His Marriage Ultimatum
Helen Brooks

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘I JUST can’t believe you had that gorgeous man eating out of your hand and then you send him packing. If there was any justice in this world he’d at least have come to me for a shoulder to cry on, poor lamb.’

‘Can we have a reality check here?’ Liberty Fox surveyed her mother through half-closed eyes, her voice mocking as she lounged back against the cream leather sofa in the ultra-modern room. She knew the tone and lack of heated response would annoy the older woman, which was exactly why she was curbing her inner resentment. ‘Gerard Bousquet is no poor lamb, Mother. I caught him cheating on me and I finished our relationship. End of story.’

‘But you said he arrived on your doorstep with flowers and chocolate, suitably penitent and promising he’d never stray again. You might at least have given him one more chance. He was so handsome.’

Liberty kept the nonchalant pose a moment longer before she straightened, reaching for the cup of coffee in front of her as she said coolly, ‘Handsome is as handsome does.’

‘There you see; that’s exactly what I mean about you.’ Miranda Walker wriggled delicate shoulders gracefully. ‘I’ve never understood what you say any more than I understand you. Handsome is as handsome does! What does that mean, for goodness’ sake?’

‘It means that Gerard is history,’ Liberty said dryly, taking a sip of coffee before she added, ‘fidelity is an absolute with me, Mother. Not an option.’

The shoulders moved again. ‘You’re so pedantic, Liberty. Just like your father.’

Don’t bite; that’s what she wants you to do, Liberty warned herself, taking another sip of the excellent coffee—her mother only had the best—to quell the hot words hovering on her tongue. If all else failed, her mother knew she could catch her on the raw when she talked about her first husband—Liberty’s father—in that scathing tone. She breathed deeply before she said, keeping her voice even, ‘Being compared to Dad is all right with me, Mother.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ There was more than a touch of petulance in Miranda’s voice when she said, ‘It would be a different story if it was me, of course.’

She really didn’t want to do this today, not with her feelings still so raw after Gerard’s betrayal. It was one thing to present the situation to her mother in a slightly offhand, almost amused manner—quite another to face the fact that Gerard had been seeing someone else whilst declaring undying love to her. Liberty uncrossed and crossed her legs, finishing her coffee and unwrapping the slender foil-covered chocolate cream in the saucer. If ever she needed the comfort of chocolate it was now. The diet could wait.

She relished the luxurious silky feel of the confectionery on her tongue before she said, ‘We’re not alike, Mother. We never have been.’

‘Quite.’

There was a charged silence before Liberty raised her eyes and took in the ethereal, amazingly youthful-looking figure staring at her with unconcealed annoyance. Miranda didn’t look a day over thirty—in spite of approaching her half-century milestone in a few months. Cosmetic surgery and a positively paranoid desire to be a female Peter Pan had ensured her mother had the face and figure many an ageing film star would have killed for. Three hours at the gym every day, no red meat, no puddings, no alcohol—Liberty had grown up with her mother’s bible on life, and there was no doubt the small blonde woman looking at her now with open hostility could turn any man’s head.

Finely boned, with porcelain skin, natural blonde hair and deep blue eyes set in a face which was truly heart-shaped—Miranda had it all. She had also had five husbands to date and was in the middle of a particularly acrimonious divorce from the last one, who objected to his wife’s demand for half his fortune. Liberty found it surprising that he hadn’t expected something like this, considering her mother had got richer and richer with each succeeding marriage. She had left her first husband—Liberty’s father—for a wealthy financier and hadn’t looked back since.

‘I have to be going.’ Liberty rose to her feet, her shoes sinking in the ankle-deep carpet which always made her feel as though she was wading through mud. Her mother had been thrilled with the fabulously expensive chrome and glass apartment overlooking the Thames when she had married her fifth husband six years before, but Liberty felt it resembled a goldfish bowl. A lavish, extravagant and inordinately high-priced goldfish bowl admittedly, but a goldfish bowl nevertheless. ‘I have an appointment at two o’clock.’

Miranda wrinkled her small nose. ‘One of your awful cases, I suppose?’

‘It’s business, yes.’ Her mother had never understood why she had determined to be a solicitor rather than catching herself a wealthy husband and living a life of ease.

‘And what shall I say to Gerard if I happen to run into him?’ Miranda asked peevishly. ‘You do remember it was at one of my dinner parties you first met him?’

That should have told her something. It was the first time she had ever dated one of the people from her mother’s circle, and it would certainly be the last. ‘Ask him how—’ Liberty frowned as though she couldn’t remember the name, the frown clearing as she said ‘—how Alexia Lemaire is. Okay? And if he has any difficulty remembering the name, remind him it’s the female who was in bed with him when I called round his apartment unexpectedly.’

Miranda sniffed eloquently. ‘These things happen with hot-blooded men like Gerard; they don’t mean anything.’

Not to her mother maybe, but then Miranda had been the ‘other woman’ so often that unfaithfulness was a word which just didn’t register in her vocabulary. ‘Goodbye, Mother.’ Liberty walked to the door after bending forward and touching each scented cheek with her lips, the only embrace her mother allowed. ‘I’ll talk to you soon.’

Once out in the crisp October afternoon Liberty paused for a moment, taking great deep breaths of the city-laden air. It carried myriad traffic fumes in its depths but it was still preferable to her mother’s overheated, scented surroundings.

She felt better once she was seated in her little Ford Ka, but only slightly. A visit to her mother’s always resulted in a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and a host of emotions and memories tumbling about her head. She sat for a moment with her hands resting on the leather-clad steering wheel, willing herself to calm down. Even this car—a thirtieth birthday present to herself six months before—had caused an argument with her mother. Miranda hadn’t been able to understand why she hadn’t gone for a sporty little number or a racy coupé, and Liberty’s explanation that she wanted a sweet-driving small car which looked good and was talented enough to take her anywhere had been lost on her mother.

Liberty patted the pale grey fascia. ‘I love you anyway,’ she said out loud, her thoughts still on the expensively dressed and coiffured woman in the fabulous apartment she had just left as she pulled out into the lunchtime traffic.

A squeal of brakes culminating in an impact which rattled her teeth informed her of her mistake even before her brain registered she hadn’t checked her mirrors.

She sat quite still, shock causing her to freeze for long seconds before she forced her numb mind and body into action. As she opened her door she saw the driver of the other car—who had slewed across the road in an effort to avoid her—exiting his vehicle, a prestige, state-of-the-art Mercedes in gleaming slate-blue. He reached her just as she stood shakily to her feet.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked very evenly.

A pair of granite-grey eyes held hers, and in the time it took for her to realise the man wasn’t as old as she had thought at first, and that the streaks of grey in the jet-black hair had misled her, she felt her knees start to buckle.

She heard him swear softly as he grabbed her, holding her against him as he said, ‘Breathe deeply a few times,’ whilst he opened her car door again, positioning her sideways in the seat with her feet on the road. She felt her head being pushed down to her knees but couldn’t resist, the all-consuming faintness rendering her helpless.

How long she remained like that she was never very sure, but it could only have been a matter of some sixty seconds or so before the dizzy weakness began to clear. ‘I’m sorry.’

She was aware of him standing next to her and the sound of car horns in the background, but all he said was, ‘Take your time,’ as though they weren’t blocking a major road at the height of the midday rush hour.

‘I…I’ll back in again, shall I?’ As she recovered her voice along with her senses she tried to get a grasp on the situation. ‘Maybe you could park somewhere close and we’ll exchange numbers and so on?’ she suggested more briskly.

‘Do you feel able to drive?’

She raised her head and looked him fully in the face for the first time. He had a lovely voice, very deep and almost gravelly but with a dark smokiness which took away any roughness. The sort of voice which would have made him a wow on the silver screen. He was attractive, too, in a somewhat unorthodox kind of way, his face too strong and tough for straightforward handsomeness but carrying a quality which was more powerful than pretty-boy good looks. She pulled herself together fast as she realised he was waiting for an answer to his question. ‘Yes, yes of course,’ she said hastily. ‘I’m only going to back into the parking space I’ve just left.’

He said nothing more, but the raising of black eyebrows a fraction and the expression on the hard-planed face made it very clear exactly what he thought of her driving prowess.

The colour was hot in her cheeks as she watched him walk over to his car, but then she shrugged mentally as she concentrated on backing into the neat little space she had vacated so arbitrarily just minutes before. She couldn’t blame him if he was less than enamoured with her performance to date; the accident had been totally her fault. Why hadn’t she checked her mirrors? She groaned inwardly. Basic procedure, something you did without thinking. Only she hadn’t.

Once she had parked she nerved herself to get out of the car and inspect the damage. Although he had obviously swerved violently and avoided going headlong into the side of her, the glancing blow to the rear had all but taken off the bumper, smashed the back light and dented the side bodywork. It was a mess.

A horrifying urge to burst into tears brought Liberty’s back straightening and her chin lifting. He already thought she was a menace to all road users; she wasn’t about to compound the image by giving way to waterworks.

She reached for her handbag on the passenger seat and hunted through for her insurance details, only to give another inward groan as she realised they were in the bag she had used the day before. She always made sure she was fully coordinated down to the smallest detail when visiting her mother, and the black bag of the day before hadn’t lent itself to the french-navy suit she was wearing today. Great. She swallowed hard. This was turning into one swell day.

She raised her head, glancing along the pavement as a tall commanding figure, who looked to be at least three or four inches taller than anyone else in the vicinity, caught her attention. It was him. Of course, it had to be—it went with the afternoon.

She watched him striding easily towards her with the sort of nonchalant arrogance which said his handle on life was very secure. He wasn’t hurrying but his long legs seemed to cover the distance between them before she could blink. He had a fantastic body.

The thought, coming from nowhere as it did, shocked her into lowering her eyes, and she rummaged in her bag as he drew alongside, pretending to still look for her papers.

‘Problem?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ She was ready this time when she looked at him and didn’t allow the flinty gaze to make an impact. ‘It seems I’ve left my insurance details in my other bag.’

He nodded.

It wasn’t a very nice nod, she thought irritably. It was a nod which said he might have expected something like this, or was she just being paranoid? ‘I can give you my name and address and registration number and so on,’ she said quickly, aware she was babbling but unable to help herself. ‘And I’m fully aware everything was my fault. Is…is your car badly damaged?’

‘No.’ He didn’t elaborate, looking down at her with a narrowed, assessing stare before he said, ‘Don’t you know it’s foolish to accept liability?’

She couldn’t hide the annoyance now, her voice something of a snap when she said, ‘I don’t play games, Mr—?’

‘Blake. Carter Blake.’

‘I don’t play games, Mr Blake. The accident was my fault and I’m just glad no one was injured. I’m fully prepared to take responsibility for my mistake.’

A brief smile touched his lips and then disappeared. ‘Unusual attribute in this day and age,’ he drawled smoothly, quite unmoved by her antagonism.

She couldn’t agree more. Her work highlighted this all too sad fact every day. However, for some reason this man had got well and truly under her skin and it went against the grain to see eye to eye with him about anything. She’d also just realised the pen she kept in her handbag—an expensive if showy gold one her mother had bought her for Christmas some years before, but which would have been ideal for suggesting she was a woman of substance to this smug individual—was nestled with the insurance papers and other bits and pieces in the bag at home. She had been in a rush that morning, having overslept due to some pills she’d taken last thing the night before for a persistent headache, and had just grabbed keys, purse, phone and lipstick before leaving the house. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

‘Do you have a name?’

She was brought out of her whirling self-censure as he extended a hand, a very large hand, towards her. ‘Liberty Fox,’ she managed a little breathlessly as she placed her fingers in his, the feel of his warm, firm flesh disconcerting to say the least.

‘How do you do.’ He didn’t prolong the contact, for which she was grateful. Something akin to mild electric shocks had radiated through her nerves. ‘Let me give you my card, Liberty.’ He reached into the breast pocket of the dark charcoal suit jacket he was wearing—a jacket which sat perfectly on shoulders broad enough to belong to a professional wrestler—and brought out a small business card. ‘Why don’t you ring me later when we both have more time?’ he suggested silkily.

‘But—’ she stopped abruptly, not knowing how to put it.

The black eyebrows rose. ‘Yes?’

‘Don’t you want my telephone number, an address, car details? Something?’

Firm lips twitched. ‘You’ve already informed me you are prepared to take responsibility for this incident,’ he said reasonably.

‘But you don’t know me.’ She stared at him militantly. ‘I might be lying. I might be the sort of person who will make sure you never see or hear from me again.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he murmured, studying her with cool amusement. He had thought at first she was very average-looking, nothing special, but he had been wrong. In spite of trying to be severe and assertive, the soft, full mouth and anxious brown eyes spoke of the real woman behind the image the executive suit and stern hairstyle projected. How long was her hair? His eyes moved to the tightly restrained, thick coil at the back of her head. No way of knowing. But the colour was wonderful, a true russet. He’d read somewhere that the word came from a kind of rough-skinned, reddish-brown apple, but her skin was like pure peaches and cream. It would feel velvety and silky-smooth to the touch, each rounded curve…

The sudden stirring his body gave surprised him and he cut off the train of thought with a ruthlessness which was habitual. It had been a long time since he had felt such a strong sexual attraction for a woman he didn’t know, and he wasn’t altogether comfortable with it. He preferred his relationships to be fully under his control from beginning to end. At thirty-six years of age he was long past the stage of blind desire.

He took a physical step backwards as he said, ‘I tell you what, prove or disprove my gut feeling about you. Okay? If you don’t ring I’ll put it down to experience and no hard feelings. But I’m already late for an important appointment and I have to go.’

‘Oh, right.’ He had taken her aback and she realised it was obvious from the slight smile touching the corners of his mouth. She hated the satisfaction it undoubtedly gave him as much as she objected to the mocking expression in his eyes. It would serve him right if she didn’t ring, she told herself angrily, her lips closing into a tight line. He clearly expected the whole human race to dance to his tune. One or two of her mother’s husbands had been men of the same ilk, and she had often thanked God her own father was different.

‘That’s settled then.’ He smiled, a confident, I-don’t-care-what-you-do smile that caused every muscle in her body to clench. ‘Goodbye, Miss Fox.’

Miss Fox? Where had the Liberty gone? She was so busy dwelling on that she didn’t realise until much later he must have taken the trouble to look at her hand to determine the absence of a wedding ring. ‘Goodbye,’ she said hastily as he began to turn away. ‘And thank you for being so reasonable,’ she called somewhat belatedly as he strode away.

‘Reasonable is my second name.’ It was tossed over his shoulder and he didn’t turn his head; nevertheless she could tell he was smiling again by the tone of his voice.

She had been a source of constant amusement to the man, she thought irritably, before immediately feeling a pang of conscience. Most people in his position would have been extremely irate to say the least, if not downright hostile. He had been courteous and pleasant despite the fact she had caused the accident which had now delayed him for some important appointment or other.

So why had she felt such immediate antipathy towards him? she asked herself, climbing back into the car and relaxing in the driver’s seat with a small sigh as she shut her eyes for a moment. She wasn’t normally like this. She prided herself on the fact that she could get on with anyone. Well, anyone except her mother, she qualified silently.

As her mobile phone began to ring she forced herself out of the reverie, reaching for her bag and checking who it was before she answered. Dad! If there was one person in all the world she wanted to speak to right now, it was her father. He had always been her mainstay; her anchor and comforter when she was young and her best friend and bulwark as she had grown.

Despite being a single parent when Miranda had left them both for the financier when Liberty was just three years old, he had juggled a demanding job as a GP with being mother and father to a small toddler who had been thrown utterly at sea by her mother’s desertion. And never once had he indicated by word or action that she was a burden or that having her around curtailed his chances of meeting someone else. He had always been there for her, always sensing if she needed him.

‘Dad?’ She found she was biting back the tears as she spoke into the phone.

‘Hi, Pumpkin.’ The familiar voice was balm to her soul. ‘Fancy eating with the old man tonight?’

‘Tonight?’ She was surprised. They always had Sunday lunch together, cooked by her father’s housekeeper, Mrs Harris—a grim-looking individual with a heart of gold who had done her own share of bringing Liberty up—but today was Thursday. ‘I’d love to,’ she responded after an infinitesimal pause. ‘I’ve just bumped the car so seeing you would be a perfect pick-me-up.’

‘Are you all right?’

The concern in his voice warmed her heart but made the tears begin to prick the back of her eyes again, and she had to clear her throat before she could say, ‘I’m fine, Dad, really. It was my fault. I didn’t check my mirror and caused some poor guy to clip my rear but he was very good about it. I’d just called to see Mother.’

‘Ah.’

He didn’t need to say anything else; her father knew better than anyone how such meetings affected her equilibrium.

‘What time do you want me at the house?’ she asked, forcing a bright note into her voice so he would know she really was okay.

There was the briefest of pauses and then he said quietly, ‘I wasn’t planning to eat at home tonight. The thing is, I’d like you to meet someone and I thought a slap-up meal somewhere might be nice.’

Liberty held the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a second. In spite of the quietness of his voice there had been an underlying excitement there too. ‘Someone?’ she asked carefully as she placed the instrument back to her face.

‘An old friend. No, not really an old friend.’ Another pause, longer this time. ‘I don’t know if you remember Joan Andrews. She worked at the practice for a time when you were about seven or eight.’

‘Yes, I remember Joan.’ She had been the practice nurse, a small, homely body with apple-red cheeks and a wide smile. Liberty seemed to recall Joan and her husband had emigrated to Australia or New Zealand, she couldn’t remember which. ‘I thought she lived abroad?’

‘She did. They did, her husband and Joan. The thing is…’

As his voice trailed away again, Liberty’s heart began to race slightly. He’d said ‘the thing is’ twice in the space of a minute; something was afoot. What was the thing? She asked just that but her father didn’t reply to this directly. Instead he said, ‘Joan’s husband was an alcoholic; that was one of the reasons they emigrated. He had a brother out there who owned a large farm and was prepared to take Joan’s husband on as manager. She was hoping it would be enough for him to give up the drink.’

‘Was it?’ She wasn’t quite sure why they were discussing Joan’s husband.

‘For a time, then he started drinking worse than ever. She stayed with him till the end. It was his liver that finally gave out.’

‘Right.’ She waited for the rest of it.

‘We fell in love, Liberty, all those years ago. Hard to believe more than two decades have passed. We never did anything about it, of course—she had her husband and she wouldn’t have abandoned him, it’d have been the death of him, and I—’

This time she spoke into the pause. ‘You had me to look after,’ she said softly.

‘You weren’t an issue; Joan adored you,’ he said quickly. ‘She couldn’t have kids of her own; her husband had a motorbike accident just after they were married and the result was that all that side of their marriage was null and void. That’s what started him drinking apparently, poor devil.’

Liberty found she didn’t know what to say. She’d had no idea her father had ever felt that way about Joan or Joan about him, but then she had been a mere child at the time. She tried to keep her voice normal when she said, ‘When did you meet her again?’

‘Two days ago. She just walked into the surgery.’ The lilt in his voice was back. ‘Her husband died three months ago and she’s been busy putting her affairs in order but now she’s back in England for good. She said she was making contact with old friends but as soon as we saw each other again we knew we felt the same. Absence really had made the heart grow fonder.’

She could hardly take it in. Her father carrying a secret love in his heart all these years? But it explained a lot. He was a very handsome man with the added allure of being a doctor; she had seen women making goo goo eyes at him over the years. But he’d never been interested and now she knew why. Joan Andrews. She shook her head slowly in amazement.

‘I’m glad for you, Dad.’ And she was, she really was, in spite of the selfish little pang her heart had given at the knowledge that she wouldn’t be the number one person in his life any longer.

‘You’ll come and meet her again tonight then?’

‘Of course I will, I’d love to,’ she lied enthusiastically. The truth of the matter was that she would have liked twenty-four hours to get used to the fact that her father had turned into a couple overnight.

‘Great. Joan’ll be thrilled. I think she was a bit worried you might feel she was taking me away from you.’

He laughed with the insensitivity of a father who thought his daughter was perfect and could never have a self-centred thought in her life, and Liberty responded with an appropriate laugh of her own before she said, ‘It’s high time you had someone to share your life with and from the sound of it she’s had no picnic up to yet.’ And she meant every word.

‘Thanks, Pumpkin.’ Her father’s voice was husky now, and there was a brief silence before he said, ‘Eight o’clock at the Phoenix suit you?’

‘The Phoenix?’ This really was true love. It cost an arm and a leg for so much as a glass of wine at the Phoenix, one of London’s most exclusive nightclubs. Liberty had only been there once before when a date had been hoping to impress her. The man in question had been hoping for a lot more too—courtesy of payment for her dinner—and had been more than a little offended when she had rebuffed his arrogant advances and compounded what he saw as an insult to his male prowess when she had sent a cheque for the cost of her dinner to him the next day. ‘Best bib and tucker then?’ she teased lightly.

‘You bet.’ Her father chuckled like an excited schoolboy. ‘See you later. I’ll be watching out for you. And…thanks again, Pumpkin,’ he added softly.

This was turning into one crazy day. She sat for a full minute more mulling over all her father had said before she started the engine, but on the drive back to the office it wasn’t her father and Joan Andrews who filled her mind, but a tall, broad, tough-looking individual with eyes the colour of a stormy winter sky. And she knew she was going to ring Carter Blake’s number.

CHAPTER TWO

LIBERTY told herself she shouldn’t have been surprised when the rest of the afternoon turned into a maniac merry-go-round, mainly due to an extensive power cut just after she returned from lunch. One of her father’s favourite sayings was that it never rained but it poured, and with all the practice computers rendered helpless and irate clients at every turn, the day just got worse and worse.

By six o’clock she felt a frazzled wreck, and if it had been anyone else but her father she was seeing that night she would have rung and made her excuses, the thought of a long hot bath and an early night taking on the appearance of heaven.

She was one of the last to leave the offices in Finsbury, east London, but that wasn’t unusual. She was aiming to become a junior partner within the next five years, and that wouldn’t happen without dedication and hard work. Normally she caught the tube to and from work, but owing to her lunch date with her mother she had decided to use the car that morning. As she stood and stared at it in the practice car park, she reflected that it hadn’t been one of her better decisions.

But she couldn’t think about booking the car into a garage just now. She had the evening to get through and then a long day in front of her tomorrow; the car could wait.

She drove home very carefully, conscious that she was tired and that another accident was the last thing she needed. Her mood lifted as she drew into the tree-lined street in Whitechapel where she had recently bought her first home. After leaving law college, she had spent two years serving articles with her present firm whilst still living at home with her father, but once she had been offered a permanent position had felt the time was right to leave the nest for a rented bedsit. Another rented property, this time a one-bedroomed flat, had followed three years later, but at the beginning of the year she had come across the small, one-bed seventeenth-century almshouse—originally built for ‘decay’d’ seamen or their widows, according to the estate-agent blurb—being advertised in the local paper. She had felt good about the house even then.

The ground floor consisted of a living room and bedroom, with a kitchen, dining room and separate bathroom in the basement and a Lilliputian garden at the rear just big enough to hold a garden table and two chairs and a selection of flowering potted shrubs grouped round a stone bird table and bird-bath.

The lady owner had been retiring and moving to live with a sister in Cornwall after twenty-five years in the house and, against all the advice she would have offered someone else, Liberty had immediately declared herself to be in love with the place and offered the full asking price. She had been installed in her quaint little home within the month, complete with a hefty mortgage which meant she would have to tighten her belt for the forseeable future.

But it was worth it. As she exited the car a shaft of cold autumn sunlight caught the tiny panes in the living room window, causing them to twinkle and glow. Oh yes, it was worth it all right, she thought, mounting the eight walled steps leading up to the stout front door with renewed vigour. She was autonomous, self-sufficient and self-supporting and she would never, ever be beholden to any man to get her the things she wanted.

Liberty did not consciously think of her mother at this point, but the woman who had had such an adverse effect on her personality and her life was under the surface of her mind nevertheless.

The front door opened straight into the living room, which was warm and cosy and comforting. After kicking off her shoes, Liberty flung herself down onto one of her two plump two-seater sofas, which were covered in a vibrant shade of terracotta. She stretched before relaxing her limbs, eyes shut. She loved this room. The oyster curtains and carpet which she’d bought along with the house had been a perfect backdrop for the sofas she had acquired a year or so before seeing her home, and the bookcase behind her and old original fireplace gave a permanence to the surroundings which was wonderfully cheering.

But somehow, tonight, the usual magic wasn’t working. She sat up, frowning slightly. Carter Blake. The wretched man was demanding her attention as he had all through the long afternoon. She might just as well phone him now.

She reached for her handbag and extracted the card. She had glanced at it earlier, expecting a formal business card or something of that nature, but instead there had just been his name with a couple of numbers, one designated as a mobile. Was the other his home? She stared at it, the frown deepening as she resolutely ignored the quickening of her heartbeat.

She would phone him and, if he didn’t answer, leave a message before she began to get ready. She glanced at her watch. She’d order a taxi for tonight first though.

The taxi booked, she felt both annoyed and perplexed with herself when she realised her heart was thudding like crazy at the thought of making the second telephone call. ‘Get a grip, Libby.’ She spoke out loud into the quietness. ‘He’s just a man. Two arms, two legs and no doubt a very inflated opinion of himself.’ The last few years in the market-place of life had shown her that men like Carter Blake—attractive, forceful men who wore arrogance like a second skin—always had an inflated opinion of themselves!

She made a face. That being the case, she wouldn’t rush to phone him after all. She would leave it for a day or two, or at least until tomorrow. She barely had time to shower and get ready for her father’s big night as it was.

By the time the taxi hooted its arrival outside, Liberty had bathed, creamed and coiffured herself into quite a different creature from the smart and rigidly formal Miss Fox of daytime hours. She rarely let her hair down—both metaphorically and literally—but, ever since a pair of granite-grey eyes had given her a cool once-over, a spirit of rebellion seemed to have taken hold. And the Phoenix did require something that bit special.

Her normally sedate hair was now framing a fully made-up face in a silky shoulder-length bob, the classic black evening dress she was wearing giving the illusion of restraint until one noticed the thigh-length slits either side of the pencil-slim skirt. Gerard had urged her to buy the dress for a forthcoming dinner-dance they had been supposed to attend before his liaison with the kittenish Alexia, and she was glad now she had insisted on paying for it herself. It would have been a shame to get rid of such a gorgeous gown but she would have if he had contributed so much as a penny towards it.

There was a lump in her throat as she checked her reflection one last time as the taxi hooted again. And then she swallowed it away, her brown eyes darkening to ebony as she lifted her chin. Gerard wasn’t worth one tear. He was a liar and a cheat and she was well rid of him.

Once in the taxi she pulled her coat more closely around her and tried to ignore the fact that everyone outside the window seemed to be in twos. It must have rained a little while she was getting ready because the pavements were glistening and wet, circles of muted gold here and there where the street lights banished the darkness.

She’d been so stupid to let Gerard Bousquet become more than a casual acquaintance, to let him persuade her that she didn’t have to be alone in the years ahead and that she could share her life with someone else. Although he hadn’t quite convinced her of that, if she was being truthful. She had never been able to fully believe in the plans for their future on which he’d waxed eloquent now and again.

Liberty gazed out into the swirl of activity outside the window but without really seeing it, lost in her thoughts. She had berated herself often in the months she’d been seeing Gerard for her lack of faith in the permanence of their relationship, telling herself the years of seeing her mother go from man to man had made her cynical, but it hadn’t been that.

She frowned slightly as her mind searched for the key to her scepticism and doubt. Gerard was undeniably handsome, sexy, amusing, wealthy and fun to be with, but he had a weak mouth, a mouth that suggested life had been one easy ride for him. It hadn’t dawned on her until this moment but now she realised the knowledge had been at the back of her mind for the last few hours, ever since she had gazed into Carter Blake’s ruthlessly hard face, in fact. The two men were poles apart.

She twisted on the seat, suddenly immensely irritated with herself. Was she going doolally here? What on earth was she doing, comparing the one with the other anyway? Carter she didn’t know from Adam, and Gerard was simply a socialite first and foremost. They both might be socialites for all she knew. Maybe Carter Blake hadn’t done a day’s work in his life either. Anyway, she certainly didn’t want either one of them in her life and why she was wasting one thought on them she didn’t know. This night belonged to her father and Joan.

There was even a buzz on the pavement outside the Phoenix; it was that sort of place. A great nightclub with wonderful food, dancing and a floor show—the Phoenix got everything right. Liberty had been to plenty of nightclubs in the past but all too often she found if the band and floor show were good, the food was mediocre, and vice versa.

She had only put one foot onto the pavement when her father appeared like a genie beside her, his face flushed with excitement and his eyes bright. He looked ten years younger. ‘Wow!’ He took her into his arms, hugging her tight for a moment. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘You look pretty good yourself,’ she said once he had let her breathe again. It was true, he did. The hair which had once been brown was now completely grey but just as thick as ever, and the tall broad-shouldered body was slim and fit. The sum of money her mother had spent to remain looking young and attractive must be into six figures by now, but her father was just getting better and better naturally. Like fine wine.

‘Come and meet Joan,’ David Fox said after he had paid the taxi driver and taken Liberty’s arm in his, leading her through the open front door of the Phoenix with a nod to the two doormen on duty there.

Joan was sitting at the cocktail bar situated just outside the main eating and dancing area, and she left her seat as she caught sight of them. Liberty had almost persuaded herself that her recollection of the woman who had stolen her father’s heart must be clouded by a child’s vision, but no. Joan was still small, dumpy and ordinary, her rosy cheeks free of make-up and her hairstyle dated. Her father was looking at his old love as though she was Julia Roberts, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Gwyneth Paltrow rolled into one. Suddenly Liberty had a lump in her throat.

‘Hello, Liberty,’ Joan said quietly.

Joan’s wide smile couldn’t quite hide the anxiousness in her soft brown eyes, and on the spur of the moment Liberty ignored the other woman’s outstretched hand and hugged her instead, her voice warm as she said, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you again, Joan, especially now I know what you mean to Dad.’

‘You…you don’t mind?’ It was wary.

‘Mind?’ Liberty smiled, her gaze including her father as she said, ‘You’re just what he needs. It’s high time he had a little happiness.’

‘Thank you, Libby.’ Joan had taken her hands and now pressed them, tears glittering in her eyes. ‘I can’t tell you what it means for you to say that.’

It set the tone for the evening. By the end of the first course of a meal which was truly superb, Liberty found she had totally relaxed and was enjoying herself. She had forgotten—or perhaps, as she’d only been a child when she had first known Joan, she hadn’t realised—that Joan had a terrific sense of humour along with a wit that was positively wicked at times. Within a few minutes of being in the other woman’s company Liberty could perfectly understand why her father was so captivated by her. And she was the absolute antithesis of Miranda.

It was as Liberty was finishing the last mouthful of her baked scallops with cured back bacon and thyme that her attention was drawn to a table a short distance away. She didn’t know quite what had attracted her gaze—maybe it was because the four people about to be seated had caused something of a minor stir, one of the women being a well-known supermodel—but as her mildly enquiring eyes met grey-granite she felt the impact down to her fragile but wildly expensive silver sandals.

Of all the people to see tonight—Carter Blake! As he smiled at her she managed to force a fairly normal smile in return, glad of the three or four tables between them as her heart pounded so hard she was sure he would have noticed if he’d been a little nearer. The contact only lasted a moment or two and Carter was the one to break it, turning to the elegant woman at his side and saying something as they all sat down.

Liberty took a hefty gulp at her wine before she became conscious that her father—in the gregarious way he had with people—was speaking in an undertone to a man at the next table who had also been looking across the room. ‘Should we all know who they are?’ David Fox asked mildly as the head waiter appeared at Carter’s table with a distinctly ingratiating smile.

The other man grinned at him, clearly amused. ‘The woman in the red dress is Carmen Lapotiaze,’ he said softly, ‘the famous—or perhaps it should be infamous—model, and the other woman is an actress, quite well-known.’

‘Not by me,’ David Fox said cheerfully. ‘And the men?’

‘The good-looking brute with Carmen is Carter Blake; he owns this place and half of London. The other guy I don’t know.’

‘He owns this nightclub?’ It was Joan who was speaking now and she leant forward interestedly. ‘That explains all the scurrying about of the staff then.’

The other man nodded. ‘He’s one big fish,’ he said quietly. ‘Rumour has it he has his thumb in umpteen pies; not bad for a man who started with next to nothing a decade or so ago, eh? That’s if all the gossip about him can be believed, of course.’ He smiled again before turning to the woman with him, a voluptuous brunette who positively dripped diamonds.

‘Well, ladies, looks like we chose the right night for a bit of excitement.’ David beamed at Joan and his daughter, clearly pleased with himself.

Liberty didn’t want to puncture his bubble but she felt she had to say something. ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she said with a smile to soften her words. ‘The man who ran into me—I’ll give you three guesses who it was, but his name begins with B and ends with E.’

‘Never!’ Her father stared at her. ‘You don’t mean…’

‘And he was driving the most beautiful Mercedes,’ Liberty said ruefully. ‘Or at least it was until my little car had the temerity to jump out in front of it.’

‘Oh, Libby.’ Her father had clearly told Joan about the accident because now the other woman put her hand on Liberty’s arm. ‘Was he okay about it? He isn’t going to be awkward, is he? We can leave if you feel uncomfortable.’

‘No, not at all,’ Liberty said hastily. ‘He was very good, actually.’ Apart from making her feel two inches tall. Which she had probably thoroughly deserved, she admitted silently, but that didn’t make it any easier to take. ‘And we couldn’t possibly leave without dessert anyway,’ she added brightly.

‘I do love my puddings.’ Joan pulled a face. ‘As is pretty obvious. I’d love to be as slim as you but even from a small child I’ve been this shape.’

‘You’re a perfect shape,’ her father cut in before Liberty could say anything. ‘Don’t you dare change a thing about yourself, you hear me? I can’t abide women who exist on a lettuce leaf all day. My surgery is full of them all saying they’ve got stress or nerves or whatever, when what they really need is a few suet puddings and a dumpling or two.’

‘Oh, David.’

Joan was giggling now, but even as Liberty joined in their laughter she found she was envying the older woman with all her heart. To be loved utterly for yourself by your partner in life—how many women were ever lucky enough to find that? Her work brought her into contact with masses of women who had been dumped for a younger model by their husbands, and it worked the other way too. Her own mother was proof of that. She had made up her mind years ago that true love was a fantasy, something which was warm and comforting and wonderful in novels and fairy tales, but not part of the real world. But now, looking at her father and Joan, she was forced to admit there could be exceptions to the rule. But then her father was special; she’d always known that.

Liberty was very careful not to let her eyes stray to that other table while they continued with their meal, but she found herself draining three glasses of wine for Dutch courage. It was delicious wine—everything was delicious—but as she stood up to go to the ladies cloakroom before their coffee and brandy was served, she realised it was also very potent.

Aware that her vertiginous sandals were more than able to tip her over if she didn’t concentrate hard, she made her way to the cloakroom with decorous sedateness, every muscle in her body under rigid control. Wouldn’t he just love it if the dopey lamebrain—as she was sure he thought of her—ended up in a pile at his feet, proving she was just as dizzy and empty-headed as he suspected, she told herself bitterly.

Once in the luxurious marble surrounds she gazed about her. She remembered the awe she’d felt on her first visit here and now this was compounded by the knowledge that Carter Blake owned it all. He must be loaded, utterly loaded. Was Carmen Lapotiaze his lover?

She caught at the thought, angry with herself for speculating even as she answered; of course she would be. Probably one of many. Sexual magnetism had literally oozed from the man and there had been a wealth of experience in that rugged face. A tiny shiver curled down her spine and she resolutely banished all further conjecture. Carter Blake was absolutely nothing to do with her and his sex life even less so!

She fiddled with her hair and applied a touch of lipstick before leaving the cloakroom, delaying the moment she had to re-emerge even as she berated her cowardice. She hated to admit it, but every mouthful of food and sip of wine had been accompanied by an almost painful awareness of the tall, dark figure sitting some distance away, and even when she had been conversing with her father and Joan her ears had been tuned in for the laughter which emanated from his table now and again. That was bad enough, but it was all the more galling because he had, no doubt, put her out of his mind immediately after that one brief polite smile. Certainly she didn’t think he’d looked her way again.

Her toilette completed, she shut the clasp of her evening bag with a little snap and squared her shoulders. She had already told her father she needed to be at the office early the next morning—which was perfectly true—and that she would be leaving shortly after coffee was finished. The main reason for this was to leave the two lovebirds alone to dance and enjoy themselves, but since Carter had appeared on the scene wild horses wouldn’t have kept her in the nightclub.

She opened the door of the cloakroom, stepping out into the thickly carpeted foyer and then nearly jumping out of her skin as a hand closed over her wrist.

‘I’m sorry,’ Carter said at the side of her. ‘Did I startle you?’

‘Of course you startled me,’ she said crisply, pulling her arm away and refusing to be intimidated by the height and breadth of him. She also refused to reflect on the fact that, attractive and compelling as he had been earlier that afternoon, he was doubly so in the white tuxedo which sat on the big body with designer ease. ‘I’m not used to people creeping up behind me.’ She frowned at him to make sure he knew she was serious.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever crept in my life,’ he answered with a silky amusement which immediately caught her on the raw.

‘Really.’ She surveyed him through unfriendly brown eyes. ‘Look, if you’re hoping I’ve got my details on me, forget it. This bag holds a lipstick and comb and little else.’

He didn’t spare the silk purse a glance. Instead he continued to observe her with a scrutiny which was unnerving before he said, ‘The accident was your fault, not mine. We’ve already established that. That being the case, why are you so hostile, Miss Fox?’

Liberty stiffened. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I am most certainly not hostile.’

‘No?’ The dark face was overtly mocking.

‘No.’ It was a sharp snap.

She glared at him, and then was further annoyed and taken aback when he laughed softly, his firm mouth curving to reveal even white teeth. ‘I blame the hair.’

‘What?’ He had completely lost her and it showed.

‘Red always makes for fireworks,’ he drawled easily.

Always? Always? He was comparing her to other women he had known, probably even bedded? She drew herself up to her full five feet eight inches, which unfortunately wasn’t as commanding as it would have been with a man of lesser height, and said coldly, ‘What is it that you want, Mr Blake?’

The black eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘What is it you are offering, Miss Fox?’

Irritating man! ‘You know what I mean,’ she said primly.

‘I’m not sure I do,’ he murmured, studying her angry face with hidden fascination. He had been right about the hair—it was glorious. Rich and glowing with a sheen on it like pure silk. And the way it framed her face, bringing out the porcelain quality to that perfect skin and the darkness of her eyes. How could he have thought for a moment she was in any way ordinary?

‘You were obviously waiting here for me. Why?’

‘You don’t think it possible I was passing through to the men’s cloakroom and noticed you?’ he asked blandly, indicating a door at the far end of the foyer.

She stared at him, suddenly feeling a complete idiot. Again. Something she was getting used to when she was round this man. Why on earth would he be waiting for her when he was with Carmen Lapotiaze? She must have been mad to think it for a second and even crazier to say so. She took a deep breath and prayed her face wasn’t as fiery as it felt. Then she didn’t know what to say.

Carter decided to put her out of her misery. ‘Actually, you were right; I was waiting for you.’ He watched her eyes narrow ominously and added hastily, ‘I’ve checked my car and the damage is minimal. If you let me buy you dinner some time we’ll forget about insurance companies. And I have a guy who can fix your car for next to nothing, incidentally.’

‘I don’t understand.’ And then the frown of confusion cleared. Dinner. He’d suggested dinner but it would probably be spelt bed if he was like most of his kind. As her face scorched again, she said icily, ‘I think I would prefer to let this go through the right channels, Mr Blake.’

‘Why?’ he asked in a tone which suggested mild interest.

Well, as he’d asked…‘Because I wouldn’t have dinner with you if you were the last man on earth. This might sound like an old cliché, but I’m not that sort of girl. I suggest you get back to your dinner companions, Mr Blake.’

Just a flicker of something she couldn’t quite read crossed his face before his features cleared of all expression. ‘I said dinner and I meant dinner,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve never yet bought a woman, Miss Fox. Surprising as it clearly appears to you, I haven’t had to.’

She could believe that. And she knew immediately she had made another huge mistake. Liberty groaned inwardly. ‘I’m sorry.’ She held his razor-sharp gaze even though she felt like bolting back into the cloakroom. ‘I had no right to assume…It’s just that most men…’ She didn’t know how to continue.

‘Take advantage of any opportunity to get to know a woman as lovely as you?’ A brief smile touched his lips and then disappeared. ‘I will plead guilty to that but not the rest. I am not “most men” as you’ll find out.’

Over her dead body. She wasn’t having anything to do with this man. He was dangerous. In fact, he made poor little Gerard look like a schoolboy in the seduction techniques.

Liberty forced a smile. ‘My father’s waiting; I have to go,’ she said quickly. ‘But I will phone and arrange for things to be sorted out.’

‘When?’ It was immediate, his eyes narrowing.

‘What?’ The nerve of the man, to try to tie her down like this!

‘When will you phone?’ he persisted silkily.

She had to get a handle on this, bring it back into the normal sphere of things. She called on all her training to keep cool and objective, or at least to give the appearance of being so. ‘Within the next twenty-four hours or so,’ she said evenly, refusing to be drawn further. ‘Now, as I said, my father is waiting, so if you’ll excuse me.’

‘There’s no rush; it isn’t as if he is sitting there alone. Is that your mother with him?’ For the first time since his teens Carter found himself trying to make conversation with a woman who clearly wanted shot of him. It astounded him. He half-expected her to tell him to mind his own business or to go to hell, but she did neither, merely staring at him with big brown eyes. Brown eyes as soft and velvety as a doe at bay.

‘No,’ she said finally. ‘She is not my mother.’

His lips twitched. Polite but firm, even though every line and curve of her body suggested she would rather be anywhere else than here. He ignored the screaming body language, saying quietly, ‘I didn’t think so. I couldn’t see any resemblance between you.’

Liberty shrugged. ‘There’s none between my mother and I, as it happens. She’s a small, blue-eyed blonde.’

Now it was Carter who stared. He had sensed something when she had spoken of her mother—very definite vibes and none of them good. Maybe it would be better if she didn’t ring him, after all; the last thing he needed right now was to get mixed up with a woman who came with baggage. He liked his relationships with women to emulate the way he viewed acquiring and disposing of a car—they needed to be good together while it lasted but once the parting of the ways came it was all straightforward. So it was with some surprise he heard himself say, ‘I’ll escort you back to your table.’

‘No need.’ Liberty was determined the last thing she was going to do was introduce him to her father and Joan. ‘Your dinner companion might get the wrong idea.’

‘Carmen? Oh no, Carmen and I understand each other very well,’ he said nonchalantly.

Funny, but she didn’t doubt that for a minute!

Liberty wasn’t aware her face was revealing her thoughts until the big body bent closer. ‘Carmen and I are just good friends, Liberty,’ he said pleasantly, but with a touch of steel in his voice which indicated he hadn’t appreciated her supposition. ‘If there was anything else between us I wouldn’t have suggested taking you to dinner. I’ve never pretended to be a hearth and home guy, but one woman at a time is more than enough for me. Okay?’ Dark eyebrows rose mockingly.

She felt furious that he had somehow put her in the wrong. He had walked in with that woman draped all over him like poison ivy and now he was blaming her for putting two and two together and making five. She tilted her head back and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Your association with Miss Lapotiaze, or anyone else for that matter, is absolutely nothing to do with me,’ she said clearly. ‘Goodnight, Mr Blake.’ And she left him before he had a chance to react, walking as swiftly as her inordinately high heels would allow into the heart of the nightclub.

She had half-expected him to follow her or to try to catch hold of her again, but she reached the others without incident—apart from almost going headlong across the table as her heel caught in the hem of her dress at the last moment.

Her father and Joan smiled at her with the guilty look of two people who had just been whispering sweet nothings, and she smiled brightly back, wondering how soon she could make her excuses and leave. Why had she allowed Carter to get under her skin like that? she asked herself as she sipped at her coffee. No other man had ever affected her in such a way. Not that there had been many men in her past.

The coffee was burning her throat but she barely felt it, her whole body tuned as tight as piano wire. She had had plenty of dates before Gerard, of course, but she had always kept things casual, and even Gerard hadn’t actually broken her heart. Bruised it maybe, and crushed her pride into the ground, but she couldn’t in all honesty say she was devastated beyond measure by his betrayal.

Her eyes opened wide as the knowledge dawned that she was well and truly over him and it had only taken a matter of weeks. Was that awful? She considered the matter and then decided she didn’t care if it was. She was just so thankful she hadn’t gone the whole hog and slept with him as he had been nagging at her to do for the last couple of months of their relationship. She would have hated to be another notch on his worn-away bedpost. When, or maybe that should be if, she gave herself to a man she at least wanted it to mean something for both of them.

When she made her move to leave, her father insisted on coming with her to the entrance of the nightclub and standing with her while the doorman hailed her a cab. ‘Thanks for being so nice to Joan.’ He hugged her as he spoke, his voice thick. ‘Do you think it would be rushing it if I asked her to marry me soon? And I mean real soon,’ he added somewhat bashfully.

‘After twenty odd years?’ Liberty reached up and patted his face, her touch gentle. ‘Go for it, Dad, if you’re sure.’

‘I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.’

‘Then ask her. Life’s too short to dilly-dally.’

‘You’d come to the ceremony? It’ll only be a register office do, I suppose, but I’d like you there,’ he said urgently.

‘You try and keep me away,’ said Liberty as the black cab pulled up in front of them. ‘Now, go back to her and I’ll give you a ring in the morning. And thanks for a lovely evening.’

He stood and waved her off as he had done on countless occasions in the past, but this time they both knew it was different. The cab got held up at the traffic lights, and as Liberty turned and looked through the back window she saw him bound back into the club like a twenty-year-old.

She smiled to herself, glad for him and for Joan too, but somehow their delight in each other had made her restless. Or was it something else, someone else, who had caused her to feel all at odds with the world tonight? She frowned, loath to admit Carter Blake could have such an influence on her when she had only met him a few hours ago.

It wasn’t him, she had decided firmly by the time the cab had deposited her home. It was the whole day—seeing her mother, the accident, the awful afternoon at work and then encountering Carter again on an evening when her emotions had been running high anyway. A good night’s sleep and everything would be back in perspective again. Anything else was just not an option.

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