Mandate For Marriage

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

“We are still married, aren’t we?”

Grant’s voice was low and tightly controlled.

“Yes, we are,” Fee answered, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. “But that can soon be remedied.”

“Really?” he drawled, his voice frighteningly soft and dangerous. “Somehow I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“The marriage is over—finished! It’s no good raking over old coals.”

“Over?” he mocked. “It’s hardly even started.”

CATHERINE O’CONNOR was born—and has lived all her life—in Manchester, England, where she is a happily married woman with five demanding children, a neurotic cat, an untrainable dog and a rabbit. She spends most of her time either writing or planning her next story, and without the support and encouragement of her long-suffering husband this would be impossible. Though her heroes are always wonderfully handsome and incredibly rich, she still prefers her own loving husband.

Another compelling read from the ever-popular Catherine O’Connor!

Mandate for Marriage

Catherine O’Connor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

TYRES crunched against loose gravel as the sleek dark burgundy car curved into a parking space. Fiona watched the car’s arrival with nervous interest, a wave of nostalgia sweeping over her. She stepped back from the window as the car door was flung open. She didn’t want to be seen, not yet. Tentatively she peeped back out; she could see his breath forming a vaporous cloud, as if he were breathing fire, and somehow the possibility did not seem that remote. He had a fiery temper, she recalled with alarming clarity, and she shuddered at the memory. He slammed the car door shut and stepped out across the car park, impervious to the chilling air that blew against him.

Fiona moved away from the window, picked up a glass of water and tossed back her head as she swallowed two aspirins; the threat of a headache was already surfacing. It was due to tension, she knew, and she rolled her shoulders to relieve the stiffness in her neck. The line of her mouth thinned in anger as she then made her way to the door, her heart already racing. The past week had played havoc with her nerves: first there had been the abrupt letter that informed her of his return; and then the transaction which she feared was coming, and which she knew she would have no choice but to complete, only increased her anxiety.

She took a deep breath as she opened the door, the crisp morning air hitting her with its icy blast. Her chest violently contracted, causing a pain to sear through her body like the sharpest of knives. She stared at the back of the tall figure, suddenly aware of her self-deception as her heart flipped at the very sight of him. He seemed taller than she remembered, more daunting than ever, and it was not a meeting she was looking forward to.

He turned smartly as if sensing her presence and she froze under his penetrating gaze. His vivid blue eyes sparkled with a glint of humour in his freshly tanned face, and his thick blond hair seemed to have grown even fairer.

‘Hi, Fee,’ his smoky voice drawled, the intimate abbreviation of her name suddenly making her feel defensive. The familiar ring of his mid-Atlantic accent flooded her mind with another flurry of memories, and her heart leapt still further as she struggled to control the chaotic jumble of thoughts and emotions he was stirring in her. It was six months since she had seen him, six long, hard months of self-doubt and recriminations, but she had coped; despite his cunning betrayal, she had survived and—more importantly—so had the family firm—till now.

‘Hello, Grant,’ she acknowledged, her voice calm yet distant and betraying none of the heady emotions she was feeling. ‘How are you?’

She stretched out her hand, determined to make him understand that this was a business arrangement. His eyes darted to her hand, then back to her face, before he took it m a firm grip.

‘I’m fine, never felt better, and you?’ He grinned as he held her hand longer than necessary, allowing his thumb to brush lightly against her racing pulse. She drew her hand back, too aware of his electric touch, and gave him a polite but cool smile.

‘I’m very well, thank you,’ she replied, as she stepped back to allow him to enter.

‘You don’t look it,’ he threw back at her, with an imperious nod of his head.

‘Well, I am!’ she snapped, hating how childish she sounded and knowing the amusement she afforded him. He swept past and she felt the cold flicker of his eyes whip across her body, as the faint scent of sandalwood aftershave filled her nostrils.

‘You’ve lost weight,’ he commented briefly; his voice was harsh and abrasive, lacking the warmth she had been used to. The look in his sharp blue eyes was critical, and they narrowed as he viewed her outfit.

‘Have I?’ she snapped back, then added nastily, ‘Most men prefer women slimmer, including you.’

‘I liked you the way you were, but there again you have changed in so many ways,’ he said thoughtfully. Fiona stiffened, disliking his obvious appraisal of her.

‘I’ve grown up, if that’s what you mean,’ she retorted.

‘Grown up!’ he scoffed. ‘I suppose refusing to take my calls while I was in America is the action of a mature person?’ he snapped back with a force that shocked her.

‘I expected you back,’ she confessed, almost ashamed of such a foolish admission.

‘Something cropped up,’ he growled, his eyes darkening dangerously, but he was unwilling to give any further details, and Fiona wasn’t about to ask. She had refused to accompany him back home to meet his family. It was supposed to be their honeymoon, but she couldn’t carry on with that farce—not after she had been told the truth by Andrew.

‘I understand, and I think we said all we wanted to before you left,’ she grated, her eyes flashing back at him.

‘You said a lot, none of which made any sense, and look at you now—you’re a shadow of your former self. What’s going on, Fee?’ he asked, his tone strangely at odds with his look of annoyance.

‘You need to ask?’ she replied. It was all his fault. She had lost weight, and sleep, as she had struggled unsuccessfully to fight off the takeover that she felt sure he was planning. Now it all seemed sadly futile.

‘Still talking m riddles? Look, Fee, I know something has gone wrong, but surely we can work it out?’

There was a plea in his voice that sounded almost genuine, and Fee felt a momentary lapse.

‘Now is not the time to discuss personal issues,’ she retorted tartly.

‘No? I think our relationship, our marriage, is of paramount importance.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t have that same conviction six months ago,’ she responded. She darted him a look, hoping that her gibe hurt, but she was disappointed. He remained unmoved by her caustic remark. His eyes fixed on hers. She smoothed her skirt down in a nervous gesture.

‘Stop pretending we’re here to discuss the distillery and nothing else,’ she added forcefully. She wanted to be a cool-headed businesswoman, in control, yet some-how already uncomfortable doubts were beginning to form.

‘Who’s pretending?’ he drawled mockingly. Fiona frowned; this was much too important a meeting to allow personal feelings free rein. They had other things to discuss, things of greater importance, and no doubt the real arguments would begin then.

‘Shall we go up to the offices?’ she said, changing the line of conversation abruptly and pushing her heavy chestnut-coloured fringe from her face. He obviously derived satisfaction from that gesture. It betrayed the fact that she was not as calm and poised as she looked.

‘OK,’ he replied quickly. This was going to be more difficult than she thought, Fiona admitted silently to herself as they crossed the foyer and made their way to the offices.

‘You’re very efficient this morning,’ he drawled as he walked confidently, his stride set with a purposefulness that rankled her.

‘Better late than never,’ she snapped back, wishing she had come to her senses sooner. Then she would never have been in this position. She had known this day would come, yet she had tried so hard to prevent it. Now, despite all her hard work, the day of reckoning had arrived. He had returned the true victor, ready to claim his spoils.

‘So you’ve come to your senses?’ he repeated. ‘And you now fully understand the situation?’ he taunted.

‘Yes, I do,’ she spat back. ‘I know exactly why we married and why you failed to return from America.’

‘I doubt that, Fee. As for my prolonged stay in the States, it was partly to help you,’ he said quietly.

‘Help me? Help yourself more like—to my family’s business—and, as for our marriage…’ she returned bitterly.

‘There was no coercion. You married me willingly, remember?’ he interrupted.

She swallowed the rising bile at the back of her throat as she recalled the claim he had made on her and how willingly she had given herself to him. At this moment she hated him, hated the pretence and the deceit, but, even more than that, she hated the hurt and vulnerability that he still aroused in her.

‘Let’s just stick to the reason why we are here,’ she clipped back, not wanting to be reminded of her own foolishness.

‘Yes, then at least we should have some common ground to build on,’ he replied blandly, ignoring the shadow of pain that flitted across her face.

‘Business is indeed the only area where we share a common interest,’ Fiona reminded him coolly, still striving to keep the conversation on a strictly nonpersonal level.

‘How things have changed,’ he said almost huskily as he increased his stride, and Fiona felt a momentary stab of remorse at his words. She kept pace with his long steps with difficulty, allowing her gentle brown eyes to skim over him. He had come dressed for business: his well-cut suit was dour and grey, his black shoes highly polished and his shirt pristine white, offset with the splash of a cool vine-green silk tie. Did he want to put their relationship behind them and stick to the matter in hand? He carried a slim leather briefcase in his hand and Fiona’s stomach sank when she spotted it. She knew what papers it contained and she blazed with a flare of anger and defiance.

‘Your visit to America appears to have been fruitful,’ she said pointedly.

‘I did telephone every day,’ he reminded her. ‘Had you taken my calls I would have told you exactly what was going on.’

A sudden flash of pain flickered in his eyes and Fiona wondered what had exactly gone on in America. He was usually so sure of himself, so confident of his power and his business capabilities.

‘I had no reason to take your calls. I was too busy trying to protect my business from a takeover.’ Fiona bit thoughtfully into her bottom lip; she had tried so passionately to raise the money herself but all the banks were reluctant, some of them positively hostile.

‘You’re joking! Why do you never listen to me? Your distillery is old-fashioned, you’re losing money hand over fist and have been for years. You British are just so sentimental,’ he accused.

‘I couldn’t stomach the alternative. This area suffers enough from unemployment,’ she said through gritted teeth. His tough American business acumen left no room for feeling, Fiona felt. He couldn’t understand her commitment to the area. She sighed audibly; her family had given so much to this place, they were part of it, part of the Lowlands. Their hearts were here, as they had been for generations.

‘I didn’t mention job losses, just reallocation. Anyway, you were keen enough to support Andrew Farr’s ideas,’ he said, angrily shaking his head in disbelief.

She sighed again. She knew sooner or later it would come back to Andrew. Grant’s distrust of him was partly fuelled by jealousy. She frowned, unaware that Grant was watching her. She was too preoccupied to notice. He marched into her office, shrugging his jacket from his broad shoulders and flinging it casually over a chair. He walked to the window and opened it, taking in great gulps of the crisp fresh air.

‘It’s stuffy in here,’ he noted, turning away from the open window and fixing his glacier gaze on her.

‘I haven’t been here very often.’ There was a breathless catch in her voice which she immediately tried to hide. I’ve been too busy…’ Her voice trailed away as he sat down, placing his briefcase in front of him. Fiona watched in silent fascination at his arrogance.

‘My sister was thinking of coming over later this year to have a look around,’ he commented casually.

‘Really?’ replied Fiona, trying to keep cool. She had longed to meet Grant’s older sister. He came from a large, loving family who had all seemed delighted with the news that he was marrying. His sister and Fiona had spoken on the phone and she seemed great fun. There was little point now, though. She wanted to make a clean break of it, to concentrate on keeping her family’s firm, and yet it hurt. Had she meant so little to him that he could forget everything? Maybe Andy was right, he was just using her. It wouldn’t be the first time she had fallen for such a ruse. She gave a bitter smile as she recalled Mark: he had been a third-year student at college, bright, popular and very attractive. In her innocence, Fiona had been flattered by his attentions, and it had been several months before she’d realised he was more interested in the distillery than in her.

‘I showed her the video we had taken of the area and she was very impressed,’ Grant continued, ignoring Fiona’s frosty response. She looked away, drawing a deep breath and releasing it with a shudder. She didn’t have the energy or inclination to waste her time on personal issues; he had betrayed her and she knew she could never forgive him. The long, lonely nights of the past six months had strengthened her convictions. She had longed for his return those first few weeks, but then the sheer pain and isolation of being alone had made her realise what a fool she had been. She flicked back a look of impatience and caught the stubborn tilt of his firm jaw. She watched him with increasing irritation as he made himself comfortably at home, rearranging the files on her desk till he had sufficient room. This was still her office, her domain, yet he had taken over with his usual self-assurance, every gesture and action reaffirming the fact that soon it would be his. Fiona wanted to object, but somehow it seemed churlish to mention the fact that he was sitting in her chair in her office. She sat down with a weary resignation and waited for him to speak. Suddenly all the pressures seemed to bear down upon her and she felt very tired. He glanced up at her.

‘How about some coffee?’ he asked casually, a sudden smile brightening his face, and Fiona’s stomach flipped over, despite the armour with which she had surrounded herself.

‘Coffee!’ she repeated, glaring at him.

‘Yes, brown, hot liquid full of caffeine,’ he mocked as he took a sheaf of papers from his case and began to sort through them.

‘I thought you considered our coffee the pits,’ she drawled, imitating his accent.

‘I do, but it’s something I’d best get used to,’ he informed her, before adding, ‘I’m planning on staying.’

‘There’s nothing to stay for—’ began Fiona, her heart thudding as she realised the six months’ separation had obviously not meant the same to him.

‘Fiona!’ His voice was suddenly sharp as if tired of her constant defiance. ‘Make the coffee!’

She glared back at him. This was her company and she was not the office junior! How dared he order her to make coffee? She fumed inwardly. How she disliked the smooth way in which he was managing to manipulate the situation, making her feel insecure. She suffocated her indignation and rage. She would not allow him to annoy her; she would not waste any more emotions on him. She rose gracefully and forced a sweet smile.

‘That’s a great idea! It will refresh us before we settle down to business,’ she said lightly, hoping that gave a little bit more of a firm footing back to her. His sensual mouth twisted into a humourless line at her words, and once again Fiona felt the floor slipping beneath her. ‘White, no sugar?’ she said briskly, denying the effect of his expression. She walked from the room with a graceful sway of her hips, aware that he was watching her, and for some reason that pleased her.

The kettle took an age to boil, and by the time she returned he had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, loosened his tie and had undone the top button of his shirt. She could just see a few stray dark hairs peeping over his open white collar and felt a sudden weakness. His long legs stretched across the table and he held the telephone under his chin while his long, sensual fingers rapidly flicked through the papers. He inclined his head to the table, indicating where he wanted his coffee placed, and Fiona felt another surge of anger begin to boil inside her.

‘Shall I put your coffee here, sir?’ she said, making a full curtsy.

‘Thank you,’ he mouthed as he continued his conversation on the phone, seemingly unaware of her sarcasm. Damn the arrogance of the man, she seethed as she resumed her seat and sipped at her coffee, trying to feign indifference, though she knew that was impossible.

From the moment she had met him, she had been drawn to him like an innocent, dull moth to the shining brightness of a deadly light; she had still been recovering from the knowledge that Mark had not really cared for her. However, she had grown up a lot in those ten months when she had first been back home, looking after both her grandfather and the distillery. Yet, at twenty years old, she was still no match for a cool sophisticated, mature man like Grant. Fiona leant back, closing her mind to the image of the man before her, and remembering how they first met.

She had rushed home from college the moment she had heard the news about her grandfather, but her initial relief that he was alive soon faded when she realised the extent of his stroke. It had been quite dense, leaving him paralysed down one side and his speech terribly impaired.

She had been so grateful to Andy; he had taken over the running of the company. He had worked for her grandfather for several years and knew the business inside out, but she had never really liked him. She didn’t know why, there was just something about him. But she banished these thoughts from her mind; this was business and she could ill afford flights of fancy.

Andy had constantly reassured Fiona that everything was fine, so she’d had plenty of free time to assist her grandmother, helping with the boarding house and Grandad’s physiotherapy, and the exhausting regime had paid dividends. Grandad was making a remarkable recovery, astonishing everyone with his resilience. It was funny, fate, she acknowledged: it had been her turn to take Grandfather to the day centre but when Kate, the guide who led tours, had not turned up for work at the distillery, Fiona took her place, grateful for the change of scene. She loved taking the tourists around the distillery; she was proud of her heritage and found the whole process of making whisky fascinating. Her natural exuberance was transmitted to the tourists, who always seemed more talkative and questioning when she took them around. Fiona allowed herself a smile as she thought of Grant; he had asked more questions than she had ever thought possible! She could remember that day so clearly, as if it had been branded into her brain. The damp smell of autumn mists was already in the air, and vibrant colours filled the moors as the forests turned from verdant green to a kaleidoscope of crimsons, yellows and browns. At the end of the summer, tourists—mostly families on holiday—had returned for the start of the new school term, leaving only the retired catching the last moments of sunshine, or younger parents with tiny tots still not old enough to attend school. Fiona had hurried them all into the foyer away from the crisp chilling air—she was well aware how the damp could affect old bones, so she had decided to begin the tour inside. It was then that she first saw him and he had immediately started her pulses racing. He had pushed the hood of his dark green waxed jacket from his face, revealing a thick corncoloured mane of hair that fell casually around his deeply tanned face. His tan was not weathered but smooth, and its colour even, making a perfect backdrop for his vivid blue eyes. At first, Fiona imagined he was Swedish; he looked Scandinavian like a Viking warrior of old, and maybe it was some historical instinct that had warned her to beware of him as her pulse increased still further.

‘Hi, I’m Grant.’ He smiled widely and she knew at once he was American.

‘Hello,’ Fee managed to respond. ‘Come inside, I’m just about to begin the tour,’ she said, stepping back to allow him to enter.

‘Thanks. I was going out walking but the weather looks a little…’

‘Yes, yes, it does. I think you were wise not to go. The mists can come down so very quickly, though you do seem properly dressed,’ she remarked, noting his thick navy sweater with an intricate cable pattern which seemed to emphasise the breadth of his muscular chest. The well-worn denim jeans that curved around his firm hips and thighs seemed to fit with an almost indecent snugness, and they were pushed carefully into a pair of ancient, scuffed brown walking boots. Fiona felt herself blush as she realised how closely she was looking at him. She turned her attention to the other tourists, offering a sample of her family’s best whisky to everyone.

‘It has an unusual flavour,’ Grant commented, sipping the amber liquid with appreciation.

‘Indeed it has,’ Fiona said loud enough for everyone to hear. Her attention was directed solely at Grant, as if drawn by some powerful hidden magnet. ‘This is a family distillery; we produce our own Scotch to a family recipe.’ The pride in Fiona’s voice was evident. Grant nodded his approval and Fiona’s heart leapt at his appreciation. A small child pulled eagerly at her tray, nearly causing the glasses to unbalance.

‘Oh, no, you don’t, young lady,’ Grant laughed, lifting the squirming bundle high into the air and tickling the little girl till she crowed with delight, forgetting all about the tray of drinks.

‘Thank you.’ Fiona smiled her gratitude and was awarded the full brilliance of his perfect white teeth. He laughed as he placed the child back safely on to the floor and turned his attention to Fiona.

‘My pleasure. I hate to see good Scotch go to waste.’ He laughed again. Laughter came so easily to him and Fiona found herself responding—it seemed so long since she had smiled. With the worry of Grandfather’s health, the responsibility of the distillery, her doubts about Andrew and the still hidden pain of Mark’s betrayal, laughter had somehow faded from her life. She swallowed a little nervously as she began her wellrehearsed speech and, though she tried to talk to everyone, her eyes constantly strayed in Grant’s direction and fixed on the generous curve of his sensual mouth. She answered all his questions, thinking he was just interested. She should have known then, despite his halo of blond hair and the innocent blueness of his eyes, that he was no angel; now of course she knew him better. She realised he resembled the very devil himself! His interest had been far more than that of a passing tourist.