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She’d decided that the only plus point in being married to a man she loathed was that she would never again suffer the pain and humiliation of rejection. She wouldn’t care. A lovely theory, but hard to cling to when every cell in her body craved his touch. She had never felt this way before.
She bit her lip, fearing that if she set free the ironic laugh locked in her throat there would be a chain reaction—she would lose it and she couldn’t do that. Pretty much all she had left was her pride.
Listen to yourself, Hannah, mocked the voice in her head. Your pride is all you have left? Go down that road of self-pity and you’d pretty much end up being the spoilt shallow bitch your husband thinks you are.
Husband.
I’m married.
Third time lucky. Or as it happened, unlucky. She knew there were many women who would have envied her unlucky fate just as there had been girls at school who had envied her.
The influential clique who had decided to make the new girl’s life a misery even before they’d discovered she was stupid. She’d thought so too until she’d been diagnosed as dyslexic at fourteen.
For a long time Hannah had wondered why—what had she done or said?—and then she’d had the opportunity to ask when she’d found herself sitting in a train compartment with one of her former tormentors, all grown up now.
Hannah had immediately got up to leave but had paused by the door when the other woman had spoken.
‘I’m sorry.’
And Hannah had asked the question that she had always wanted to ask.
‘Why?’
The answer had been the same one her father had given her when she had sobbed, ‘What have I done? What’s wrong with me?’
‘It’s got nothing to do with you, Hannah. They do it because they can. I could move you to another school, sweetheart, but what happens if the same thing happens there? You can’t carry on running away. The way to cope with bullies is not to react. Don’t let them see they get to you.’
The strategy had worked perhaps too well because, not only had her cool mask put off the bullies, but potential friends too, except for Sal.
What would Sal say? She closed off that line of thought, but not before she experienced a wave of deep sadness. She didn’t share secrets with Sal any more; she had lost her best friend the day she had found her in bed with her fiancé. It was to have been her wedding day.
And now here she was, a married woman. Kamel’s touch was deft, almost clinical, but there was nothing clinical about the shimmies of sensation that zigzagged through her body as his fingers brushed her ear lobe.
Hannah breathed again when he straightened up, keeping her expression as neutral as his.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured distantly. ‘Could you tell me where the kitchen is?’
He looked surprised by the question. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘You don’t know where your own kitchen is?’
Kamel, who still looked bemused, ignored her question. ‘Why were you going to the kitchen?’ he persisted. ‘If you want a tour of the place the housekeeper will...’
‘I didn’t want a tour. I wanted breakfast.’ She had eaten nothing the previous evening. Unfortunately she had not shown similar restraint when it came to the champagne.
‘Why didn’t you ring for something?’
‘Do you really not know where your kitchen is?’
He arched a sardonic brow. ‘And am I meant to believe you do? That you are a regular visitor to the kitchens at Brent Hall?’ It was not an area he had seen on the occasion he had been a guest at Charles Latimer’s country estate, a vast Elizabethan manor with a full complement of staff. The daughter of the house had not been home at the time but her presence had been very much felt.
There was barely a polished surface in the place that did not have a framed photo of her and her accomplishments through the years—playing the violin, riding a horse, looking athletic with a tennis racket, looking academic in a gown and mortar board.
And looking beautiful in the portrait in the drawing room over the fireplace.
‘He really caught her,’ the proud father had said when he’d found Kamel looking at it.
* * *
His sarcastic drawl set her teeth on edge. ‘I left home at eighteen.’
And by then Hannah had been a very good cook, thanks to her father’s chef at Brent Hall. Sarah Curtis had an impressive professional pedigree, she had worked in top kitchens around Europe and she had a daughter who had no interest in food or cooking. When she’d realised that Hannah did, she’d encouraged that interest.
For Hannah the kitchen was a happy place, the place her father came and sat in the evenings, where he shed his jacket and his formality. She had not realised then why...now she did.
‘Yes, I can imagine the hardship of picking out an outfit and booking a table every night must have been difficult. What taxing subject did you study?’
‘Classics,’ she snapped.
‘So you spent a happy three years learning something incredibly useful.’
‘Four actually. I needed extra time because I’m dyslexic.’
‘You have dyslexia?’
‘Which doesn’t mean I’m stupid.’
It was a taunt she had obviously heard before, and taunts left scars. Kamel experienced a swift surge of anger as he thought of the people responsible for creating this defensive reflex. In his opinion it was them, not Hannah, who could be accused of stupidity...ignorance...cruelty.
Kamel was looking at her oddly. The silence stretched. Was he worried their child might inherit her condition? He might be right, but at least she’d know what signs to look for—he or she wouldn’t have to wait until they were a teenager before they had a diagnosis.
‘You have dyslexia and you got a degree in Classics?’ Now that was something that required serious determination.
‘Not a first, but I can make a cup of tea and toast a slice of bread, and at least I don’t judge people I don’t know...’ She stopped and thought, Why am I playing it down? ‘I got an upper second and actually I’m a good cook—very good.’ She’d be even better if she had accepted the internship at the restaurant that Sarah had wangled for her: awful hours, menial repetitive tasks and the chance to work under a three-star Michelin chef.
For once she hadn’t been able to coax her father around to her way of thinking—he had exploded when he’d learnt of the plan. It hadn’t just been to please him that instead she had accepted the prestigious university place she had been offered; it had been because she had realised that the contentious issue of her career had become a major issue between her father and his cook.
His mistress.
The smile that hitched one corner of Kamel’s mouth upwards did not touch his eyes; they remained thoughtful, almost wary. ‘I have married a clever woman and a domestic goddess. Lucky me.’
Her jaw tightened at what she perceived as sarcasm.
‘Lucky me,’ he repeated, seeing her in the wedding dress, her face clustered with damp curls, her lips looking pink and bruised, her passion-glazed eyes heavy and deep blue, not cold, but hot. He rubbed his thumb absently against his palm, mimicking the action when he had stroked her cheek, feeling the invisible fuzz of invisible downy hair on the soft surface.
The contrast with the cold, classy woman before him could not have been more dramatic; they were both beautiful but the woman last night had been sexy, sinfully hot, available—but married. He didn’t sleep with drunk women; the choice was normally an end-of-story shrug, not hours of seething frustration while he wrestled his passion into submission, cursing his black and white sense of honour.
The same honour that had made him push Amira into Hakim’s arms.
He was either a saint or an idiot!
Hannah gave a mental shrug and turned a slender shoulder, telling herself that it didn’t matter what he thought of her...she still wanted to hit him.
Or kiss him.
Dusting an invisible speck off her silk dress, she gave a faint smile and thought about slapping that expression of smug superiority off his hateful face.
‘Relax, we leave at twelve-thirty.’
Relax, no. But this was the best news she had had in several nightmare days.
‘Where are you off to?’ She didn’t care but it seemed polite to ask.
‘We.’
Her expression froze. ‘We? What are you talking about? There is no we!’
‘Please do not treat me to another bout of your histrionics. Behind closed doors there is no we.’ Lips twisted into a sardonic smile, he sat on the edge of the desk. ‘But in public we are a loving couple and you will show me respect.’
‘When you stop lying to me. You said we would not have to live together.’
‘You didn’t really believe that. I said what you wanted to hear. It seemed the kindest thing at the time.’
She let out a snort of sheer disbelief—was this man for real? ‘Perhaps I should thank you for kindly lying through your teeth.’
He glanced at the watch on his wrist, exposing the fine dark hairs on his arm as he flicked his cuff. ‘Quite clearly we have things to discuss,’ he conceded.
Hannah, who was breathing hard, flashed a bitter smile. ‘Discuss’ implied reasonable and flexible. It implied listening. ‘You think?’
He refused to recognise the irony in her voice. ‘Yes, I do think.’
‘You are giving me a time slot?’ She was married to a man she was expected to make an appointment to talk to? Now that really brought home how awful this entire situation was. She had walked into it with her eyes wide open and her brain in denial. The fact was that deep down she had never stopped being a person who believed in happy ever after, who believed that everything happened for a reason.
A spasm of irritation crossed his lean, hard features.
She shook her head and gave a laugh of sheer disbelief. ‘Or should that be granting me an audience?’ she wondered, letting her head tip forward as she performed a mocking curtsey.
The childish reaction made his jaw clench.
‘You’re used to people dropping everything when you require attention. But I’ve got a newsflash...’ He let the sentence hang, but the languid contempt in his voice made it easy to fill in the blanks as he glanced down at the stack of papers spread out on the inlaid table.
It wasn’t that she wanted to be important to him, but a little empathy—she’d have settled for civility—would have made him human. Instead he intended to map out just how insignificant she was in the scheme of things from the outset. Did he really think she didn’t know she was on the bottom rung of his priorities?
Hannah could feel the defensive ice forming on her features. ‘Sorry,’ she said coldly. ‘I’m still living in a world where people have marriages based on mutual respect, not mutual contempt! It was unrealistic of me, and it won’t happen again,’ she promised. ‘I won’t disturb you any longer. Have your people talk to my people and...’ The ice chips left her voice as it quivered... My people. I have no people. The total isolation of her position hit home for the first time.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
‘I need an hour.’
She opened her eyes and found he was looking right at her. Her stomach immediately went into a dive.
‘I could postpone this but I assumed you would prefer to arrive early at Brent.’
Her eyes flew wide. ‘Brent!’ She gave a shaky smile. ‘You’re taking me home?’
‘This is your home.’
Swallowing the hurt and annoyed with herself for leaping to conclusions, she lifted her chin and stared at him coldly. ‘This will never be my home.’
‘That, ma belle, is up to you. But your father wanted to hold a wedding party for us, and for your friends. I think it would only be polite for us to be there. I will have some breakfast sent up to your room.’
Jaw clenched at the dismissal, Hannah left the room with her head held high.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HER FATHER WAS there to greet them at the private airstrip where they landed, and Hannah was relieved he looked better than the previous day, almost his old self. She was sandwiched between the two men in the back seat of the limo and by the time they arrived at Brent Hall the effort of maintaining a reassuring pretence for her father’s sake had taken its toll, her persistent nagging headache showing signs of becoming a full-blown migraine.
‘I think I might go to my room, unless you want me to help.’ There was evidence of the preparations for tonight everywhere.
‘No, you have a rest. Good idea. Tonight is all under control. I got a new firm in and they seem excellent—they’re doing the lot. I have a few ideas I want to run past your husband.’ He glanced towards Kamel and joked, ‘Not much point having a financial genius in the family if you don’t make use of him, is there? I’m sure he’ll even write your thank-you letters.’
Hannah laughed and her father winked conspiratorially at her. ‘A family joke.’
And one that was at his daughter’s expense, thought Kamel, who had seen the flinch before the smile. How many times, he wondered, had she been on the receiving end of such jokes? For a man who cared deeply for his daughter, Charles Latimer seemed remarkably blind to her sensitivity.
‘I am aware of Hannah’s dyslexia. Is that the family joke?’
‘She told you?’ Hannah’s father looked startled.
‘She did. But even if she hadn’t I would have noticed how uncomfortable the family joke made her.’
Hannah’s father looked horrified by the suggestion. ‘It’s just that some of her mistakes have been so...’ His stammering explanation ground to a halt in the face of his new son-in-law’s fixed, unsmiling stare. ‘Hannah has a great sense of humour.’
‘I don’t.’
* * *
Instead of heading for her room, Hannah made her way down to the kitchens. But finding the place had been taken over by outside caterers, she made her way to Sarah’s private flat.
The cook was delighted to see her. So was Olive, the dog sitting in her basket, surrounded by her puppies, who licked Hannah’s hand and wagged her stumpy little tail.
Without being asked, Sarah produced some painkillers along with the coffee and cakes. ‘Now, tell me all about it.’
Hannah did—or at least the approved version. She stayed half an hour before she got up to leave.
‘Where are you going?’ Sarah called after her.
‘To my room. I need to get ready.’ She pulled a face.
‘Not that way, Hannah.’ Sarah laughed. ‘You can’t sleep in your old bedroom. You’re a married woman now.’
‘Oh, God, I forgot!’ Hannah groaned.
If the cook thought this was an odd thing to say she didn’t let on. Instead she enthused about the complete refurbishment of the guest suite that Hannah was to stay in. ‘Mind you, if you’re used to palaces...’
‘I’m not used to palaces. I’ll never be used to palaces. I hate them and I hate him!’ Then it all came tumbling out—the whole story.
‘I knew something was wrong,’ Sarah said as she piled sugar in a cup of tea and made Hannah drink it. ‘I don’t know what to say, Hannah. I really don’t.’
‘There’s nothing to say. I’m sorry I dumped on you like this.’
‘Heavens, girl, that’s what I’m here for. You know I’ve always thought of you as my second daughter.’
‘I wish I was,’ Hannah replied fiercely, envying Eve her mother. ‘Dad thinks I’m all right with it. You won’t tell him, will you? I worry so much that the stress will...’ She didn’t have to explain her worries to Sarah, who knew about the heart attack. She’d been with Hannah when she’d got the call and had travelled with her to the hospital.
Having extracted a firm promise that Sarah would not reveal how unhappy she was, Hannah made her way to the guest room and discovered that Sarah had not exaggerated about the makeover.
She explored the luxurious bedroom. An opulent silk curtained four-poster bed occupied one end of the room. She quickly looked away, but not before several illicit images slipped through her mental block. Her stomach was still flipping lazily as she focused on the opposite end of the room where a bathtub deep enough to swim in sat on a raised dais.
Behind it there were two doors. One opened, she discovered, into a massive wet room—she pressed one of the buttons on a glass control panel that would have looked at home in a space station and the room was filled with the sounds of the ocean. Unable to locate a button that turned it off, she closed the door and pushed open the other door. The lights inside automatically lit up, revealing a space that was the size of her entire flat, lined with hanging space, mirrors and shelves.
It was not a full wardrobe, but neither was it empty. The selection of clothes and shoes that were hung and neatly folded were her own. Shoes, bags, underclothes—there was something for every occasion, including an obvious choice for this evening where all eyes would be on her. She pushed away the thought of the evening ahead and lifted a silk shirt to her face. Feeling the sharp prick of tears behind her eyelids, she blinked them back.
After the last few days Hannah had imagined that nothing could shock her ever again. But when she opened the large velvet box on the dressing table and looked at the contents displayed on the silk lining, she knew that she had been wrong!
* * *
Kamel glanced at the closed door, then at his watch. He was expecting her to be late and he was expecting her to be hostile; she was neither. At seven on the dot the door opened and his wife stepped into the room.
Kamel struggled to contain his gasp. He had seen her at her worst and that had been beautiful. At her best she was simply breathtaking. The satin gown she wore with such queenly confidence left one shoulder bare, Grecian style. The bodice cut snugly across her breasts, continued in a body-hugging column to the knee where it flared out, sweeping the ground. Her skin against the black glowed with a pearly opalescence.
The silence stretched and Hannah fought the absurd urge to curtsey. What was she meant to do—ask for marks out of ten?
Anxiety gnawed her stomach lining and tension tied the muscles in her shoulders but her expression was serene as she took a step towards him and fought the ridiculous urge to ask for his approval. ‘Am I late?’
‘You are not wearing the diamonds,’ he said, noticing the absence of the jewels he had had removed from the vault that morning.
‘I’m a “less is more” kind of girl.’ She could not explain even to herself her reluctance to wear the jewels.
He arched a sardonic brow. ‘And I’m an “if you have it flaunt it” sort of guy.’
‘All right, I’ll put them on,’ she agreed without good grace before sweeping from the room. ‘Satisfied now?’ she asked when she returned a short while later wearing the jewellery. On the plus side, nobody would be looking at her now—they’d be staring at the king’s ransom she wore.
Hannah watched the lift doors opening and felt her stomach go into a steep dive. She did not question the instinct that warned her not to be in an enclosed space with this man. She picked up her skirt in one hand. ‘I’m fine with the stairs.’
‘I’m not.’
Not anticipating the hand against the small of her back that propelled her forward, she tensed before retreating into a corner and standing there trying not to meet her own eyes in the mirrors that covered four walls of the lift.
She exited the lift a step ahead of him, almost falling out in the process.
‘Relax.’
The advice drew a disbelieving laugh from the resentful recipient, who turned her head sharply and was reminded of the chandelier earrings she wore as they brushed her skin. ‘Seriously?’
The man had spent most of their flight giving her a last-minute crash course in how princesses were meant to behave. The consequences of her failing had not been spelt out, but had left her with the impression the political stability of a nation—or possibly even a continent—could be jeopardised by her saying the wrong word to the wrong person or using the wrong fork.
So no pressure, then!
‘If I’d been listening to a word you said I’d be a gibbering wreck, but happily I’ve started as I mean to go on. I tuned you out.’ She smiled at his expression, catching the flicker of shock in his eyes, and chalked a mental point in the air. Then, producing a brilliant smile, she laid a hand on his arm as they reached the double doors of the ballroom.
‘I do know how to work a room, you know.’
Despite the assurance, she was actually glad to enter the room beside a figure who oozed authority. She’d been acting as a hostess for her father for years, but it was a shock to find few faces she recognised in the room.
Despite her initial misgivings, a glass of champagne later she was circulating, accepting congratulations, smiling and doing a pretty good job of lying through her clenched teeth. Until she saw a familiar figure. She went to wave, and then the man he was speaking to turned his head.
She knew, of course, that her father and Rob Preston still saw one another on a personal and professional level, but her ex-fiancé had never been invited to any event when she was present previously.
Hannah moved across the room to where her father stood chatting.
‘Excuse me, can I borrow my father for one minute?’
‘What’s wrong, Hannah?’
‘Rob is here!’
‘He is one of my oldest friends. You’re married now, and I think it’s time we drew a line under what happened, if Rob is willing to forgive and forget.’
‘I should too.’ She took a deep breath. This was what happened when you put your pride before the truth. ‘You’re right, Dad. Fine,’ she said, thinking that it was so not fine.
As the party progressed a few people began to drift outside into the courtyard, and Hannah joined them, having spent the evening avoiding Rob, who to her relief had shown no inclination to speak to her.
With the tree branches filled with white lights and the sound of laughter and music from inside drifting out through the open doors, it was a magical scene. Most people had sensibly avoided the damp grass and remained on the paved area around the pool, laughing and talking, all except a middle-aged couple who reappeared from amongst the trees. The woman’s hair was mussed and her shoes were in her hand.
Hannah looked down at her own feet—they ached in the high heels that matched her gown. She wriggled her cramped toes, forcing blood back into the cramped extremities and wincing at the painful burn. What page on the princess handbook said you weren’t allowed to take off your shoes and walk on the grass? It would be there along with anything else spontaneous and fun. The wistful ache in her throat grew heavier as she watched the man...maybe her husband...slide a shoe back onto the pretty woman’s foot while she balanced precariously on the other. The woman tottered and her partner caught her. There was a lot of soft laughter and a brief kiss before they went back indoors.
Hannah was taking a last deep breath of fresh air and painting on a smile just as a figure emerged, his eyes scanning as if he was searching for something or someone. Her bodyguard stood out like a sore thumb, albeit one in black tie.
Hannah found herself moving backwards into the shadow of a tree. She realised she was holding her breath and closing her eyes like a child who wanted to disappear. She looked down at her hands clenched into tight fists and slowly unfurled them. The sight of the deep grooves her nails had cut into the flesh of her palm drew a fleeting frown of acknowledgement but didn’t lessen her defiance.
The buzz lasted a few moments, but as the exhilaration of her small rebellion faded away she stared at her shoes sinking into the damp ground. Was this going to be her life in future? Ignoring ‘don’t walk on the grass’ signs just to feel alive?
As rebellions went it was pathetic.
She was pathetic.
She took a deep breath and, taking her shoes off and holding them in one hand, she used the other to lift her skirt free of the damp grass as she straightened her slender shoulder. ‘Man up, Hannah,’ she muttered to herself as she moved towards the lights that filtered through the bank of trees.