Perhaps she could just outrun the storm. After all, there were

only her mother's library books left to change, and they could surely

wait for another day, she tried to persuade herself. As it was, most of

her time had been taken up with her mother's 'one or two little things,

darling' already. There'd been the foam pillow to replace the feather

one, to which Mrs Mortimer had decided she might be allergic;

there'd been the tapestry wool to match in a shade long since

discontinued; the list of aspirin and throat pastilles from the chemist,

and, finally, the library books, the choice of which would take longer

than anything else.

She gave a faint groan and turned reluctantly towards the library. She

would have to make time, that was all.

Only her mother, she thought bleakly, as she ascended the shallow

flight of stone steps towards the library, could expect her to spend the

afternoon prior to the first major dinner party at Ladymead since her

marriage in fulfilling an endless number of trivial tasks.

She should be at home now, supervising all the final details, and even

making a few moments in which to relax and prepare herself mentally

for what was bound to be something of an ordeal. It was the first time

she would be on show as Nick's wife, playing her part as mistress of

the house in front of the new managing director of Mortimers and

several members of the board, and three of the executives from Nick's

own company with their wives and girl-friends. She'd met none of

them before, and it was inevitable that, at the beginning of the

evening at least, she was going to be the cynosure of all eyes.

That was one of the reasons she had been to the hairdresser, to have

her hair styled and blown into a new and infinitely more sophisticated

flick-up coiffure. The girl whose deft fingers had created the

transformation with scissors and mousse and hot-brush had been

enthusiastic, and Alison had rather shyly shared her pleasure as she

studied herself. She had had a manicure too, her nails tipped in a soft

glowing shade of ruby which matched the new taffeta dress waiting in

her bedroom back at Ladymead.

She had all the outer trappings, she thought, as she wandered round

the bookshelves, looking for the ladylike detective stories which her

mother preferred. All she needed to do now was feel like Mrs

Nicholas Bristow, and that was easier said than done.

It was three weeks since they had returned from their honeymoon,

during which time she had seen little of Nick. He had brought her to

Ladymead, satisfied himself that the alterations and decorations had

been carried out precisely according to his instructions, been pleasant

to her mother, and departed. Since then, he had returned twice, on

each occasion staying overnight only, and even then, contact between

them had been minimal. When others were present he was civil, she

supposed, but little more.

In the few moments of privacy they had had together, he had made it

very clear that their relationship was to be no more than that of

employer and employee. He had laid down the ground rules for the

way in which he wanted the house run in a coolly autocratic way that

left no room for dissent, even if Alison had felt like offering it. As it

was she had agreed quietly, almost numbly, to everything he had to

say. And the list of people invited to tonight's dinner party, together

with the instructions for the menu to be served, had reached her via a

written memo from his office.

She wondered rather drearily what his secretary would have made of

that. Not that it mattered. The woman, if she had worked for Nick for

any length of time, would surely suspect the truth that Nick's

unexpected marriage was nothing more than a put-up job. If the truth

were known, she was, probably already sending flowers to another

lady, and booking intimate dinners at quiet restaurants.

Alison slammed the books she had chosen down on the counter,

making the librarian jump slightly.

She had half expected when they flew back from Rhodes that they

would spend the night in London at Nick's house, but he had not even

suggested such a thing. Clearly his London
pied-a-terre
was

forbidden ground as far as she was concerned, part of his life that he

intended to keep private. Until the newspapers got hold of it, she

thought wretchedly as she pushed through the swing doors. Already,

for all she knew, there might be stories in the tabloids about Nick and

his newest conquest. She supposed she would know when people

started giving her pitying glances.

She had been glancing through an English newspaper at Rhodes

airport before their flight was called, and, almost like an omen, the

first story she had read had revealed that, while they had been away,

Hester Monclair's father-in-law had died, and her husband had

inherited the baronetcy, making her now Lady Monclair.

Nick had seen the paper too. There was no way he could have missed

the story, she had thought, stealing a sideways look at his harshly

enigmatic face, the cold chiselled line of his mouth, but she could

only guess at his reaction.

And it certainly wasn't anything she could introduce casually as a

topic of conversation.

She paused on the library steps with an exclamation of dismay. While

she'd been inside, the rain had arrived with a vengeance. Alison

moved back into the shelter of the porch, glancing worriedly at her

watch as she did so. She should have been back at Ladymead over

half an hour ago. It wasn't that she didn't trust the staff to follow her

instructions, but Nick, she knew, was expecting nothing short of

perfection, and she would have liked to be able to take a long serene

look round her domain and assure herself that he would have nothing

to criticise.

That, after all, was the price he was demanding in return for her

family's security, and honour demanded that she should pay it in full.

But it wasn't easy to fulfil all her new responsibilities, and be at her

mother's beck and call too.

She shivered slightly in her thin jacket, staring at the spearing

raindrops with resentful eyes.

She had suggested, quite gently, that Catherine might enjoy the

occasional trip into town herself, combining a shopping expedition

with a rendezvous for coffee or afternoon tea with some of her friends

at one of the local cafes.

But her mother had stared at her with affronted, tragic eyes. 'I'm not

strong enough to face anyone yet,' she had insisted. 'Marriage has

changed you, Alison,' she had added. 'You never used to be so

insensitive.'

Alison bit her lip. She had confided to Aunt Beth that she was worried

that her mother might be becoming reclusive as a psychological result

of her husband's death, but her aunt had given her an old-fashioned

look, and a brief snort of derision.

'Psychological nonsense, my dear! Your mother is merely indulging

her penchant for laziness, and you know it. She's far too comfortable

in that suite of hers, being waited on hand and foot. You should prise

her out of it, before she becomes totally entrenched. What does

Nicholas think about it?'

Alison had murmured something evasive. Whatever her aunt and

uncle might think about her hasty marriage, she couldn't even hint

that the relationship between Nick and herself had already reached a

stage where it was impossible to discuss anything of a personal

nature. Her mother was her problem, and she would have to deal with

her.

She looked at her watch again, and groaned silently. She couldn't

hang about any longer, waiting for the rain to ease. She would have to

make a dash for the car, she thought, putting a protective hand to her

newly styled hair. Thanking heaven for her low-heeled shoes, she

began to run along the soaking pavements. She was breathless when

she reached the car, her tights splashed, and her hair hanging in rats'

tails round her face. She surveyed herself defeatedly in the driving

mirror as she pushed her key into the ignition. The engine whined

sullenly and died.

She exclaimed aloud, 'Oh, no!' and tried again, forcing herself to

move calmly and deliberately. Her car wasn't usually temperamental,

but it didn't like damp weather. Once before, after a heavy rainstorm,

it had refused to start for her. She thumped the dashboard in

frustration, and jumped slightly as an echoing tap sounded on her

window. She turned to see Simon Thwaite looking at her.

'Having trouble?' he asked, as she wound the window down.

'It seems so.' She forced a smile. 'Why do these things always happen

when I'm in a tearing hurry? I think there's a spray you can use in this

kind of emergency, but of course I don't have one with me.' She gave

him an appealing look. 'I don't suppose you ...?'

'I'm afraid not,' he said ruefully. 'The best I can offer is a lift home, if

that will help.'

She sighed with relief, it would help enormously, Simon.'

'What will you do about your car?' He led the way across to his own

BMW.

She shrugged, it will be safe enough where it is.

I'll ask the garage to take a look at it tomorrow. At the moment it's the