The Marriage Renewal

It was hard to believe he was smiling. Tara might have been feeling weak-kneed and hot—looking at him made her ache for him in the most carnal way—but she still couldn’t believe his arrogance. Just because he knew she was no more immune to the sexual chemistry between them than he was, he had no right to think he was playing some kind of trump card.

“Sex isn’t a particularly sound reason on which to base a marriage,” she said huffily, wishing she didn’t sound like some prudish little virgin.

“I agree.” He flashed a deep bone-melting smile, a weapon clearly designed to elicit the most devastating response, and Tara clenched her thighs tightly together beneath her dress to stop them from shaking.

“But great sex—mind-blowing, knee-trembling, all-night-long, ‘we-don’t-need-to-sleep’ sex—now that’s another thing altogether. Wouldn’t you agree?”

For several years MAGGIE COX was a reluctant secretary who dreamed of becoming a published author. She can’t remember a time when she didn’t have her head in a book or wasn’t busy filling exercise books with stories. When she was ten years old her favorite English teacher told her, “If you don't become a writer, I’ll eat my hat!” But it was only after marrying the love of her life that she finally became convinced she might be able to achieve her dream. Now a self-confessed champion of dreamers everywhere, she urges everyone with a dream to go for it and never give up. Also a busy full-time mom, who tries constantly not to be so busy in what she laughingly calls her spare time, she loves to watch good drama or romantic movies, and eat chocolate!

The Marriage Renewal

Maggie Cox

To my mom, Norah, who taught me to love books practically as soon as I could talk and who always believed that one day something really good would happen to me.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

THE baby had distracted her. The beautiful, tow-haired, drooling baby, who had sat opposite her on his mother’s lap, his gummy grin tying Tara’s heart into knots and consigning all her well-intentioned plans to enjoy a carefree, happy day off to oblivion. All because his name was Gabriel. By the time she got off the train at Liverpool Street, tears had been welling like a dam about to burst, and she’d had to dig frantically through her purse for change for the ladies’ toilet.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Tara dabbed at her streaked mascara, reapplied some blusher and sucked in several deep breaths to calm herself. It was five years ago…five years. So why hadn’t she got over it? It had just been bad luck that the baby on the train had shared his name with another beautiful baby boy…She was tired, that was all. Long overdue for a holiday. Back at her aunt’s antique shop, she had a drawer full of glossy brochures promising the destinations of a lifetime. Carefree, sun-kissed vistas that, if she ever got round to booking one, might remind her that she was just thirty years old, with a lot of life in front of her yet to have fun.

‘The V&A,’ she said out loud into the mirror, as if putting her resolve into words might give her the will and the desire to get there. She delved into her shoulder bag for a brush, quickly dragged it through her shoulder-length blonde hair, noted for the second time that day that her fringe was in dire need of a trim, then, straightening her shoulders, exited through a turnstile out into the familiar mêlée that was Liverpool Street Station. Twenty minutes later, revived by a take-away café latte, certain she was once more steering the ship, she headed determinedly down into the underground to board a tube and continue her journey to South Kensington.

Inside the museum it was almost unbearably close. Initially trying to shrug off the heat, Tara tried hard to concentrate on what she was looking at. Browsing some of the impressive historical-dress collection that spanned four centuries of European fashion—always her favourite place to start on a visit—she paused to remove her light denim jacket and comb her fingers through her hair. Her hand came away damp from her forehead. Then, worryingly, the room started to spin.

‘Oh, my God.’ Resting her head against one of the long glass cabinets, blinking at the blur of green and yellow that was some diminutive aristocrat’s ballgown, Tara prayed hard for the spinning sensation to stop. If only she’d roused herself a few minutes earlier that morning then she wouldn’t have had to fly out of the house to catch the early train—and she wouldn’t have left the house on an empty stomach. Coupled with the shock of hearing a name that haunted her from the past, it meant that her equilibrium was now paying the price.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ An elderly lady with skin that resembled soft, crumpled parchment delicately laid her hand on Tara’s shoulder. The faintest drift of lavender wafted beneath her nose. Touched by the kindness of a stranger, the younger woman opened her mouth to speak, to tell her concerned enquirer that she was perfectly fine; all she needed was to sit down for a couple of minutes then she’d be right as rain again—but the words just wouldn’t come. Inside her head Tara was frantically trying to assimilate the frightening sensation of hurtling towards the ground in a high-rise lift when suddenly her whole world tilted and she felt herself slide inelegantly to the floor.

‘Tara…Tara, wake up. Can you hear me?’

She knew that voice. Knew it intimately. It was like the stroke of velvet whispering over her skin or the first seductive swallow of good French brandy on an icy cold day. All her nerve endings exploded into vibrancy. First the baby—now this…his voice when she hadn’t heard it in over five long years… It had to be over-work, that was the only explanation.

Her heart was racing as her eyelids fluttered open. The high vaulted ceiling seemed miles away but that wasn’t the sight that consumed her body and soul. It was the intense blue gaze beneath the ridiculously long sweep of thick blond lashes staring down at her that had her riveted. Not to mention the deep indentation in the centre of a hard, chiselled jaw and the perfectly defined cheekbones in a masculine face so captivating someone ought to paint it—just to prove for posterity that male beauty like this existed…

‘Macsen.’

There was the briefest flinch in the side of his jaw in acknowledgement of his name but other than that Tara detected no discernible response. Disappointment, hurt, then confusion temporarily stalled her brain.

‘Do you know this young woman?’ It was the lady smelling of lavender. She was staring at the impressively built blond Adonis leaning over Tara as if she was going to demand some ID.

‘Yes, I know her,’ he replied in clipped tones tinged with the slightest Scandinavian accent. ‘She happens to be my wife.’

‘Oh. Well, I don’t think it was wise to let her wander around alone. She looks very peaky to me. Is she all right? Why don’t you help her sit up and give her some of this water?’ The woman helpfully produced a small bottle of mineral water from her voluminous bag.

‘I’m all right. Really.’ Struggling to a sitting position, Tara marvelled at her ability to be coherent when her heart was pushing against her ribcage as if it was about to burst. She’d fainted. That much was obvious. But where had Mac appeared from and what was he doing in the V&A? And of all the people who could have witnessed her embarrassing moment, why, oh, why did it have to be him? Apart from her elderly friend smelling of lavender, that was.

‘Have you eaten?’ Mac was already unscrewing the bottle of water, sliding his hand round the back of her head and guiding her lips towards it. Tara spluttered a little as the water filled her mouth and slid down her throat but it instantly made her feel better, more like herself.

‘What do you mean, have I eaten?’ Wiping her hand across her mouth, she was resigned to the fact that her lilac-coloured lipstick had probably been all but obliterated. Just because Mac’s impossibly blue eyes were mesmerising her as they had always had the power to do, she couldn’t really expect to look her best when she’d just passed out in front of him. But seeing him again was sweet agony to her beleaguered soul…

‘She has a habit of forgetting to eat,’ Mac confided aloud with what sounded suspiciously like resignation. ‘This isn’t the first time she’s fainted.’

‘She needs taking care of.’ The woman accepted the half-consumed bottle of water, screwed the top back on and returned it to her bag. ‘Why don’t you take her to the cafeteria and get her a sandwich?’

‘Thank you. I was just about to do that very thing.’ His tone deceptively charming, Mac bestowed one of his killer smiles on the older woman, which Tara knew just had to make her day, then brought his gaze slowly but deliberately back to her. As she swallowed hard, her heart skipped another beat.

‘I don’t want a sandwich.’ Old resentment surfaced and, scrambling to her feet, Tara dusted down her long denim skirt, green eyes shooting defiant, angry little sparks that couldn’t fail to tell him she didn’t welcome his intervention—no matter how apparently kind. He was taking charge again…just as he had always done. How dared he? Had he forgotten they hadn’t seen each other for five years? Did he think he could just walk back into her life and take up where he’d left off?

Of course he didn’t. Her heart sank. She was being utterly foolish and stupid. If he’d wanted to take up where they’d left off he would have contacted her long before this. Long before she’d built an impenetrable fortress round her heart to stave off further hurt or disappointment.

‘Well, take care, then…both of you.’ With a doting smile—the kind reserved for beloved grandchildren—the elderly lady left them.

Tara ran her tongue round the seam of her lips then stole a furtive glance at Mac. He towered over her, tall, broad-shouldered, athletically lean and commanding in that impossibly arrogant way he had that made her feel very much ‘the little woman,’ no matter how emancipated she told herself she was. He was wearing his hair a little longer than she remembered but it was still straight, blond and unbelievably sexy. Tactile. Just begging for her to run her fingers through it…

A small trickle of perspiration slid down her back between her shoulder blades.

‘What are you doing here?’ Caught off-balance, she knew her voice lacked the strength it had normally. It made her stiffen her resolve to somehow stay immune to this man.

A beguiling dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth as he straightened the cuffs of his suit jacket—his very expensive suit jacket. ‘Looking for you. What else?’

Mac watched her reluctantly eat her sandwich. She had that look on her face that said she was eating it under duress—not because it was good for her or because he thought she should. She was just as stubborn as he remembered, stubborn and…gorgeous. Simply ravishing in that fresh-faced English way, with her softly mussed blonde hair, milkmaid complexion and pretty green eyes like emeralds washed beneath a crystal-clear fountain.

He’d missed her. An odd little jump in the pit of his stomach attested to that. Suddenly unclear about his own intentions, he told himself to get a grip. All he had to do was tell her what he wanted and go. After which, he needed never set eyes on her again. Something in him baulked at that.

‘My aunt had no business telling you where to find me,’ Tara pouted, her plump lower lip sulky but undeniably appealing. ‘Anyway, how did you know where to look?’

Stirring his coffee, Mac took a careful sip before replying. ‘You always used to come here first, remember? You loved looking at the clothes.’

She did. And more often than not she’d dragged Mac round with her, promising she’d go to one of his boring business dinners with him if he’d just humour her in this, her favourite pastime.

Another bite of sandwich found its way to her mouth. The tuna and mayonnaise filling could have been wallpaper paste for all she knew. Her tastebuds had ceased to function while her stomach was mimicking the on-off cycle of a tumble-drier, all because Mac—the man she’d given her heart to all those years ago—was sitting opposite her as if he’d never been away. But there was no warmth in his expression as their gazes locked. Instead, he was unsmiling and detached, like one of those beautiful marble statues that graced some of these very halls, as distant from her now as he’d been during the last painful six months they’d been together. They were some of the longest, loneliest, hardest months of her life, she recalled. Months when they were barely even speaking to each other, when they’d both sought relief and refuge elsewhere. Mac in his work—which was all-consuming at the best of times—and Tara in her dancing.

‘Well, seeing as how you’ve gone to so much trouble to seek me out, you’d better tell me what you want.’ He wasn’t the only one who could project ‘detached’, she thought defiantly. The last thing she wanted him to conclude was that she was still missing him. But just seeing him again had brought so many long-buried emotions to the surface. Love, fear, bitterness and regret—feelings she’d tried so very hard to put behind her…and obviously failed miserably.

‘What do I want?’ A muscle ticked briefly in the side of a lean, clean-shaven jaw that Tara remembered felt like rough velvet when she pressed her cheek to it. He also wore the same aftershave, she noted. A timeless, classic, sexy male fragrance that she always associated with Mac. ‘I want a divorce, Tara. That’s what I want.’

Her musings were roughly halted.

‘You mean you want to get married again?’ She could think of no other reason he’d finally got round to asking for the one thing they’d both avoided for the past five years. She steeled herself. He didn’t reply straight away and, feeling her heartbeat throb loudly in her ears, Tara glanced round at the trickle of people moving in and out of the cafeteria, just to gain some precious time. Time when she could pretend he hadn’t made the demand she’d never wanted to hear.

‘I’ve met someone.’

Of course he had. Women were always drawn to Mac—like the proverbial bees to a honeypot. But he had always taken great pains to reassure Tara he only had eyes for her.

‘I’m just surprised you haven’t asked before now.’ Pushing away her plate with the barely touched sandwich on it, she bit her lip to stem the threatening onrush of tears. There was no way on God’s green earth that she was going to break down in front of him. He’d seen her at her lowest ebb and he’d walked away. Walked away…

Mac saw the colour drain from her face and wondered why. Their marriage had been over a long time ago, so she could hardly be shocked that he was finally drawing a line under it after all these years. In fact, he’d been more surprised that she hadn’t contacted him first. He was so sure that some nice young man would snap her up the moment she’d been free of him that almost every day for the first year after they’d parted he’d dreaded the phone ringing or picking up his mail. Just in case it was Tara asking him for a divorce.

‘There didn’t seem much point until now.’ He drew his fingers through his hair and Tara stared in shock at the slim platinum band he was still wearing. Why on earth hadn’t he taken it off? Then she glanced down at its twin glinting up at her from her own slender finger and quickly folded her hands in her lap.

‘So what’s she like?’ Don’t do this, Tara…don’t torture yourself. ‘Your intended? Some single-minded career woman, no doubt—equally addicted to work with a designer wardrobe?’

‘You should finish your sandwich. You don’t want to risk passing out again. I won’t be around next time to help you up.’

‘Wasn’t that the whole problem, Mac? You never were around when I needed you. Work always came first. Well, I hope it’s brought all the success you dreamed of. Clearly it has if that suit you’re wearing is any indication.’

‘I never denied I was ambitious. You knew that from the first. But I worked hard for both of us, Tara. I’m not the selfish bastard you seem so eager to tag me as.’

‘No. You were always generous, Macsen. With your money and your expensive gifts but not your time, as I recall.’

Silently he acknowledged the truth of her statement. God knew he’d regretted it when time after time he’d had to let her down—whether it was cancelling a dinner date, missing a long-planned theatre trip or sending her off on holiday alone because something important had come up at the last minute. That was the way of it in the advertising world. Everybody wanting something yesterday and unwilling to wait, because there was always another agency who would do it quicker or cheaper. He had worked hard to make his agency one of the best and most successful in the business. But he’d paid a high price. Some might say too high.

‘Why did you move out of London to live with your aunt?’

‘That’s none of your damn business!’

Mac’s gaze was steady. ‘She told me you’d given up teaching to help her in the shop. It’s a shame; you were always so passionate about your dancing.’

‘Aunt Beth told you too much. And it’s typical that you instantly infer any decision I make about my life must naturally be a wrong one.’

‘Do I do that?’ Looking genuinely puzzled, Mac slowly shook his head. ‘That’s not what I meant to imply at all. I was just surprised you’d given up something you so clearly loved.’

‘Yes, well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? So tell me, what made you decide to try again? At marriage, I mean? Last time we were together you yelled at me that it was the biggest mistake of your life.’

The pain in Tara’s throat was making it difficult to speak. He’d wounded her deeply with his cruel, angry words then walked out without giving her a chance to make things right. The following day he’d rung to say he was leaving. He’d come home that night to pack, then left her in pieces while he walked calmly out the door. A few days later he’d sent her a cheque for some outrageously large amount in a card with a Monet painting on the front—the one with the waterlilies—and she’d torn it up along with the cheque and thrown it in the bin.

‘I lost my father last year to cancer.’ Mac’s words were hesitant, measured, and Tara’s foolish heart turned over at the flash of pain in his deep blue eyes, but she’d never met his parents. Mac had always been too busy to arrange it. Another casualty of his drive to succeed. ‘Something like that…the death of a parent…makes you think about your own mortality. I’m thirty-eight years old, Tara, and I want a child. I want the chance to be a father.’

‘Is that right?’ Her words were barely above a whisper and Mac could see that she was visibly shaken. He frowned. A memory returned that jolted him. Clearly he should have chosen his words more carefully.

‘I’ve got to go.’ Gathering up her jacket from the spare chair between them, Tara got hurriedly to her feet. ‘I’ve just remembered I’ve got several things to do today. I can’t stay here chatting. You can have your divorce, Mac. You know where I live, so send the papers there and I’ll sign them. Good luck.’

‘Tara!’

He pursued her from the cafeteria into a long, echoing corridor with marble busts of grave historical dignitaries looking on and a shiny parquet floor. When he caught up with her, urgently spinning her round to face him, it distressed him intensely that she was crying. Two slow wet tracks trickled down her face onto her chin. Impatiently she scrubbed them away. ‘What is it? You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? What more do you want?’

‘I want to know why you’re crying.’ He held onto her arm when she would have tugged it free and felt it suddenly grow limp in his hand.

‘You said you wanted a child, that you wanted to be a father?’ Suddenly weary and angry and beyond caring that she was about to lay her soul bare for him to trample all over it, Tara lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I begged you to let me have a baby…do you remember that?’

Mac did. He remembered a night of the sweetest, most erotic lovemaking known to man—a night that had come about after another bitter argument, when their mutual desire and attraction was stronger than the anger that raged between them—and his beautiful green-eyed wife laying her head on his chest and asking him if he could guess what she wanted more than anything else in the world. Suddenly his chest was so tight he could hardly breathe.

‘I remember.’ Hot colour crept up his neck and he let go of her arm.

‘When we broke up I was pregnant.’

Her words sliced through him, knocking his world off its axis.

‘I didn’t— Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Why should I have? You left. Our marriage was over. You didn’t want a baby anyway. You didn’t know if you were cut out to be a father, wasn’t that what you said at the time? Work was too demanding, you were busy building up the business…“safeguarding” our future, that’s what you said. Didn’t that just turn out to be the biggest joke of all?’

‘Tara, I…’ Loosening his tie, Mac dragged his fingers shakily through the blunt-cut ends of his thick blond hair. ‘What happened?’

Fear clouded his impossibly blue eyes and just for a moment or two Tara considered softening the blow. She didn’t know how, but she would have done so if she could. Cruelty just wasn’t in her nature.

‘What happened?’ Her even white teeth bit briefly into her quivering lower lip. ‘The baby died in my womb at six months.’

‘Dear God!’ Mac’s exclamation was like a hissed breath. He moved away, shaking his head, staring down at the floor as if he didn’t want to hear any more. Couldn’t handle hearing any more.

‘The baby was a boy.’ Tara’s sorrowful green gaze sought him out, made him look at her. ‘We had a son, Macsen. A little baby boy.’ And with that, she ran down the shiny corridor, the heels of her sandals echoing like cannon fire in her ears as she frantically sought out the exit, her heart beating fit to burst.

‘Where shall we eat tonight, darling?’ Amelie Duvall finished putting the final careful touches to her make-up, took a brief inventory of her appearance in her classic ‘little black dress’ in one of the two mirrored wardrobes that banked the big scroll bed, then reached inside her black sequinned purse for some perfume. Spraying it liberally behind her ears, her knees, then behind her wrists, she returned the bottle to her purse then threw it onto the bed.

‘Macsen? I asked you a question. Were you even listening?’ Barefooted, the French girl padded out into the living room, coming to an abrupt halt when she saw Mac seated on the sofa, hunched over a glass of what she immediately guessed to be brandy. He’d removed his tie, his hair was dishevelled—as if he’d been ceaselessly running his fingers through it—and the expression on his stunningly handsome face was nothing short of grim.

‘But you are not even ready to go out.’ Amelie could not mask her disappointment. She loved the opportunity to dress up and go out to dinner with her handsome escort—knew without doubt that they made an eye-catching pair, her own dark beauty a perfect foil for his blond Viking good looks. Whatever had brought on this dark mood of his Amelie saw it as her mission to shake him out of it.