His Wedding-Night Heir

CHAPTER TWO

THERE was a moment when she thought she might faint. When she would have welcomed the temporary surcease to this intolerable moment that unconsciousness would provide.

But she wasn’t that lucky.

Instead she heard Nick drawl, ‘Will someone fetch a chair for my wife? She’s had a shock.’

It was exactly the challenge she needed. I am not—not—going to fall apart, she told herself, her body stiffening. At least not now.

She made her tone crisp. ‘Thank you, but I’m perfectly all right.’

She turned to Kit, who was looking poleaxed, while Tracy was standing with her mouth open and her eyes out on stalks.

‘But please get Tracy a drink,’ she added. ‘She really needs one.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think it’s best if I leave.’

‘Not yet, darling.’ Nick’s voice was silky, but the fingers that closed on her wrist felt like iron. ‘After all, you went to the trouble of seeking me out tonight. So why don’t you say what you came to say?’

Cally bit her lip. It was her left hand that he’d imprisoned. The hand that had once, for a few hours, worn his ring but was now bare—a fact, she could tell, that wasn’t lost on him.

She wanted to pull free, but feared an undignified struggle which she might lose. She said brusquely, ‘Kit’s our spokesman. Perhaps he could make an appointment to see you tomorrow.’

‘Unfortunately I shall be leaving after breakfast.’ He paused. ‘But I could spare you all some time later, when tonight’s presentation is over.’

‘But we’re going out for a meal.’ The champagne she was sipping seemed to have loosened Tracy’s tongue. ‘An Italian meal. My neighbour’s looking after the baby,’ she added, beaming.

‘Then why don’t I join you?’ Nick suggested, smoothly and unanswerably. ‘You can put forward your point of view over veal Marsala.’

Tracy stared at him. ‘But I was going to have lasagne.’

‘Then of course you shall.’ He was smiling again, using that charm of his like a weapon. Controlling the tense silence that had descended. ‘While you tell me all about Gunners Terrace.’

‘It was an idea of our late mother’s,’ Gordon Hartley butted in, almost desperately. ‘Sadly, she died while the scheme was in its infancy, so most of the houses are still untouched. They’re dangerous and insanitary, and they should be pulled down.’

In spite of her mental and emotional turmoil Cally managed to give him a steady look. ‘That isn’t altogether true, and you know it. Half the terrace has been completed, and work has started on the others.’

‘But we won’t talk about it here and now,’ Nick cut in decisively. He’d released Cally’s wrist, but the pressure of his fingers seemed to linger like a bruise. ‘I still have things to do, so we’ll have to postpone the discussion.’

‘There’s really nothing to talk about, Sir Nicholas,’ Neville Hartley blustered. ‘I think we’ve made the position quite clear already.’

‘One side of it, certainly,’ Nick agreed. He looked at Kit. ‘What’s the name of the restaurant you’re using?’

‘The Toscana,’ Kit muttered awkwardly. ‘In the High Street.’

Nick looked at his watch. ‘Then I’ll meet you there in an hour’s time.’ He paused. ‘All of you,’ he added softly, his gaze resting briefly on Cally. ‘I hope that’s clearly understood.’ Another swift, hard smile and he was gone, and the crowd seemed to close round him.

There was a taut silence, and Cally could see the Hartley brothers exchanging wary glances.

She could understand their problem, she thought wryly. Young Lady Tempest, wife of Eastern Crest’s dynamic chairman, would have been an honoured guest, overwhelmed with obsequious attention. Nick Tempest’s clearly estranged wife was a horse of a different colour, and they weren’t sure quite how to deal with her.

To be civil to someone who’d encouraged Genevieve Hartley in her reckless foolishness and battled with them openly after her death would be anathema, but neither could they throw her bodily into the street with her companions, as they obviously wished.

After all, Gunners Terrace was supposed to be down and out, just waiting for the bulldozers to arrive. Now the residents had an unsuspected ace up their sleeve, and for the moment the Hartleys didn’t have a strategy to deal with it.

In the end Neville Hartley said thickly, ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’ And they stalked furiously away.

‘Perhaps that should be our line,’ Cally called after them, her voice inimical.

Then suddenly the tension went out of her, and she was gasping as if she’d been winded.

Kit was staring at her as if she was a stranger. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘You are married—to him? It can’t be true.’

‘It’s perfectly true.’ Her voice was raw. ‘But not for much longer, I assure you. Once I’ve been separated from him—from Nick—for two years, divorce should be easy.’

‘Is that how he sees it?’ Kit asked sombrely.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You were the surprised one just now,’ he said. ‘If you ask me, your husband knew you were going to be here tonight, and he was waiting for you.’

‘He’s very dishy,’ Tracy said on a note of envy. ‘I wouldn’t mind him waiting for me.’

Cally gave a taut smile. ‘Well, at the restaurant you can have him all to yourself. I’ve had enough surprises for one day, and I’m going home.’

‘But you can’t,’ Kit said, dismayed. ‘You heard him. He’s willing to listen to what we have to say—something we hardly dared hope for. But it has to be all of us or it’ll be no dice. Cally, you can’t walk away—not when we actually have a chance to put our case.’

She looked down at the floor. ‘I think I’d be more likely to damage your cause than help it.’

I should have listened to that dream the other night, she thought. Accepted it as a warning and gone while the going was good. But I was too complacent. I let myself think that he’d have stopped searching by now—if he’d ever begun.

Unless, of course, this is all one sick coincidence. But somehow I don’t think so.

‘If you’re not with us, I don’t think we’ll have a cause,’ Kit told her grimly. ‘You can’t give up on it all now. Besides, what point would there be when he knows where you are?’

It was logical—it was reasonable—but it made the situation no easier to accept.

She said, ‘I can’t just—meet him socially. Too much has happened.’

‘Then look on it as a business meeting,’ Kit urged. ‘They say half the deals in the country are done in restaurants.’

She bent her head. ‘You really think he’s going to offer any concessions?’

‘Why not? He didn’t have to agree to talk to us. He could have insisted on seeing you alone. That’s a hopeful sign, isn’t it?’

‘Nick likes to manipulate people,’ she said. ‘And he always has his own agenda.’

‘Nevertheless,’ he said stubbornly, ‘it has to be worth a try.’ He paused, and his tone altered. ‘Cally—did you ever intend to tell me you were married?’

She gave him a straight look. ‘I didn’t plan to be around long enough for that to be necessary. Anyway, it’s not an episode I’m proud of. I’m just thankful it will soon be over and done with.’

‘Why’s he a sir?’ asked Tracy.

‘Because he’s a baronet. He inherited the title from a distant cousin.’

‘With loads of land and money?’ Tracy was clearly intrigued. ‘That’s dead romantic.’

‘Most of the land had been sold off,’ Cally said wearily. ‘And he was already a millionaire several times over. So all he really got was a rather rundown house.’

‘Was it love at first sight?’ Tracy persisted. ‘When you met him? I mean, you obviously fancied him enough to marry him.’

‘Actually,’ Cally said in a clear, bright voice, ‘it was just a business arrangement. Only I decided rather late in the day that I couldn’t go through with it after all. And I’d rather not talk about it any more either,’ she added.

Except that she almost certainly wouldn’t have a choice in the matter, she told herself, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray and swallowing some of it down her dry throat.

Because she was faced at last with the confrontation she’d have given anything to avoid.

She tried not to look—to see where Nick was in the busy room, or if he was alone. Particularly that. She strove hard not to wonder what he was thinking—or what he might have to say to her later. Because there was bound to be some kind of reckoning.

Even if he agreed that a quick and quiet divorce was the best way out of their situation—and as far as Cally was concerned there was no possible alternative—she was still unlikely to escape totally unscathed.

I left him with a lot of explaining to do, she told herself tautly. Made him look a fool. Something he’s unlikely to forgive or forget.

And now she would have to come up with an explanation for her headlong flight from him.

Not the truth, of course. That was locked away deep within her, and she would not go there. But something—anything—that would carry a modicum of conviction.

She put down her glass and with a murmured excuse went out of the room, down a flight of stone steps to the women’s cloakroom. She had it to herself, which she was grateful for, because one glance in the mirror told her that she looked as if she was running a temperature. Her eyes were feverishly bright, and there was a hectic flush along her cheekbones, so the last thing she wanted was for someone to ask if she was all right—especially if Nick was around to hear it.

I need to look cool, calm and collected, she told herself, as she ran the cold tap over the pounding pulses in her wrists and applied a damp tissue to her temples. I have to keep the emotional temperature low, no matter how difficult it may get later, because I can’t afford any sign of weakness.

And if they could only agree to conduct the eventual divorce in a rational, equable spirit, that would be a bonus.

She supposed divorce was the solution. She couldn’t imagine Nick accepting the annulment that represented the true state of affairs between them. Not good for his all-powerful male image, she thought wryly.

Although it would be her lack of sex appeal that would probably be blamed. What else could it be? Because, where women were concerned, Nick Tempest didn’t have to prove a thing.

Whereas she—she had little to offer. She was still too thin, she admitted, and under normal circumstances too pale. Her features were generally nondescript, with that thick, glossy fall of hair her only real claim to beauty. Although even that was brown. The whole picture was dull and duller, underlined by a blouse, skirt and jacket that didn’t hold a scrap of allure between them.

No change there, she thought, her mouth twisting.

The witnesses at their wedding must have imagined they were watching a peacock mate with an ugly duckling.

But then Nick hadn’t married her for her attractions, or her charm. He’d had his own reasons…as she’d finally discovered, she thought, tension lancing her as those hidden memories stirred again.

Not that it mattered, she told herself vehemently. It was all past and done with, and soon that would be a matter of law.

I want nothing from him, she thought, but my freedom. And surely that isn’t too much to ask? He should be glad to be rid of me at so little cost.

In these past strange months in limbo, she’d learned that she could earn sufficient to keep herself without luxuries. Once she was no longer running away, she could actually seek some training, prepare herself for a career. Life would open up in front of her.

And, however long it took, and however painful the process, she would learn to forget that for a few hours she’d been Nick Tempest’s convenient bride.

‘So you’re still here.’ Tracy came into the cloakroom. ‘Kit sent me to find you. I think he was getting worried in case you’d disappeared.’

‘No.’ Cally had managed to tone down the worst of her flush with powder. She produced her comb and started to smooth her hair. ‘I’m still around.’

‘Put some lippy on,’ Tracy suggested.

‘I haven’t brought any.’ It was a fib, but she hadn’t used it earlier, and there was no way she wanted to look as if she’d made any kind of effort. It was the kind of feminine detail that Nick would notice, she thought, with a pang.

‘Kit thinks we should go and have a quiet drink at the White Hart.’ Tracy went on. ‘Plan our tactics, he says.’ She gave Cally a straight look. ‘You don’t think there’s much point, do you?’

Cally put her comb in her bag. She said quietly, ‘I honestly don’t know. He could simply have refused to talk to us.’

‘Well, he’s your husband, so you should know,’ said Tracy. She added, ‘And it’s not really “us”, at all. It’s you—isn’t it?’ And her eyes met Cally’s with a question she was unable to answer.

By the time they reached the restaurant Cally was on tenterhooks, totally gripped by tension. The preliminary discussion in the pub hadn’t got very far, because Kit was clearly still upset about her concealed marriage and was prepared to be resentful, which she regretted.

She realised, to her shame, that she was hoping against hope that Nick would yield to the Hartleys’ blandishments and not turn up.

You’re supposed to be fighting for Gunners Terrace, she reproached herself silently. Balance that against an awkward hour or so in your ex-husband’s company, and get a grip.

But Nick was there before them, occupying a corner table—the best in the house, naturally—and accompanied by a fair, stocky man whom he introduced as Matthew Hendrick, the project architect.

Cally was so determined not to sit next to Nick that she found herself placed opposite him instead, which was hardly an improvement, she thought, biting her lip with vexation.

While the menus were handed round, the bread brought and the wine poured, she could feel Nick’s eyes on her in a cool assessment which she could not avoid and he did not even try to conceal.

She could only hope he was thanking his stars for a lucky escape, but her intuition warned her that she might be wrong.

She ate sparingly of the antipasti that formed the first course, and only picked at the chicken in its rich wine sauce that followed. She tried to fix her mind on the earnest discussion going on, primarily between Kit and Matthew Hendrick, while Nick watched and listened. This was all that should matter to her, she reminded herself. The plight of the residents. The need to save the project and continue it. She should be joining in here, making her own reasoned contribution, as Tracy was doing.

But she was too aware of the dark man opposite, with the cool, contained face. Too conscious of the apprehensive thoughts circling in her mind, giving her no peace.

She refused dessert and coffee, praying inwardly that the party would start to break up and she’d finally be let off the hook.

But it was a vain hope.

‘Goodnight, Miss Andrews—Mr Matlock.’ Nick had risen to his feet and was shaking hands. ‘Matthew, I’ll meet you on site tomorrow at nine a.m. My wife and I are going to stay for a while, and enjoy our reunion.’ His smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘We have a lot of catching up to do—don’t we, my sweet?’

Cally’s lips parted to utter a startled protest, but she bit back the words and sank back in her chair. That same intuition told her that any resistance on her part would only make her look foolish in the end. Far better not to fuss, she thought, but to let him think she regarded spending time alone in his company with complete indifference.

But how that was to be achieved she hadn’t the faintest idea.

The others left, and she saw Kit looking frowningly back at her. She was almost tempted to call out to him, ask him to stay, but she knew that wouldn’t be fair. She’d enjoyed working with Kit, but she would never have wanted more even if she’d been free, and she would have told him goodbye without regrets.

Besides, if Eastern Crest were interested enough in what he had to say to hold a site meeting, she couldn’t jeopardise that by allowing him to annoy the chairman.

And Nick had made his wishes coolly and brutally clear.

They were going to talk.

As he resumed his seat, she said in a small, brittle voice, ‘I feel as if someone should read me my rights.’

‘I already know mine,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to consider them.’ He signalled to the waiter to bring more coffee.

‘I don’t want anything else,’ she told him quickly.

‘Then you can sit and chat to me while I have some. Doesn’t that paint a nice domestic picture?’

‘Nick,’ she said, deciding to jump straight in, ‘do we really have to do this? Can’t we just accept that our marriage was a seriously bad idea and call it quits? I—I’d honestly like to go home.’

‘An excellent idea,’ he said affably. ‘Why don’t we do just that? Unfortunately, at the moment home for me happens to be the Majestic Hotel—a flagrant misnomer, if ever there was one.’ He gave her a small, cold smile. ‘I wonder if I could get them under the Trades Description Act? However,’ he went on, ‘with uncanny prescience, they’ve given me the bridal suite, so perhaps I should forgive their delusions of grandeur.’ He drank down his espresso. ‘Shall we go?’

She could suddenly feel the hectic drumming of her pulses. Hear the silent scream of No in her dry throat. She thought, He doesn’t mean that. He can’t…

Aloud, she said shakily, ‘I’m going nowhere with you. You seem to have overlooked the fact that I’ve left you.’

‘Oh, no, darling,’ he said with corrosive lightness. ‘I remember that incredibly well. Our wedding day, right? In fact, the ink was barely dry on the register when you scarpered.’

She said stiffly, ‘I suppose you deserve some kind of explanation.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and his voice seemed to remove a layer of her skin. ‘I bloody well do. And maybe an apology for making a fool of me quite so publicly. That would be a beginning.’

She bit her lip. ‘Yes, of course. I—I’m sorry about that.’

‘But nothing else?’ Nick divined grimly.

She thought, You were making a fool of me in private—or does that not count?