A Passionate Affair: The Passionate Husband / The Italian's Passion / A Latin Passion

She didn’t intend to live the rest of her life looking about her for the next notch on Taylor’s bedpost to emerge, or, worse still, become like one or two women she’d known in the past, who had gone through their partner’s pockets every night looking for signs that they were playing away from home.

She cupped her cold hands round the hot mug of coffee, inhaling its fragrance even as the chill within deepened. She had had her time of being naive and starry-eyed, of thinking that there really was such a thing as happy endings in this tough, dog-eat-dog world, but she knew better now. And she would not make the same mistake again.

Taylor had left her without a word last night, and that was for the best. She saw that now. He had got to her despite all her efforts to keep him at bay, he had breached the wall she had built around her emotions as easily as he had always done, but she would make sure it did not happen again. She wasn’t quite sure how she would manage it, but she would—if they met again, that was.

She drank the coffee scalding hot, sitting at the breakfast bar, before marching on to the balcony and retrieving the duvet from the chair.

Once the bedsit was put in order, she showered and washed her hair, making up her face quickly and expertly before dressing in a pale lilac cotton suit with a boatneck jacket and short pencil-slim skirt. She didn’t normally dress so formally for the office, but with the forthcoming meeting in mind she knew it would be expected.

It was still only half-past six when she left the house, but she wanted to clear her head by walking to work, and arriving so early would give her plenty of time to be word-perfect for the meeting at ten o’clock.

It was a beautiful morning, the streets already spangled by sunlight but the chill of the night causing the city air to smell clean and fresh for once. It was on mornings like these that she and Taylor had eaten breakfast in their bathrobes on the patio, the twitter of the birds and the drone of the odd aircraft overhead mingling with their laughter and the smell of warm croissants, fresh from Hannah’s oven. She hadn’t been able to enjoy a croissant since she had left.

She frowned, annoyed with herself for letting the memory intrude on the morning. She had to be focused on her work and nothing else, she knew that, so no more mawkish thoughts. She nodded determinedly at the declaration, striding out with renewed purpose.

Her steps slowed fractionally as she approached the television building, inner turmoil reasserting itself as she faced the prospect that her marriage would soon be the current news on the gossip grapevine. But she couldn’t worry about that, and it was no one’s business but hers after all. She would explain to Nicki, she owed the other woman that, but other than with her secretary she would not discuss the matter, should anyone have the temerity to raise it.

Once in her office she kicked off her high-heeled shoes, hung her jacket on the back of her chair, and within moments had become immersed in all the Baxter paperwork.

Nicki arrived prompt at eight-thirty, at which time Marsha suggested they lunch together and have a chat, but other than that she continued to pore over the files on her desk.

At ten she sailed into the meeting, looking confident and self-assured, and by half-past she knew she had won everyone over—everyone except Penelope, that was. The other woman’s cold blue eyes had been the first thing she’d seen when she had entered the boardroom, and after Penelope had cut her dead when she had smiled at her, Marsha knew she wasn’t the flavour of the month.

‘I just don’t know if we should take on a conglomerate like Manning Dale on such… scant information.’ Penelope looked round the table reflectively, her thin eyebrows raised. ‘We don’t want another lawsuit thrown at us so soon after the last one. I mean, how do we know the big boys stepped on Charles Baxter to make him sign away his business? And even if—if,’ she emphasised, her scarlet-painted lips lingering on the word for a moment, ‘they did, it doesn’t necessarily follow they’ve done the same thing before. What we have here is a number of statements, all from people with axes to grind.’

‘I disagree,’ Jeff North said firmly, his face rather than his voice expressing some surprise that Penelope was taking this tack on what to him was a cut and dried matter. ‘From the facts and figures Marsha has presented this morning it’s obvious dirty deals have shadowed Manning Dale’s success from day one, but this last scam with Baxter ended in a man’s death. We need to bring this into the public arena. That’s what we’re here for.’

‘Hmmm.’ Penelope glanced at the other top executive in the room, who was effectively Jeff’s boss. ‘Do you think Marsha has collected enough data, Tim? My fear is that her… enthusiasm for the story has made her a little slapdash.’

Timothy Cassell joined his hands in front of him on the table, studying them for a second or two before he looked up. He had worked with Penelope for more than a decade and knew her very well. For some reason she was gunning for Jeff’s assistant, and when she was like this she could be as awkward as blazes. The story was a good one, and they all knew it, but delaying it for a week or two on the pretext of collecting more information wouldn’t be the end of the world. Certainly he had no wish to get on Penelope’s bad side. They had a policy of ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’ which had worked exceedingly well over the years.

He cleared his throat, avoiding looking at Marsha’s burning face as he said, ‘See what else you can find out, by all means, and we’ll look at it again in a couple of weeks. Now, is there anything else while we’re all together?’

‘Well, yes, this new equipment we’ve been looking at? I’ve got the quotes in now, and one in particular is most attractive. Kane International?’ And then, as if suddenly realising she was speaking out of turn, Penelope turned to the others in the room, saying sweetly, ‘Thank you, everyone. I don’t think we need to keep you any longer.’

‘What was all that about?’ Once they were in the lift, returning to their more lowly floor, Jeff scratched his head in bewilderment as he glanced at Marsha’s hot face. ‘There’s enough information in this lot to satisfy anyone.’

‘I think it’s my fault.’ Marsha had decided that prevarication was pointless. ‘Penelope found out I was married yesterday, and was offended she hadn’t been informed of the full situation before.’

‘You told her?’

‘Not exactly.’ Marsha took a deep breath. ‘The Kane of Kane International is my husband, Jeff. He was here yesterday with Penelope.’

‘Ah…’

Much as she would have liked to say Penelope’s spite had not affected her, Marsha sat and seethed for the rest of the morning. She had been unfairly criticised and held up as negligent and it was all Taylor’s fault, she told herself furiously, refusing to acknowledge the little voice inside which said she was being a mite unfair. But if he hadn’t announced they were married yesterday to all and sundry Penelope wouldn’t be any the wiser right now and the Baxter story—the first project Jeff had given her sole responsibility for—would be in the bag. His pique at her attempt to cold-shoulder him at the cocktail party yesterday had resulted in her looking a fool this morning in front of everyone. It just wasn’t fair. But then when had fairness ever been in Taylor’s vocabulary? She loathed him, absolutely and utterly loathed him. Penelope too. If ever a pair were made for each other, they were.

By lunchtime Marsha had the beginnings of a major headache drumming away behind her eyes, and was as tense as piano wire. She was aware of the small hurried glances Nicki had been giving her ever since she and Jeff had returned from the meeting, but hadn’t given her secretary a chance to engage her in conversation once she had informed her that the Baxter story was not yet approved.

Now, as Nicki said carefully, ‘We can do lunch another day if you’d rather, Marsha?’ she suddenly felt enormously guilty.

‘No, not at all.’ She forced a smile. ‘And I’m sorry for being like a bear with a sore head all morning. Come on, let’s go now—and if we’re late back, who cares?’

‘Fighting talk.’ Nicki grinned at her.

To make up for her reluctance, Marsha decided to treat Nicki to lunch at Lyndons—a plush little restaurant a short taxi ride away. Once they had arrived, and were seated at a table for two with an open bottle of wine between them, Marsha relaxed back in her seat with a long sigh. ‘Wine in the lunch hour,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’m slipping, and dragging you down with me.’

‘Drag away,’ Nicki said with relish as she took a hefty swig at her glass. ‘And don’t worry about the Baxter story. Everyone knows it’s a good one and that Penelope is just having one of her turns.’

‘It’s the reason for the turn that’s bothering me more than the story,’ Marsha said soberly.

‘Him?’ Nicki was nothing if not intuitive.

Marsha nodded. Suddenly she found herself telling Nicki all of it—something she hadn’t planned to do at all. She even related her upbringing in the children’s home, the two failed attempts at being adopted, which had occurred mainly because she had been convinced her mother would come back for her, her inability to make close friends after her best friend at the home had been adopted and had never contacted her again—the whole story. This between mouthfuls of smoked salmon salad with potato rosti and horseradish cream, followed by lemon chicken and wild rice with courgette strips and peppers. She finished as they were waiting for the dessert menu.

‘Wow…’ Nicki had shaken her head at regular intervals throughout the account. Now she astounded Marsha by leaning over the table and hugging her with such genuine warmth and sympathy it brought tears to Marsha’s eyes. ‘And you’re still only twenty-seven.’

Nicki hadn’t meant to be funny. Whether it was the other girl’s face, which was so concerned it was comedic, or the amazed note in Nicki’s voice, or yet again the half-bottle of wine, Marsha wasn’t sure, but she was relieved to find herself laughing rather than crying. ‘I feel decades older,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘Especially today. I was just getting my life back and he has to turn up again.’

‘Some men are like that,’ Nicki said, with her vast knowledge of just one. ‘Especially when they look as good as he does. They think they just have to snap their fingers and women fall into their lap like ripe plums.’

‘He doesn’t even have to snap his fingers,’ Marsha said truthfully.

Dessert was a wonderful caramelised lemon and orange tart, which they followed with coffee and the restaurant’s special homemade truffles. By the time Marsha paid the bill, she knew she had found a wealth of affection and friendliness in the other woman.

She had never had a sister, she reflected as the two of them walked out into the bright sunny afternoon, but if she had she could imagine her being just like Nicki.

It was as they were riding back in the taxi that Nicki said thoughtfully, ‘You are absolutely positive that this person who told you about Tanya and said there had been others couldn’t have had an ulterior motive for lying?’

Marsha nodded. It was the same thought which had occurred to her more than once since last night, but each time she had known she was clutching at straws. She didn’t know why she had not told Nicki it was Taylor’s sister who had informed on him—it was the only thing she had kept back. Perhaps it was because she had promised Susan she wouldn’t divulge her name to Taylor, although there was no chance of Nicki ever telling him.

‘You don’t have to say a name, but was it a woman?’ When Marsha nodded again, Nicki frowned. ‘Having seen the man, I’d say there could be an element of doubt there, then.’

Marsha dragged in a deep breath and expelled it resignedly. She’d have to tell her or Nicki would be like a dog with a bone. ‘It was his sister, Susan,’ she said quietly. ‘And she adores him and he, her. So, no motive.’

Nicki glanced at her, her frown deepening. She said nothing, but suggested volumes.

‘What?’ Marsha stared at the other woman.

‘You’ve never lived in a family environment so you might have an idealised view of siblings,’ Nicki said flatly. ‘Believe me, being a sister or a brother doesn’t automatically qualify you for instant sainthood. There’s all sorts of undercurrents in the human psyche, and siblings can bring out the worst in other siblings. When I got a 2.1 at uni, and my sister got a 2.2 two years later, she didn’t speak to me for six months.’

‘We’re talking marriage break-up here, Nicki. Not someone being miffed because of a grade in a degree.’

‘Oh, believe me, I could tell you worse stories. Not about my sister,’ Nicki added hurriedly, as latent loyalty kicked in, ‘but rivalry and jealousy can be at their most intense in families.’

‘He’s been like mother and father to her all her life,’ Marsha argued vehemently. ‘She worships the ground he walks on. Even her husband has to take second place to Taylor.’

‘Really?’ Nicki wrinkled her nose. ‘Unhealthy.’

‘And she was great to me from day one. She was even my maid of honour.’

‘Doesn’t mean a thing,’ Nicki stated evenly. ‘Now, I’m not saying she lied, Marsha, but it’s not impossible. Nothing is. At least consider the possibility.’

‘Why?’ said Marsha, and her brows came together in a perplexed frown at the other girl’s doggedness.

‘Because you still love him,’ Nicki said very quietly.

‘And being brought up as you were means there’s a whole chunk of experience missing, and that makes you vulnerable.’

‘Don’t say I’m insecure,’ Marsha warned fiercely.

‘The word will never pass my lips.’

The rest of the day passed in a whirl of trying to catch up on what she’d missed in the morning as she sat and fumed at Penelope’s cavalier treatment of her work. By seven o’clock everyone she normally worked with had gone, and the headache—which the wine had not improved at lunchtime and which she had kept at bay all afternoon with medication—was now a persistent drumming, sending hot flashes of pain into her brain.

When she emerged from the building into the warm June evening she winced as bright sunlight met her eyes, but a search of her handbag revealed she had left her sunglasses at home. Wonderful. The day had just got better and better and looked as if it was going to end on a high note, she thought darkly, the noise of the traffic seeming to roar through her aching head.

‘Do you always work this late?’

Her pulse gave a mighty leap and she caught her breath, turning her head to see Taylor standing a yard or so to her right. He was dressed in black jeans and a short-sleeved shirt the colour of his eyes, and he looked wonderful. He smiled at her surprise, his strong white teeth a contrast to his tanned skin.

She thought about her answer for a second or two, instead of coming out with her first response of, What are you doing here? And, considering the headache and the sort of day she’d had, she was rather pleased with the coolness of her voice when she said, ‘You should know, surely, with little Miss Private Detective keeping you up to date?’

‘Ow.’ The devastating smile turned into a grin in which there wasn’t a trace of remorse. ‘I should have expected that one.’

And he needn’t try his charm on her either! He was going to get a nice juicy contract, courtesy of a plainly besotted Penelope, and she was going to get a couple of weeks of frustration, trying to dig up more data when everyone knew all avenues had been exhausted and it wasn’t necessary anyway. A shaft of white-hot pain shot through her head and exploded out of her eyes, causing her to visibly wince.

‘What’s wrong?’ The grin had vanished and his voice was soft and deep as he took her arm, drawing her out of the way of other pedestrians and shielding her with his body as they stood at the side of the building.

‘Don’t.’ She shook off his hand, refusing the physical contact. ‘It’s just a headache, that’s all.’

He took in her white face and the blue shadows of exhaustion under her eyes. ‘How did the meeting go?’ he asked quietly.

‘Great.’ She stared straight at him. ‘Penelope accused me of slackness and implied I wasn’t up to the job in front of everyone when she knows full well the story’s a hot one. A none too subtle punishment for yesterday. Consequently the story’s on hold for a couple of weeks.’

‘That’s not the end of the world, is it?’

This from a man who had to have everything flowing like clockwork in his work, down to the last ‘i’ being dotted the second he demanded it. ‘Right now, yes, it is,’ she said flatly. ‘Not that I would expect you to understand for a minute. Your girlfriend is a nasty piece of work, and I resent being made to look a fool simply because I’m your wife—not that that will be the case for much longer.’

His expression altered as he absorbed her words. ‘One, Penelope is not my girlfriend. Two, I understand your frustration perfectly. Three, you need a bath, then a light supper, followed by some medication to knock you out, and a cool dark room to sleep the effects off. Agreed?’

It sounded wonderful, but she wasn’t about to tell him she didn’t have the luxury of a bath in her tiny shower room, or that her fridge boasted nothing more than a wilting lettuce and half a carton of cottage cheese which had probably passed its sell-by date. ‘Quite.’ She nodded carefully. She wasn’t too sure her head wouldn’t fall off with any vigorous movement. ‘So if you’ll excuse me I’ll be off home.’

‘You don’t intend to walk, feeling like you do?’

Not with Taylor in tow. ‘I’m going to get a taxi,’ she said tersely, his statement about Penelope a massive question mark in her mind. She needed to be somewhere quiet and think.

‘No need.’ He smiled sunnily. ‘My car’s parked over there. I can have you home in two jiffs.’

‘Taylor, how can I put this? I don’t want to ride in your car any more than I want to find you waiting for me when I come out of work.’ It wasn’t true, but he didn’t know that. She watched two young girls who couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen do a doubletake as they caught sight of him, and hated him for it. Which made her fit for the funny farm, she thought wearily.

‘You’ve a blinding headache and need to get home quickly. I have a car parked ten yards away.’ He tilted his head expressively. ‘Seems pretty straightforward to me.’

Lots of things seemed straightforward to him, but it did not mean that they were. She wanted to argue, but she was too tired, too muzzy-headed, too heartsore. Suddenly it seemed a whole lot simpler just to allow him to take her home and be done with it. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’ He was surprised by the capitulation and it showed.

‘I can appreciate logic when it’s explained so well,’ she said with veiled sarcasm, deciding however bad she felt she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

However, once she was in the safe confines of the car, and the rest of the busy, whirling, hellishly loud world was shut out, the temptation to shut her aching eyes was too strong to resist. The painkillers she had taken at regular intervals during the afternoon—probably too regular, she admitted silently—were telling on her. She felt leaden-limbed and exhausted, along with slightly nauseous and dizzy.

‘That’s right, shut your eyes.’ Taylor’s voice was no more than a soothing rumble at her side. ‘I’ll have you home in no time.’

She was not aware she had fallen asleep, but when she heard the murmur of voices and felt a gentle hand rousing her she looked up into Hannah’s anxious face and realised she must have been out for the count. She also realised—a touch belatedly—that the home Taylor had referred to had not been her bedsit.

Through the pounding in her head, Marsha glanced out of the open door of the car and saw the steps leading up to Taylor’s front door. She groaned. ‘I want to go home.’

‘You are home.’ Taylor’s face appeared at the side of Hannah’s and it was grim. ‘And you’re not well. You were sleeping so deeply there I had to check your pulse a couple of times to make sure you were still breathing. What the hell have you been taking, anyway?’

‘Just aspirin. And paracetamol. Oh, and one of the researchers gave me a couple of pills she takes for migraines.’

‘Give me strength.’ It was terse. ‘I married a junkie.’ And then, as Hannah whispered something, she heard him say, ‘Flu, headache or whatever. She needs looking after.’

Marsha wanted to object when he lifted her bodily out of the car, but the effort it would take wasn’t worth it. She was aware of Taylor carrying her up the stairs, and of then being placed in a comfortable bed which knocked the spots off her sofabed in the bedsit. But it was when she felt her shoes being taken off and then her jacket that she found the will to open her eyes and protest. ‘Don’t… I can do it.’

‘Don’t try my patience.’

‘Where’s Hannah?’

‘Fixing an omelette.’

His hands were firm and sure, but not unkind—not until she tried to push him away, when he gave a none too gentle tap at her fingers. ‘We’re man and wife, for crying out loud. I’ve undressed you before.’

‘That was different.’

‘And how.’

She gave up. She couldn’t argue. You had to be compos mentis to argue, and it had finally dawned on her that in her anxiety to stifle her headache and prove to all and sundry she was efficient and totally on the ball—whatever Penelope might imply—she had definitely overdone the medication.

Naked as the day she was born, she snuggled into fresh-scented linen covers and was asleep as soon as Taylor’s hands left her body.

How soon she was awoken again by a quiet-voiced Hannah she didn’t know, but the housekeeper gently plumped the pillows behind her after Marsha groggily sat up to take the tray the other woman was holding. ‘You eat that all up, honey.’ Once the pillows were sorted, Hannah stood back to gaze at her. ‘I daresay you haven’t eaten all day, huh?’

‘I had a huge lunch,’ Marsha protested weakly through the thumping in her head.

Hannah’s three chins went down into her neck as her eyebrows rose in the universal expression of disbelief, but Marsha was not up to arguing. She stared down at an omelette done to moist fluffiness beside three thin slices of Hannah’s home-cured ham, and knew she couldn’t eat a thing.

Hannah, apparently, was not of the same persuasion. ‘I’m staying right here till all that’s gone,’ she warned. ‘Boss’s instructions.’

‘I’m not a child.’ Marsha was stung into retaliation.

‘Sure you’re not, honey.’ A fork was placed in her hand and Hannah beamed at her.

Marsha sighed and started to eat, surprised to find that she could clear the plate before sliding back down under the covers again. She was asleep before Hannah left the room.

CHAPTER FIVE

IT WAS the enormous sense of well-being which first registered the next morning as Marsha began to float from layers of soft billowy warmth. She was neither fully asleep nor fully awake, too comfortable and content to move or think. She just luxuriated in the deep tranquillity and peace her mind and body were resting in.

She sighed softly, the caress on her skin part of her dreamlike state and no more threatening than the stroking of a butterfly’s wing. The pleasure was tantalising, teasing her senses with half-remembered stirrings which grew sweeter and more potent as she lazily embraced them.

Her body felt fluid, with heat beginning to pulse in time with the erotic rippling over her flesh, and she moaned, her half-open lips captured in the next moment in a kiss that was teasing and tangible. Suddenly she was wide awake.

‘Good morning, sweet wife.’

She stared at Taylor, the thick curtain of sleep lifted but her mind refusing to accept for the moment that he was real. And then it all came rushing back—the headache, the pills, and the drive to the house—and she realised to her consternation that the covers were rumpled to one side and she was wearing nothing at all.