The Accidental Bride (8 page)

And she’d have to resolve her own, most private issue too. Her subversive, niggling jealousy over Clara. She’d have to fess up to it, because John would know something was bothering her. He probably already did know, because he always did in his uncanny way.

Over dinner – eaten surprisingly informally off trays in front of the telly in the sitting room – she’d caught him watching her instead of the cop show on the telly. Waiting for her to raise the issue of the new premises for New Again, no doubt, and for a while it had amused her to say nothing at all, just to tease him. She’d met his gaze, and just given him a challenging little smile … and he’d laughed.

They didn’t have to speak to play this particular game.

‘It’s all right. I’m not going to give you a bollocking,’ she’d said over the delicious coffee Mrs Thursgood had served them, before she and her husband had retired to their flat for the evening.

‘A bollocking? What would that be for?’ John’s blue eyes sparkled.

‘You know.’ As Lizzie put aside her cup, he set his aside too, and drew her close to him on the settee. It was an easy, companionable gesture. So natural, and yet, somehow, she felt tension in him. Was it about the new shop? Or something else? She almost got the feeling he might be seeking solace somehow, but about what, she couldn’t decide. It might even be pure imagination.

‘Yes, I do know. I did it again, didn’t I?’ His hand smoothed over her shoulder, the touch sweet, not sexual. His fingertips seemed to say,
Yes, I’ll want you again soon, and you’ll want me, but for the moment, this is good too. This is what I need.

‘But it was too good an opportunity to let slip by,’ he went on. ‘I couldn’t lose it, then kick myself for allowing you and Marie to miss out.’

Lizzie laid her head on his shoulder, loving the simple feel of his strong sure body. She was an individualist, and a feminist, but having a powerful man to look out for her too didn’t compromise that.

‘It
was
too good to miss,’ she said. It was the honest truth. ‘I know I’ve been critical of your pre-emptive strikes in the past, but there’s no use getting my knickers in a twist about this one. It’s what I want. I’d probably have asked you to help us anyway, so you’ve saved me the bother.’

John kissed the side of her face, a quick peck. ‘You’re a wise girl, Lizzie, but nothing you ask for could ever be a bother.’

She turned to him, and gave him a firm look. ‘OK, and thank you. It is the most wonderful thing you’ve done, and I adore you for it. But this still doesn’t mean I don’t wish to
be consulted in future. You’re always at pains to impress on me that we’re equals, so you must treat me like one.’

John snagged his plush lower lip between his teeth. For a man of forty-six, he could do a marvellous impression of a naughty, shamefaced boy sometimes.

‘I will, my love. I will … And you’re not just my equal. You’re my better. In every way.’

Did he mean it? She had a feeling he did. His heart certainly did, even if sometimes his actions, and his controlling benevolence, made her feel like a pampered doll.

But there was still that adorably guilty look on his face … over something else?

‘What?’ she demanded. What else had he done? That expression said it all.

‘There might be a car.’

Oh John …

‘How do you know I can drive?’

‘I made a point of finding out. Apparently you’re quite a good driver.’

Lizzie shook her head. ‘You’re hopeless, you know that, don’t you? I should go all dominatrix on you for this. Give you a damn good thrashing and all that.’ She reached up and caught his earlobe between her fingertips and gave it a warning squeeze. ‘But I’m tired from the journey … and everything … so I’ll take a rain check on that.’ She tried giving him a stern look, but the wicked glint in his eyes, and the way he quirked his sandy eyebrows at her, made that almost impossible.

‘You’ll like the car. It’s nothing too posh or racy … Just an Audi S3. I thought a hatchback would be most useful to you, for transporting sewing projects and whatever to
and fro.’ He held her gaze. Goodness, he looked genuinely nervous. Troubled … and, perhaps, not about the car. ‘But if you want something different. Well, just say the word.’

‘An Audi of that ilk sounds pretty posh to me! But seeing as how my Dad has one … a rather old one, I might add, I’ll let you off.’ She released his ear, and slid her hand to cradle his cheek. He’d shaved recently and his skin felt deliciously smooth. He smelt amazing too, as she leaned in and kissed his lips. ‘And I thank you too, John. You’re a very thoughtful man. A car to ferry stuff about in will make life so much easier.’ She kissed him again. ‘You give me so much. Don’t ever believe I’m not grateful, even if I do get a bit shirty with you sometimes.’

‘I don’t mind shirty,’ he said, sliding his hand into her hair, cradling her skull and effortlessly taking control of the kiss. His lips met hers again, assertive yet tender, making it a proper kiss, latent with promise. Despite their coming together earlier, the demon imp of desire stirred again.

As the television played on in the background, and the cops argued some ethical point, and then dismissed it, Lizzie and John kissed on, taking pleasure in the simple act, tasting each other, and embracing. It wasn’t sex yet, but Lizzie had no doubt it soon would be.

But then the phone rang, and the slight tension Lizzie had sensed in him, and had believed she’d banished, was suddenly back again.

John broke away from her, frowning.

‘Shouldn’t we answer that? It might be important?’ Lizzie asked him, wanting to gnash her teeth and shout, their beautiful moments snatched away by the damned phone. John’s frown turned to a glare at the extension in the sitting room, as it trilled on, and then abruptly fell silent, as
if whoever was calling was now satisfied that they’d already knackered everything up.

With a sigh, he rose to his feet. ‘Actually, there are a couple of calls I really should make before we turn in.’ He bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll just slip to the office for a few minutes. Why don’t you go to bed, and wait for me, and I’ll drop by in a little while to tuck you in, and read you a story.’

His smile had been naughty, and the way he’d slid his hand to her breast and briefly cupped it had been even naughtier, but still she’d sensed his unease.

And now, later, here she was, climbing into bed, and wondering, wondering, wondering about those phone calls. It shouldn’t be anything to worry about. John had taken all sorts of calls while they’d been on holiday, even though he’d promised he’d keep business to a minimum. And some of those conversations had taken place at odd times of the day and night, because his business interests spanned the globe. Someone who worked for him, or from whom he was buying something, or to whom he was selling something; well, there was always someone that John might speak to at any time, night or day, in respect of the care and feeding of his empire.

So why did these calls feel different?

Don’t be idiotic, Lizzie. It surely wasn’t Clara. Why would it be?

Yet, as she switched out the main lights and clicked on the television for some dodgy late-night documentaries on Quest, Lizzie had a horrible spooked feeling. Staring blankly at the technological wonders of a high-speed train she’d probably never ride, she mentally flicked through the Google images she’d found of Clara, like shuffling a deck
of evil cards. None of the pictures she’d discovered so far had been high res enough to see John’s ex crystal-clearly, but they’d certainly been sufficient to show Lizzie that her ‘rival’ was a beauty. Elegant, refined … bewitching.

John spun his chair. He didn’t want to make the call, but he had to. If he didn’t, she’d just keep ringing and ringing until one of these days, Lizzie would pick up the phone instead of him.

Not that I don’t think you’re a match for her, sweetheart. Because you are. A thousand times over. But Clara can be ruthless in the pursuit of what she wants.

And he had a fairly shrewd idea of what his ex-lover wanted from him now. Even though he sincerely hoped he might be mistaken.

Tapping the desk, he considered trying to reach Tom again, as a sage, brotherly sounding board, but when he punched in the number, as was so often recently, his brother’s phone went to voicemail.

Was he with the new man again? John hoped so. And he hoped this man, whoever he might be, was treating his brother right. John wasn’t the only Wyngarde Smith sibling who’d had a chequered love life, although he doubted that Tom’s was anywhere near as disastrous as his own had been. Or had been up until now.

But trying to reach Tom was just staving off the inevitable. John straightened his chair, facing his desk. Facing the unpleasant task like a grown up instead of a recalcitrant boy.

It would be early evening where she was now. He picked up the phone. Entered the number again. Listened to the ring, willing it to go on and on, with no answer. The number
was a mobile one, though, and she’d have the phone with her, anticipating this very call.

His luck ran out.

‘Clara Sanchez de la Villareal.’

The sound of that soft, familiar voice made him angry. A great start! She knew the Dalethwaite number, and he’d not concealed it. So why play games and answer as if he might just be anybody?

Why? Because she was Clara, and that was her style, and there’d been a time when her provocations had bewitched him.

‘Good evening, Clara. It’s John.’

‘Jonathan, darling, how wonderful to hear from you. How are you? I was so hoping you’d call this evening.’

Her tone was husky, intimate, as if they’d seen each other only yesterday, as if they’d been lovers the night before. John clenched his fist against the desk, digging his nails into his palm. There’d been a time when he’d craved the sound of this voice, ached for it. Long, agonised wakeful nights in his prison cell, listening for the slightest change in another man’s breathing, he’d consoled himself with the thought of Clara whispering sweet nothings to him when they were reunited. Her laughter. Her moans when they’d made love. As the months had passed, without a word from her, that voice had faded, but still he’d hoped. And hoped.

‘You’ve been leaving messages for me. What can I do for you, Clara?’ He schooled his own voice to easy friendliness. He wouldn’t let her get to him. With his free hand, he scrolled through images on his computer, double-clicked one, and brought up a picture of Lizzie on the terrace at their Provençal villa. She was wearing a polka dot bikini and cats-eye sunglasses, the very image of a 1950s film
goddess with her glossy black hair tied back with a vintage Pucci scarf she’d treated herself to from New Again.

‘Can’t an old friend ring you up for a chat, darling? Just to touch base? There’s no need to sound so suspicious, Jonathan.’ His faux friendly tone clearly hadn’t fooled Clara. He could almost see the pout that he’d once thought so adorable, and it irked him. As did her calling him ‘Jonathan’, as she’d done in the old days. In New York, he’d specifically told her, more than once, that he always went by ‘John’ now.

‘Forgive me, Clara … It’s late here …’ Of course, she’d know the precise time. ‘And I’m just back from a trip and I’m slightly jet-lagged.’ He grimaced at the little lie. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded a bit curt.’

There was a pause. Clara was the mistress of keeping a man on tenterhooks. ‘Business, darling? You work far too hard, Jonathan. It was wonderful to see you in New York, but you did look weary. Surely you have people you can delegate to?’

‘No, it was a holiday, actually. A week or so in the south of France, staying at a villa belonging to some friends. It was a welcome break … I have been working hard.’ He flipped through to another photo. This one a selfie, on timer, of Lizzie and himself together, in the evening. Not always comfortable in front of the camera, he looked a bit tense, but Lizzie was doing rabbit ears above his head, and despite the situation he now found himself in, he smiled. Happy days … they’d done at least as much laughing as fucking.

‘Ah … France … Sounds divine. I wish I’d known. I could have flown over to keep you company. We could have caught up … had some fun.’

So blatant! Her breath-taking gall sideswiped him. Did
she not remember that she’d dumped him? Not once, but twice? It was his turn to pause, flailing around for his biofeedback … but then abandoning it, and focusing hard on Lizzie’s happy grin in the image.

‘I wasn’t alone, Clara. I’m with someone now. I told you in New York, don’t you remember?’

Yes, someone who won’t dump me just when I need her most. Someone decent, who’ll stand by me, unless I behave like a total shit and end up driving her away.

‘Oh … I see … I rather thought that was just one of your casual things, John. I didn’t realise it was slightly more long-lived.’ She still sounded silky, but he could hear the edge, the sound of vexation.

‘She isn’t a thing. Her name is Lizzie, and I care a great deal for her, Clara. If you must know, we’re living together, here at Dalethwaite. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s going to be very long-lived, if she’ll put up with me.’

Another pause. ‘Well, that’s wonderful for you, darling. I’m so glad for you. I’m sure she’s utterly charming. Is she someone I know? Who are her people?’

John ground his teeth. He could almost imagine Clara knew all about Lizzie, and was deliberately being dismissive.

‘She’s perfect, Clara … and she doesn’t have “people”. She has a family, like a normal person does.’ Anger surged like molten metal. The urge to fight and defend. ‘She’s a beautiful, intelligent, funny, accomplished young woman. And she has a job.’ He paused himself now. Two could play at those tactics. He smiled, preparing the killer blow, knowing it would be cruel … but unable to stop himself. ‘She’s twenty-four … and I love her.’

The resulting pause wasn’t calculated. He knew he’d hurt the woman at the end of the line, and there was no
pleasure in the fact that it was only a small fraction of the pain she’d inflicted on him. It just felt mean.

‘She sounds lovely, Jonathan. I’m so happy you’ve found someone again. You always did have the best taste in women.’ She laughed softly. It sounded sincere. Had he misjudged her? ‘Have you introduced her to Mother?’ Ah, perhaps not. The delicate jibe was there, albeit understated. Clara would never forgive him for marrying her own mother, and never forgive her mother for marrying him. He suspected that was why she’d taken such relish in dumping him the second time, and why perhaps, now, Clara might take some perverse kind of comfort from the notion that him having a much younger girlfriend might be painful to Caroline.