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Authors: Diana Hamilton

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BOOK: The Faithful Wife
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She ignored the lash of anger in his voice. What did he care, anyway? She could get thin enough to disappear with the bathwater and he wouldn't blink an eye. It would save him the trouble of divorcing her.
But he was right about one thing—she should at least try to eat something. The walk out of here tomorrow would be exhausting, and the single slice of toast she'd had at breakfast was nothing more than a distant memory.
Much as she now hated to do anything he suggested—a backlash from the days when she'd practically turned herself inside out to please him—she turned back, and would have rooted around for the bread and some cheese and taken it through to eat by the probably dying fire, but he got in before her.
‘I'll fix something. There appears to be enough food laid on to provision a garrison so it shouldn't be difficult. Why don't you drink that tea?'
No anger now, merely a smooth, impersonal politeness. It reminded her of her former attempts to be adult about the situation. So she'd play it his way—forget being bolshie, drink her tea like the man said.
It was tepid, but she got through half of it and ignored the brandy. He was sipping his as he moved around. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him. He was good in a kitchen, and she'd never known it.
She'd always been there, waiting for him to fit in a visit home between his tight work schedules. So pleased to see him, so eager for the time he could spare her—had condescended to spare her!—that she'd practically fallen over herself to make their time together as smoothly memorable as possible. After all, she'd had little else to do until she'd taken the initiative and gone back to work. He'd hated that!
The helping of grilled Cumberland sausages and tomato halves he quickly and efficiently produced was enormous enough to make her groan inwardly, and the mug of milky cocoa made her eyes go wide.
Had he secretly yearned for nursery food while she'd dished up sophisticated delicacies—potted shrimps,
navarin
of lamb, home-made sorbets so delicious they brought tears to the eye? All exquisitely served on the finest bone china—accompanied by superb wines, of course.
All the effort and dedicated planning that had gone into every meal she had ever produced for him, when all the time he might well have preferred a plate of sausages and a mug of cocoa!
Now she would never know. She most certainly wouldn't ask.
The forced intimacy of the situation frayed her nerve-endings, while the heart-clenching nearness of him on the opposite side of the small table brought the sensations she'd been battling to forget for a whole year burgeoning back to life. Which didn't help her appetite.
And she couldn't make an attempt at light, relaxing conversation. Relaxation didn't get a look in while he was around. And they didn't have a single thing to say to each other that didn't reek of contention.
Even the small sound of cutlery on earthenware platters became too much to bear. She stood up, pushing back her chair more sharply and clumsily than she'd intended.
‘Thank you.' She meant for the food she had barely touched, the cocoa she hadn't touched at all. ‘But I think I'll turn in. One way or another, it's been an extremely unpleasant day.'
She made it to the stairs before he had time to respond. She truly hadn't meant to snap, but hadn't been able to keep the acid out of her voice.
Her hair prickling on the back of her neck, she bounded up the staircase. She felt like a rabbit with a fox on its heels. Jacob Charles Fox by name, and foxy by nature, she thought half-hysterically as she breathlessly gained the room she'd earmarked for herself long hours ago when she'd innocently believed she'd be sharing the isolated cottage with Evie.
But he didn't follow her, as she feared he might, to drag her down and force her to eat the food he'd cooked. Of course he didn't.
Why the heck should he want to bother? she reminded herself tiredly as she sagged back against the door, one hand at her breast as if to still the wild beating of her heart. Secure in her room, with no sound of following footsteps or angry commands from below, she couldn't imagine why she'd panicked.
He had done what he would have considered to be his duty. Reminded her that she had to eat, produced the food. It was up to her whether she ate it or not. He couldn't care either way. So the absence of a lock on the door was no problem either, was it? He wouldn't try to claim his conjugal rights.
He didn't want his rights. He couldn't care less.
 
Jake heard her thumping up the stairs, his mouth quirking with a reluctant smile. Her languid grace had always been part of her fabled mystique, and now she was clumping around like an ill-disciplined hoyden in hobnailed boots. She who had always been so poised, so amiably cooperative, had developed a will of her own—if his hijacking was anything to go on—not to mention a sharp little tongue.
She must have been desperate to try and work things out between them to have pulled a stunt like this.
He still didn't want to think about the ramifications, but knew he had to. And, let's face it, he hadn't made it easy for her to approach him in a more conventional manner—out of the country far more than he was in it, deliberately avoiding her and anyone who knew her.
He finished the remains of his brandy and leaned back in the chair, long fingers toying with the stern of the glass, his mind absorbed.
Over the past year he'd avoided all contact and allowed her none. His solicitor had paid her allowance into her bank account each month, and those of his staff who knew his movements had been instructed to be politely noncommittal if his estranged wife had ever shown any desire to know his whereabouts.
As far as he knew, she never had. It had appeared that she, too, had written their three years of marriage off as experience—one, in his case, never to be repeated—and was getting on with her life, with the resumption both of her modelling career and her steamy, hole-and-corner affair with the much-married Maclaine.
His mouth tightened. He could never forgive that ugly betrayal, her cold-blooded deceit. Never!
He pushed the empty glass across the table, picked up her untouched one, swallowed the contents in one long draught and snapped to his feet.
However long and loudly she protested he couldn't believe she was an innocent victim of sibling mischief. For one thing, his sister knew better than to take it into her head to meddle with his life. She knew he refused to have Bella's name mentioned in his presence.
He was sure Bella had set the whole thing up, somehow convincing Kitty that deceiving him into coming here was in his best interests. Not too difficult a task to accomplish, given the way she'd pulled the wool over his eyes through three years of marriage!
Well, she'd wanted him here and now she'd got him here, so they might as well have things out in the open. And whatever her reasons, and however desperate those reasons were, he had one answer only.
There was no going back. It was over. If she had any doubts at all it was time they were knocked on the head. And there was no time like the present...
He squared his shoulders and strode to the stairs.
CHAPTER FOUR
B
ELLA was too strung up to sleep. In any case, it was hours before her normal bedtime. The paperback she'd brought along to read wasn't making any sense. The words slid past her eyes. She was taking nothing in. She closed the book and shivered.
The room was cold, and to make matters worse she'd discovered that Evie—rot her socks!—had performed yet another major interfering act. Her devious little sister must have sneaked into her room at home while Bella had been in the shower and replaced the old, cosy pyjamas she'd packed herself with slivers of sheer silk and lace—the sort of seductive nonsense she hadn't worn since she and Jake had been living together.
Her first defiant thought had been to go to bed in the leggings and woolly sweater she was wearing. Every last thing she'd bundled into the canvas bag the previous evening had been replaced.
No serviceable jeans and cosy sweaters to be found, just fabulous designer gear, almost forgotten leftovers from her time as Jake's wife. They had been languishing, unworn, at the back of a cupboard at the flat she shared with that devious, double-dealing sister of hers!
She couldn't trek out of here, heading for Aberwhatever-it-was, wearing a long slinky shirt or flowing silk trousers!
Nearly spitting with rage she'd stripped off the comfy leggings and sweater, reserving them for the morning, and hugged into a clinging dream of white satin-sheen silk, the tantalisingly revealing lace top supported by the narrowest, flimsiest of shoestring threads.
What had those two she-devils had in mind? A flaunting, a seduction, a reconciliation followed by Happy-Ever-After? What did they have between their ears? Fluff, or rocks?
Her eyes savage with bottled-up temper, she dug her head into the pillow and dragged the duvet up over her ears to shut out the sound of the howling wind. And heard instead the squeak of the door hinges, followed one second later by Jake's incisive voice.
‘It's time we talked.'
‘Get out of here!'
Bella shot up against the pillows, regardless of the next-to-nothing she was wearing, her eyes narrowed with temper. She had never been this angry in the whole of her life, and now she had someone to vent it on!
Her formative years had been spent in a restless round of moving from one place to another, the family being dragged by her feckless father to wherever the grass was supposedly greener but never was. She'd become adept at keeping her head down, quiet as a mouse, in case she got noticed and hauled into her parents' blistering, roof-raising rows.
Then there had been marriage to the man who could have given her everything but hadn't. And the only legacy she had from their marriage was bitterness.
She had tried to be everything he wanted her to be: glamorous, cool, acquiescent, the perfect wife, anxious—too anxious—to hold onto a will-o'-the-wisp, workaholic husband who was here today and gone tomorrow.
Here today and gone for at least a month! she amended in her head. Well, the black-eyed devil had finally walked out for good, and now she didn't have to subordinate herself to him or anyone else!
‘I said, get out,' she repeated when he made no move.
He was seemingly rooted to the spot in the open doorway, his straddle-legged stance familiarly dominant, thumbs hooked into the back pockets of his jeans, dark hair falling over one eye, the unintentional designer stubble adding to the aura of rakish danger that was coming off him in waves, filling the room...
 
Tantrums suited her, he thought, hooded eyes appraising the wild black tumble of hair falling over naked creamy shoulders, the hectic flares of colour on those perfect cheekbones, the silver fire of her eyes, the tempting glimpse of pert, palm-sized breasts glimmering beneath the lace of that piece of seductive night wear he remembered so well. One out of many such pieces of sorcery, designed to send a man out of his mind...
He hauled his unwise thought processes back on line. Sure, she could still fire him up, but it was only common or garden lust, not the rare and precious bloom of love. That had died when he'd moved heaven and earth to get back to her for what had been left of their third wedding anniversary—and found her wrapped around Maclaine.
Bleak anger settled in his heart, turning it to stone. Had Maclaine dumped her? Was that what this was all about? Had she set this thing up—wasting his time, trying his patience to the limit—because she was conceited enough or stupid enough to believe that she only had to bat those fabulous lashes at him to get him to take her back, live with her and miraculously forget she was an adulterous bitch?
Sure, she'd told him in no uncertain manner to get out of her room. But that was only for openers; the end game would be something else entirely.
She'd made no attempt to cover herself—and what sensible woman packed such man-trap bait for a holiday in the winter wilds of Wales with her kid sister?
Her protestations of innocence regarding her part in this wearisome farce would have held a darn sight more water if she'd been muffled in flannelette right up to her pretty pink ears!
‘Right.' He cleared his throat. He tried to pull his eyes from her but couldn't; they were stubbornly intent on drinking in all that sensual loveliness, and there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do about it. ‘Let's get things sorted out.'
 
His voice had husky undertones, Bella noted. Oh, he'd tried to make it crisp, but he'd dismally failed. She knew that tone, recognised the sultry gleam in those hooded eyes. He wanted her. He couldn't disguise it. Not from her.
Two years into their marriage, around the time she'd gone back to work with Guy, he'd stopped wanting her. He'd barely been at home at all, and had been exhausted when he was. The lust that had led him to marry her had finally been slaked. But it hadn't completely died...
The shock of it made her stomach twist, ignite with curling flames of fever that rampaged through her body. She sucked in a sharp breath and dragged the duvet up to her chin. The passion of her rage with Evie and Kitty for landing her in this mess had encompassed him, making her oblivious to what she was wearing.
‘Go away.' She knew she sounded feeble now, hated herself for it. And, far from doing as she'd said, he took a few more paces into the room. Any closer and she'd weakly give in to the temptation to beg him to take her in his arms, hold her and make love to her again. Beg him to take them both back to the beginning, when she'd believed everything to be perfect and that he could give her everything she wanted.
‘I'll go when you've explained why you were so desperate to get me here.'
The delayed modesty, the wide, troubled eyes, didn't fool him. It was all a cynical act. It took one to know one, he thought tiredly, wanting to get this sorted out, packed away and put behind him as he had assumed—wrongly, it would seem—it had been for the whole of the past twelve months.
‘You don't believe a word I say,' she accused, her voice shaky. He thought she was a scheming liar. It hurt. It shouldn't, because she ought to be used to it, but it did. Unbearably.
Her eyes filled with tears. If he didn't leave this room, right now, she'd go to pieces, and her pride wouldn't let that happen twice in one day. Just as her pride hadn't let her try to make contact of any kind with him after he'd ended their marriage by walking out.
‘Just tell me what it's all about,' he suggested tiredly. Suddenly he felt drained. He didn't want to argue with her, to have to play it her way and coax and cajole her into explaining herself. He wanted out.
Bella saw bored indifference, heard it in his voice, and anger stirred again, deep, deep inside her. ‘How can I, when I don't know?' she said through gritted teeth. She saw him shrug, turn away, and knew she wanted to feel relief because he was on his way out but, perversely, didn't.
She wanted to beg him to stay, to stop accusing her of something she hadn't done, talk to her, just talk to her, treat her like an intelligent human being for once.
‘Well, don't say I didn't give you the opportunity,' he said tonelessly. ‘I can't force you to tell me why you set this up, and quite frankly I don't want to put myself to that kind of trouble. If you've blown the opportunity to tell me your reasons you've only yourself to blame.
‘I'll be leaving at first light, and you won't be going with me. Even getting to the nearest farmhouse and a telephone won't be a picnic, and I'll make better headway on my own. Let me know if you want me to arrange transport to get you out of here.'
 
Closing the door behind him, he clattered down the staircase. No way could he spend the night tossing and turning in a bed only a few feet away from hers, with only a partition wall separating them.
Seeing her again had brought needs he'd subjugated for twelve arid months bludgeoning back to life. He was only flesh and blood!
Hell! Here he was, Jake Fox, subject of enough articles in the financial press to fill a ten-ton container, having made his first paper million on the money markets before he was twenty-two and now, at thirty-four years of age, the head of his own worldwide insurance company—yet he was totally unable to handle this woman and what she did to him, take her dubious machinations in his stride.
But hadn't she always made a sucker out of him?
Tossing an armload of dry logs on the embers, he sank into a chair, almost welcoming the hypnotic howl of the wind, the insistent memories that now could not be denied...
The very first time he'd set eyes on her...
 
The first time he set eyes on her she was wearing a gold satin beaded shift that shimmered when she moved. And how she moved!
Clutching an unwanted, untouched glass of white wine in his hand, he couldn't find words to describe what he was seeing—the sinuous grace, the endless legs, the softly seductive curves of hip and breast. The sheer poetry as her head turned slowly on the perfection of the long and fragile stern of her neck. The strange, fabulous eyes meeting his briefly across the room, holding for a moment—almost as if the contact puzzled her—before she turned back to her companion.
He was holding his breath, he discovered. He hadn't wanted to come to this party. But he hadn't not wanted to, either—just killing time until his dinner date.
‘Eyes off, buddy!' Alex muttered at his side. ‘The lady's taken.'
‘Sorry?' Jake's brows met. He'd bumped into Alex Griffith in the City, just as he'd emerged from his Lombard Street head office, his mind still on his recent successful Far Eastern acquisition trip.
Friends since schooldays, they kept in touch more—as now—by luck than arrangement.
‘Have dinner?' Alex had suggested.
Jake had shaken his head in regret, they had a lot of catching up to do. ‘Sorry. I promised to feed Kitty at The Dorchester. She's thinking of applying for a teaching post in Chester. Wants my advice.'
‘Not boyfriend trouble this time?' Alex's tawny eyes had crinkled at the corners and Jake had grinned.
‘Happily not, it would seem. Though I'm not counting my chickens. Something like that could be behind the sudden need to move to the sticks.'
His kid sister brought as much dedication to her social life as she did to her chosen profession. And more often than not Jake was landed with the job of picking up the pieces. Looking out for Kitty was something he'd got used to. What else were brothers for—especially as there were no parents around to sort out the crises she seemed to thrive on?
‘Tomorrow? Lunch?'
‘Flying out to Dubai.'
‘Tell you what,' Alex had shot a glance at his watch. ‘I'm due at this cocktail thrash around now. Duty thing—know how it is? Daren't miss it, or I'd suggest a quiet drink. Why not keep me company?'
So here he was, almost wishing he'd not tagged along, until his attention had been riveted by the raven-haired beauty in the shimmering dress. He couldn't take his eyes away.
‘Who is she?'
The face of La Donna.' Alex hadn't had to ask who Jake was talking about. ‘Shock to the system, what? I've met her once or twice. Got myself introduced during an interval at Covent Garden. But no dice. If I thought I stood a chance I'd be in there, trying my luck—along with the rest of the male population!'
Jake ignored that, dismissed it as an irrelevance, although it was to come back and haunt him time after time. ‘The face of what?' The question was spiked with urgency, a tinge of irritation.
‘Where've you been the last couple of years, buddy? No, don't tell me—too busy plotting how to make your company's next billion to read the glossies or watch the hoardings!'
Then as if he sensed the brooding intensity in the dark eyes that suddenly flicked his way, Alex cut the banter and volunteered, ‘Appropriately, her name's Bella. Bella Harcourt, supermodel. She was picked to be the face of La Donna—cosmetics and stuff. Since then her career's taken off in a big way. And the guy she's with is head of the agency which handles the La Donna account Guy Maclaine—a big name in advertising circles. He took her under his wing from the outset.'

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