Marriage by Deception (6 page)

All the men?
she thought. Apart from a couple of totally casual relationships at university, there’d only been Colin…

She withdrew her hand from his grasp, clasping both of them tightly in her lap. ‘I told you—I’ve never done anything like this before.’

‘Then let’s change the scenario,’ he said. ‘Let’s pretend we did it the conventional way—that I saw you in a department store at one of your promotions, chatted you up, and arranged to meet you later. Would that make you feel more relaxed?’

‘I—I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps…’

‘Then that’s what happened.’ His smile coaxed her. ‘Forget everything else. This is just Sam and Janie, meeting for a drink and a meal, and examining the possibilities. No pressure.’

She lifted her head and looked at him, seeing how the laughter lines had deepened beside his firm mouth. She realised with sudden piercing clarity how much she wanted to touch them. How she longed to experience the entire warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. To learn with slow intimacy the bone and muscle that made him. To know him with completion and delight.

And she felt dismay and exhilaration go to war inside her.

She said, breathlessly, ‘Is that what you’ve said to all the others?’

The turquoise eyes looked directly into hers. His voice was quiet. ‘What others?’

A silence seemed to enclose them—a small, precious bubble of quiet holding the moment safe.

A voice inside her whispered, Whatever happens—however long I live—whoever I spend my life with— I shall remember this.

And then the waiter came hurrying up with the platter of bread and the wine, and there was the fuss of cutlery and fresh glasses, and she was able to lean back in her chair and control her breathing, quieten the slam of her heart against her ribcage.

She thought, He said ‘let’s pretend’—and I will. I’ll be Janie, and take the risk. Go where it leads—whatever the cost…

The Orvieto was clean and cold against her dry throat, and she swallowed it gratefully. ‘That’s so good.’

‘Have you ever been to Italy?’

‘Yes, I love it. I was there for nearly three months a year or so ago.’ She halted abruptly, realising she’d given too much away again.

‘Three months?’ His brows lifted. ‘None of the usual package tours for you, I see.’

‘I was there to work,’ she said. And it was true. She’d been researching her third novel, set at the time of the Renaissance and featuring an English mercenary who’d sold his sword to the Borgias until he lost his heart to the daughter of one of their enemies. Her trip had taken her all over the Romagna, and to Florence and Siena as well. The book had been fun to write, and had turned out well too, she thought, her lips curving slightly.

‘Some of the big foreign cosmetics companies have—training courses for their products,’ she added hastily, as she registered his questioning look.

‘Do they now?’ Sam drank some of his own wine. ‘I didn’t realise so much was involved.’ He frowned slightly. ‘You take your career very seriously.’

‘Of course,’ she said, and meant it. ‘Don’t you?’

‘I certainly used to.’ His eyes were meditative. ‘But I seem to have reached some kind of crossroads. And I don’t know for certain what my next move should be.’ He added, ‘I suppose you feel the same.’

‘What makes you say that?’

He leaned forward. ‘Isn’t it why we’re here together now?’ he challenged. ‘Because we know that everything’s changed and there’s no turning back?’ He sounded almost angry.

She tried to smile. ‘You make it sound—daunting.’

‘That’s because I’m not sure how I feel.’ His voice was blunt. ‘And, frankly, I’m not used to it.’

Ros bit her lip. ‘Perhaps we should go back to Plan A—where you’re “Lonely in London” again,’ she suggested.

‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s far too late for that, and we both know it.’

Her voice faltered slightly, ‘You said—you promised—that you’d let me decide—and that you’d accept my choice.’

‘Yes.’ The turquoise eyes held a glint. ‘Just don’t expect me to take no for an answer, that’s all.’

Bowls of creamy pasta were set in front of them, giant pepper mills wielded and dishes of grated parmesan offered.

She was glad of the respite, although nervousness had blunted the edge of her hunger by now.

I’m not a risk-taker by nature, she thought. How on earth am I going to get way with this?

‘Eat.’ Sam waved a fork at her when they’d been left alone again. His smile slanted. ‘You need to build your strength up.’

‘Please,’ she said, her throat constricting. ‘Don’t say things like that.’

‘Why not? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You have cheekbones like wings. A breath of wind would blow you away. And, oddly enough, I don’t want that to happen.’ He paused. ‘As for the rest of it, you can call the shots, Janie. I won’t push you into anything you don’t want—or aren’t ready for.’

‘Another promise?’ Her smile trembled as she picked up her fork.

‘No,’ he said, eyes and voice steady. ‘A guarantee. Now eat.’

In the end, she finished every scrap of pasta, and followed it with a generous helping of tiramisu.

‘That was wonderful,’ she admitted, leaning back in her chair as their plates were removed.

‘And the best part was when you finally stopped
checking where the door was,’ Sam said drily, as he poured the last of the Orvieto into their glasses. ‘For the first hour I was waiting for you to do a runner at any moment.’

She blushed. ‘Was I that bad?’

‘You were never bad,’ he said. ‘Just strung out.’ He paused. ‘How’s the pulse-rate?’

‘Calm, I think,’ she said. ‘And steady. At the moment.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’d hate to think I wouldn’t merit a slight flutter—in the right circumstances.’ He paused. ‘Shall we have coffee?’

It was, she knew, a loaded question. The obvious response was, why don’t I make some back at the house? And that, almost certainly, would be what he was waiting to hear. Hoping to hear. And yet…

The house was her domain—her little fortress. The place where she led her real life—not this pretence she’d been lured into.

To invite him back would be to breach some invisible barricade, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

It was all going too far, too fast, she thought, swallowing. One false step and she could be out of her depth—the waters closing over her head.

He said gently, ‘Stop struggling, darling. The choice is between filter and cappuccino, nothing else. Though I wish…’

‘Yes?’ she prompted at his hesitation.

He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

He’d been about to say, I wish you’d trust me, he realised ruefully, and he was in no position to ask any such thing.

It had been good to watch her start to relax—to
laugh and talk with him as if they were together for all the right reasons, he thought, as they drank their coffee.

Even so, he was aware that, mentally, she was still on guard. Emotionally, too, he told himself wryly. There was an inner kernel to this girl that was strictly a no-go area. That he suspected she’d fight to protect.

So, he would proceed with caution, and anticipate the eventual rewards of his forbearance.

There was silence between them, but it was a companionable silence, with neither of them believing they had to strive for the next remark.

He watched her covertly as she sat, quietly at ease, looking down at the green-gold of the strega in her glass. He’d told himself more than once over the past twenty-four hours that she wasn’t his type, but now he found himself noticing with curious intensity that her mouth was soft, pink and strangely vulnerable now that she’d relaxed.

Her lashes, too, were a shadow against that amazing creamy skin. He imagined what it would be like to see all of it—to uncover her slowly, enjoying every silky inch—and found his body hardening in sharp response. Like some bloody adolescent, he mocked himself, dropping his table napkin discreetly into his lap.

But he had to be careful, because she still wasn’t convinced about him, and he knew it. One wrong move and there was a real danger she’d blow him away. Which he didn’t want, and, as he reluctantly had to acknowledge, not merely because he still had no clear understanding of her motivation or needs in replying to the personal ad.

While they’d been eating he’d tried to probe gently,
but had found himself blocked. She still wouldn’t let him get too near. Or at least not yet…

And there had been a time when this would have suited him very well.

While he’d been a foreign correspondent he’d kept well out of emotional entanglements. He’d told himself it wasn’t fair to keep a woman hanging around until he returned from yet another assignment, even if they were willing to do so—and, without conceit, he knew that there’d been several who’d been prepared to wait for as long as it took.

Only that hadn’t been what he wanted—so he’d taken care to keep his relationships light, uncommitted and strictly physical, making it clear there was nothing more on offer. And inflicting, he hoped, no lasting damage along the way.

But this time it was different, although he had no logical reason for knowing it was so—just a gut reaction.

She glanced up suddenly and found his eyes fixed on her, and he saw the colour flare under her skin, and wondered if there was anything in his face to betray this swift, unlooked-for hunger that she’d aroused.

‘More coffee, Janie?’ He kept the words and the smile casual.

‘No, thanks.’ It irked her to hear him call her that, and had done all evening. In fact, she’d been debating with herself whether she should tell him her real name—indeed, whether she should come clean about the whole situation.

But the truth had no part in this game they were playing, she thought, with an odd desolation.

Besides, she wasn’t sure how he’d react. He could be angry. Could even get up from the table and walk
out of the bar, and out of her life. Which would undoubtedly solve all kinds of problems. Except that she wasn’t ready for that.

‘Then I’ll get the bill and take you home.’

‘I was going to pay half,’ she remembered.

‘We’ll argue about that later.’ He helped her into her jacket, coolly, politely.

As the fresh air hit her, she felt suddenly giddy—light-headed. Oops, she thought. I’ve had too much to drink.

Two glasses of wine was usually her limit, yet tonight there’d been all that champagne before the Orvieto had arrived. Had he done it deliberately? Was this part of his grand seduction technique? She asked herself as disappointment settled inside her like a stone.

On the corner, she paused. ‘There’s really no need for you to come any further. I’ll be fine.’

His hand was firm under her elbow. ‘I prefer to make sure,’ he said. ‘One of my little foibles.’

When they reached the house, she found the bulb had failed in her exterior light, and she fumbled trying to get her latchkey in the lock.

‘Allow me.’ Sam took it from her hand and, to her fury, fitted it first time.

‘Thank you,’ she said grittily.

‘Don’t say things you don’t mean, Janie.’ She could hear the grin in his voice. ‘You know you’re damning my eyes under your breath. Now, put the hall light on while I check everything’s all right.’

‘Another of your little foibles, I suppose?’ she tossed after him.

‘The age of chivalry isn’t dead,’ he returned, giving the ground-floor rooms and basement area a swift in
spection. At the door of the sitting room he paused, as if something on the other side of the room had engaged his attention. When he turned back to her there was a faint smile playing round his mouth, and dancing in his eyes. ‘And to prove it,’ he went on, ‘I’m going to wish you a very good night, and go.’

She felt her lips part in shock. ‘But…’ she began, before she could stop herself.

‘But you thought I was going to close the door and jump on you,’ he supplied understandingly. ‘And don’t think I’m not tempted, but I noticed how carefully you were walking and talking on the way back, and I’d prefer to wait for an occasion when you know exactly what you’re doing—and why—so that you can’t plead unfair advantage afterwards.’

Ros walked to the front door and jerked it open. ‘I’d like you to leave. Now. And don’t come back,’ she added for good measure.

He smiled outrageously down into her hostile eyes. ‘You can’t have been listening to me, Janie. I told you—I don’t take no for an answer. Now, sleep well, dream of me, and I’ll call you tomorrow.’

His hand touched her face, stroking featherlight down the angle of her cheek, then curving to caress the long line of her throat before coming to rest, warm and heavy, on her slender shoulder. It was the touch of a lover—deliberately and provocatively sensuous in a way a simple kiss on the lips would never have been. It was both a beckoning and a promise. A demand and an offering.

Ros felt the brush of his fingers burn deep in her bones. The ache of unfulfilled sexual need twisted slowly within her, and she knew that if he didn’t take his hand from her shoulder she would reach up and
draw him down to her. Take him into her arms, her bed and her body.

And then she was free, and freedom was a desolation.

She heard him say, ‘Goodnight,’ and the small sound in her throat which was all she could manage in response. And then he had gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

She leaned forward slowly, until her forehead was resting against the cool, painted woodwork.

She thought, What am I doing? What’s happening to me?

And Rosamund Craig, the cool, the rational, could find no answer.

R
OS
woke with a start, to find sunlight pouring through her bedroom curtains. She propped herself up on one elbow, pushing her hair back from her face and wondering what had woken her.

A peal on the doorbell, followed by some determined knocking, answered that.

‘Who on earth can it be at this hour?’ she asked herself crossly as she swung out of bed, reaching for her robe. Then she caught sight of the clock on her bedside table and yelped. It was almost mid-morning. And she’d known nothing about it. She’d still be deeply and dreamlessly asleep but for her morning caller.

‘I’m coming,’ she shouted, as she launched herself downstairs, kicking the morning mail out of the way and fumbling to unbolt her door.

She was confronted by a mass of colour. Red roses, she registered, stunned. And at least two dozen of them.

‘Miss Craig?’ The delivery girl wore a pink uniform, to match the small florist’s van waiting at the kerb, and a professional smile. ‘Enjoy your flowers. There’s a message attached.’

Ros, her arms full of roses, shut the door and bent, with difficulty, to retrieve her letters from the mat. She carried the whole shooting match into her sitting room and curled up on the sofa, reaching for the tiny envelope attached to the Cellophane.

Sam’s black handwriting filled the card. ‘Your first rose looked lonely. I thought it needed friends, and we need each other. I’ll pick you up for brunch at eleven on Sunday morning.’

Not so much an invitation as a command, Ros thought with exasperation. And what did he mean about her ‘first rose’ anyway? It had gone from the coffee table, so it must have been thrown away yesterday morning when the room was cleaned—mustn’t it?

But she remembered the way Sam had paused in the doorway last night, and her gaze took the path his had done—straight across the room.

The rose, alive and well, in a narrow crystal vase, now occupied pride of place on her mantelpiece.

‘Oh, God,’ Ros said wearily. ‘Manuela.’

Her Spanish cleaner was round, and smiling, and incurably romantic. To her, a red rose was something to be cherished, particularly if she suspected it came from an admirer.

And now Sam thinks that I kept it, she thought ruefully. Oh,
hell
.

She put the bouquet down on the coffee table while she opened her other post. As well as the usual junk mail there was a letter from her accountants, reminding her of the paperwork they’d need to complete her tax return, and a postcard from Sydney from Molly and her father, who were clearly having the time of their lives. She was still smiling as she opened the final envelope, which bore the logo of her publishers, and her smile widened into a grin of delight as she unfolded the sheet of headed paper and saw what Vivien had written.

‘Try and stop me,’ Ros said exultantly. Then paused, as it occurred to her that the resultant publicity would mean that her cover would be blown for ever, and there could be no more Janie…

But there can’t be anyway, she reminded herself with a touch of grimness. Because the real Janie comes back tomorrow night. And even if she didn’t, all this pretence still has to stop.

Last night had been—exciting, but also dangerous, and she’d taken quite enough risks. Brunch was safe, of course—a popular pastime for Sundays in the city—and there would be no alcohol involved—but when it was over she would tell him she couldn’t see him again. And she would produce some good and cogent reason why this had to be—although she couldn’t think of one off-hand.

I’ve got all day, she thought, and frowned a little. But why have I? Why am I not seeing Sam until tomorrow?

Which was not the kind of thing she should be thinking at all, she reminded herself with emphasis.

She picked up the roses and carried them downstairs to put them in water, then filled the coffee pot and set it to percolate while she arranged them properly, her fingers dealing gently with the long stems. They would look good as a centrepiece for her dining table, she
told herself. They would not under any circumstances be going upstairs to her study—or her bedroom.

She put them on one side while she poured her coffee. She’d expected to wake with the hangover she deserved, yet in actuality she felt fine—as fit as a flea. And alive and—oddly expectant. As if something wonderful was going to happen.

But it already had happened, she reminded herself sternly. She’d won a prize for her Renaissance novel—a cheque and a silver rose bowl, if the award followed the pattern of previous years.

She didn’t need anything else. Certainly nothing that might upset the even tenor of her days. She was a writer, and a successful one, and that was quite enough.

She carried her coffee upstairs, intending to shower and dress, but found instead she was continuing up to the top floor. She sat down at her desk and switched on the computer. The rewritten pages she’d been struggling with lay beside it, and she pushed them away, uncaring when they fell to the floor.

Her fingers moved to the keyboard—hesitated for a moment—then typed in: ‘He had eyes the colour of turquoise’.

She looked at the words on the screen, and heard herself laugh out loud in joy and anticipation. Then she began to write.

It was only when the phone rang that she realised she’d been working for nearly two hours without a break.

Normally she’d have let the answering machine pick up the message, but she was sure she knew the identity of the caller, and she was smiling as she lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘Rosamund, is that you?’ The aggrieved tones of Colin’s mother sounded in her ear.

‘Why, yes.’ Ros was shocked at the depth of her own disappointment. ‘How—how are you?’ she went on over-brightly.

‘Well, naturally I’m very upset, and so is my husband, but the physiotherapist has assured us there will be no lasting damage, so we can only hope.’

‘Physiotherapist?’ Ros echoed, bewildered. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘You mean no one’s told you that poor Colin’s had an accident—sprained his ankle really badly? None of his so-called friends?’ Mrs Hayton snorted. ‘That rugby club. He should never have gone on that tour. Why didn’t you use your influence—keep him at home?’

Because if I had done you’d have accused me of curbing his freedom, Ros returned silently.

She said, ‘Did it happen in a match?’

‘No, afterwards, during some stupid horseplay in the bar. The others were drunk, of course, and my poor boy bore the brunt of it. The physio saw he was hurt, and got him to hospital. Nobody else bothered. His ankle’s been plastered to keep it steady, and now he has to rest it. He’ll be on crutches for several weeks, I dare say.’

Ros was ashamed of the sense of relief flooding through her. With Colin laid up like this, it gave her the perfect opportunity to ease herself out of the relationship without any major confrontation.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said guiltily. ‘Please give him my—best wishes.’

‘But you’ll be coming round to see him, surely?’ Mrs Hayton said sharply. ‘We’ve turned our dining
room into a temporary bedsit for him, because he can’t manage the stairs to his own flat.’

‘No, I suppose not. I—I’ll try and get over tomorrow some time.’ After brunch, she thought, piling up more guilt.

‘I think he’s expecting to see you this afternoon, Rosamund. I’m sure if the situation were reversed, nothing would keep him from your side.’

Ros groaned inwardly. ‘This afternoon it is,’ she said, glancing at her watch.

‘But not too early,’ Mrs Hayton cautioned. ‘He’s just had lunch, and I want him to have a good rest after it.’ And she rang off.

On her way to Fulham, Ros decided that she wouldn’t wait. That it would be fairer to tell Colin gently that this would be a good time for them both to stand back and consider their relationship.

She found him very sorry for himself. His thanks for the selection of paperback thrillers she’d brought him were perfunctory, and he was clearly more interested in his own woes.

‘Nobody seemed to give a damn,’ he declared petulantly. ‘The physio looked after me—and brought me back here when I couldn’t travel in the coach. I don’t know what I’d have done otherwise.’

‘How awful,’ Ros murmured, wondering how to begin.

‘The physio’s been excellent,’ Mrs Hayton said, coming in with a tray of tea. ‘As soon as Colin’s ankle has recovered sufficiently he’ll be put on a proper exercise regime, with heat treatment.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Ros, noting with dismay that Mrs Hayton had settled down behind the tea and cakes.

Half an hour later, she was on her way home.
There’d simply been no opportunity for any private conversation. Colin’s mother had stayed for the duration, confining the conversation to topics of her choice.

Did she think I was going to take advantage of him while he was helpless? Ros wondered crossly.

She’d tried to lighten the atmosphere by offering to autograph his plaster, only to be told by mother and son in unison that it was no laughing matter.

‘I’m considering legal action,’ Colin had added, frowning.

Ros had been glad to swallow her cup of weak tea, and the rather dry scone, and go.

Colin hadn’t even asked when her next visit would be. He took it for granted that she would simply slot in on some rota of his mother’s devising.

And a month ago—even ten days ago—she probably would have done so.

But now, suddenly, she wasn’t the same person any longer. All the small dissatisfactions of her life had snowballed into this need for change. A need that had left Colin behind, yet promised nothing for the future.

But I’ll always have my work, she rallied herself. And paused as she faced, for the first time, the possibility that it might no longer be enough.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Sam said.

Alex Norton, his former editor, on the road to recovery in a private clinic, peered at him over his glasses. ‘Well, you can’t stay on the
Echo
, that’s for sure. So far, all Cilla’s done is cut your hair. Next time she might go for complete emasculation.’ And he chuckled.

‘I wish I was dead.’ Sam helped himself to some grapes from the bowl on the bedside trolley.

‘No, you don’t,’ Alex corrected him robustly. ‘Because I’ve been close, and I don’t recommend it. But you won’t rescue your career while Ms Godwin’s in control. You made a bad enemy there, so you may as well cut your losses. Find another job and settle for the best severance deal you can get.’ He paused. ‘How did you like Rowcliffe?’

‘I wish I’d never left it,’ Sam said bleakly.

Alex nodded. ‘I always felt the same. In fact, I had this dream that I’d wind up there, editing that weekly paper of theirs—the
Rowcliffe Examiner
.’ He shook his head. ‘Some hope, of course. You couldn’t prise my Mary out of London, bless her. But it would have been a good life.’ He shot Sam a look. ‘Does it still exist—the
Examiner
?’

‘Absolutely. It was required reading at the hotel,’ Sam returned. ‘And it still has the local farm prices and auctions on the front page.’

‘Ah,’ Alex leaned back against his pillows. ‘I’m glad some things don’t change. And, who knows? With a bit of luck you might find yourself back there—one of these days.’

‘Not soon enough,’ Sam said bitterly.

He was repeating these words under his breath as he let himself back into his flat that night. He’d had an appointment with one of the final names on his list. She’d provided plenty of good material, but the evening had ended in total disaster. He caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror and shuddered. At least he’d never be able to wear this ghastly suit again, so every cloud did have a silver lining.

He went into the bathroom, stripped and showered, letting the water cascade over him until he felt clean again. Then he put on his robe, made some coffee, and went into the living room to work on his laptop.

He’d just started when his door buzzer sounded. Startled, he glanced at his watch, wondering who could be calling so late. It was probably Mrs Ferguson, the elderly widow in the adjoining flat, wanting him to change a lightbulb, or adjust her trip-switch, or some other minor task. She was a sweet soul, and lonely, and it was a pleasure to keep an eye on her. But he wished she’d restrict her requests for help to sociable hours.

However, he was smiling when he opened the door. Until he saw who was standing outside.

‘Good evening.’ Cilla Godwin was smiling too, her eyes calculating as she looked him over. ‘May I come in?’

He said levelly, ‘If you wish,’ and stood aside to give her access, resisting the impulse to tighten the belt of his robe. She walked ahead of him into the lamplit sitting room.

‘Very stylish,’ she said, looking round her. ‘Do you share with anyone?’

‘Not since my last flatmate got married,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you, Ms Godwin?’

‘Don’t be formal, Sam, you’re not dressed for it.’ She looked at the glass standing beside his laptop. ‘If that’s whiskey, I’ll have one too.’

Sam found the bottle of Jameson’s and splashed a measure into a cut-glass tumbler. ‘Do I take it this is a social call?’

‘Oh, I have various reasons for being here.’ She accepted the glass from him. ‘Cheers.’

‘May I know what they are? As you can see, I am trying to work.’

‘You were out interviewing tonight? Who was she?’

‘A divorcee called Mandy, with a chip on her shoulder and a frank tongue.’

‘Sounds ideal. Did it go well?’

‘Until the last ten minutes, when she made it clear she expected the evening to end in bed,’ Sam said pleasantly. ‘When she found out it wasn’t going to happen, she started throwing things—the remains of a carafe of red wine and half a pot of cold coffee for starters. We were lucky not to be arrested, and we certainly can’t use Albertine’s as a venue again. I’ve written you a memo.