Never A Bride

She couldn’t bear him to think his generosity was being tossed back in his face. She couldn’t bear him to be hurt.

Not stopping to analyze the depth of her feelings or the impulse that made her move quickly to place her body in front of him, reach out to touch his perfectly hewn features, she said gently, ‘Liz would hate you to think she was ungrateful. It’s the last thing she’d want. But her pride is all she’s ever had, remember. And now she finds herself in a position to provide for herself she’s walking on air. Don’t try to deny her that.’

She wasn’t conscious of the way her cool fingertips were softly stroking his temple, the palm of her hand gently laid against the hardly sculpted side of his face, until he turned his head, his eyes holding hers with lancing intensity as his lips moved erotically against the suddenly unbearably sensitized palm of her hand. She gave a small, shaky gasp as wildfire sensations seared through her body and saw his hooded eyes grow speculative. She snatched her hand away.

Touching hadn’t been part of their contract. Non-consummation had been agreed on. She was too fastidious to contemplate sex without love and he wouldn’t want a sexual relationship, with all its inherent emotional complications, to put their down-to-earth and mutually beneficial partnership in jeopardy.

Was that why he had gone out of his way to avoid any physical contact—even the most innocent? Had he known something she had never even suspected—that his slightest touch would send her up in flames?

Praying she wouldn’t betray her humiliation with something as uncool as a blush, she stepped briskly back and squared her shoulders, summoned her normal, politely friendly tone and stated, ‘If we’re going on to Lither ton from Lark Cottage then I’d better throw a few things in a bag. But I warn you, much as I like your sister, don’t expect me to bury myself down there for the next two weeks. I’d be bored out of my skull.’

Not true. She and Jake had spent a wonderfully relaxing time at Litherton Court last Christmas, plus a gloriously lazy long weekend in the early autumn, but she wasn’t going to admit that she would be miserable if she didn’t see him for two whole weeks, because she wasn’t ready to admit it to herself.

And despite having been the last to speak she had the distinctly edgy feeling, as she swept out of the room, that she hadn’t had the last word.

Four hours later Liz said happily, ‘Oh, it’s lovely to see you!’ and stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on Jake’s lean, hard cheek, smothered in the bulk of his sheepskin jacket as he hugged her, then turned to her daughter for her embrace. As Claire’s arms went round the tiny frame she thought, She’s not nearly as frail as she used to be, and felt tears of gratitude for all Jake had done sting behind her eyes and clog her throat.

‘Come along in, out of the cold. As soon as we heard your car come round the corner of the lane Sal went to put the kettle on. And your rooms are ready, so go along up if you want to freshen up before we snack.’

As the door closed on the cold grey mist of the December afternoon Jake’s height and breadth and alarmingly magnetic male presence filled the tiny, cheerful hall and Claire grabbed her suitcase, suddenly needing the quiet privacy of her room, space to breathe, away from that throat-grabbing presence. But Jake, shrugging out of his sheepskin, said, ‘I want a private word with you, Liz, before we do a damn thing.’

‘Does that dour tone tell me that Claire has at last got around to giving you my news?’ Faded blue eyes twinkled up into commanding grey slits. ‘I always think it’s bad taste to get excited over a legacy. But in Uncle Arnold case I think I can be excused. He never cared about anyone in the whole of his life and in the end no one cared about him.’ Her mouth drooped at the corners as she added, ‘Though I sent him a card each Christmas, keeping him up to date with whatever news there was, even after he...’

Her voice tailed away and Jake took her arm in a gentle but inescapable grip, urging her towards the door that led to the sitting-room, his voice firm as he told her, ‘Stop trying to soften me up. You’ve got some serious explaining to do. What are families for, if not to help each other when possible? I hope you’re not going to tell me you found what little help I gave a burden you’re delighted to shrug off?’

Although his words were tough his voice was soft around the edges as he ushered Liz into the sitting-room. Claire sighed briefly and mounted the stairs. The question of his allowance was something they’d have to thrash out between them and she was deeply thankful that she’d been able to persuade her mother that her decision to reimburse Jake fully for the purchase price of Lark Cottage, and everything in it, would have been seen as gross ingratitude, and hurtful.

She was thankful, too, that she’d made Jake promise never, in any circumstances, to divulge that his care of her mother had been the only reason she’d agreed to marry him.

As she reached her room and closed herself in with the cottage pine antiques, the lemon-yellow and grey and cream fabrics which picked out the main colors of the sunny sprigged wallpaper and the thick scatter rugs on the oak-boarded floor, her mouth twisted wryly as she remembered how appalled Liz had been, the first time they’d visited, when she had explained that, being modern and sophisticated, she and Jake had decided on separate rooms.

But Liz would be even more appalled, and permanently so, if she knew that her daughter’s marriage to the son-in-law she openly adored and respected was nothing but a business arrangement.

She hung her mulberry-coloured wool coat in the wardrobe, unpacked the few things she’d need for the two days Jake had said they would be spending here and allowed the tranquility of the cottage, set as it was on the outskirts of a tiny Shropshire village, to soothe her unaccustomed ruffled soul.

There really was nothing to get in a state about, she assured herself. She and Jake had agreed that their paper marriage would end when it was no longer useful. And as far as she was concerned its usefulness had ended with that legacy. And as for Jake, well, his unprecedented lack of discretion over the principessa affair had to signal that he wanted his freedom—even if he wasn’t fully aware of it yet.

So their days were numbered, the last hours ticking away, and it truly didn’t matter, did it? she asked herself as she sank down on the window-seat and gazed down on the garden that, even at this dead time of year, was her mother’s pride and joy.

With a sense of inevitability, the tying up of loose ends, her mind slid back over the years, looking at everything that had happened, taking her to the point when she had agreed to marry Jake.

The foundations had been laid in her childhood. She barely remembered her father because he’d gone by the time her seventh birthday came around. Apparently, he had never wanted the responsibility of children and Liz had been thirty-eight when Claire was born. Liz had never been physically strong and after the birth she had had to give up her job working for a florist, pushing even more responsibility on to the man who hadn’t wanted it in the first place.

So no, she wouldn’t recognize her father now if she passed him in the street, but she could remember the build-up of tension as the weekends approached, when her father, a company rep, would be home. Recall how her mother had seemed frightened of him, of his sudden bursts of temper, his long sulks.

Once, long after he’d disappeared, and the eventual divorce, Claire had asked her mother why she had stayed with him as long as she had. Liz had looked blank, as if such a thought had never entered her head, and simply imparted that she’d made her marriage vows in good faith and, having made them, wouldn’t be the one to break them. It was then Claire had realised that her father had taken a naïve, trusting, loving soul and turned her into a doormat, and she had made a private vow never to allow it to happen to her.

When her husband had walked out on them Liz had had to find work to support them. She’d brought a child into the world and loved her devotedly, and no way was that child to be deprived of decent food and respectable clothes. They’d moved to a small flat because Liz couldn’t afford the rent on the house they lived in, but somehow there had always been treats—a coach trip to the coast each summer, a birthday party to which all her friends were invited, a visit to the local theater for the Christmas pantomime.

All at the expense of her health, Claire had realized years later.

Never strong, Liz had taken only part-time menial work because while her daughter was at school she’d insisted on being there when Claire came home. So she had often been exploited, poorly paid, having no qualifications which might have opened more lucrative, less physically grueling doors for her.

After gaining her secretarial qualifications and a year’s practical experience, Claire had joined a top-quality agency because she could earn more that way, insisted that Liz give up all her part-time jobs, and had been filling in for Jake’s personal secretary—the one who went everywhere with him, and who was recovering after an appendectomy—when Liz had had a heart attack.

Claire had been out of her mind with worry. Just as she had begun earning enough to allow her mother to take life more easily, fate had dealt this blow.

Jake had been wonderful, far more sympathetic and supportive than her ephemeral position as a temp could have led her to expect. He had insisted on waiting with her through that dreadful night at the hospital when she hadn’t expected her mother to survive the attack, metaphorically holding her hand and, somehow, drawing her whole life story out of her.

And later, when her mother’s recovery had been assured—this time, so her consultant had warned—Jake had broken the news that his personal secretary had decided to call it a day. Her fiancé apparently took a dim view of the unsocial hours she was often called upon to work, the times—many of them—when she had to be out of the country, dancing attendance on her employer.

‘I’ve a proposition to put to you,’ he had told her. And now, without even having to try, she had total recall of every last inflexion of his voice, the way the pale afternoon winter sunlight had been streaming through the long sash windows of the London apartment, shining his raven-wing hair, highlighting the taut, olive-toned skin on his jutting cheekbones, throwing those enigmatic grey eyes into deepest shadow.

He’d waved aside the bunch of faxed reports she’d just brought through from the study. ‘Sit down, put that sharp brain of yours into receiving mode, and listen.’

She’d sat, the slight smile his choice of words had brought to flickering life quickly fading because she couldn’t put her concern over Liz’s future to the back of her mind as a good secretary should.

The excellent salary she was earning through the agency meant that her mother no longer had any pressing financial worries. On the other hand, working for the agency meant that she often had to travel to distant parts of the country, and that, in turn, meant there was no one to keep an eye on Liz, see that she ate properly, took the regular periods of rest that were so important to her long-term recovery.

And she wouldn’t put it past her, as soon as she was back on her feet, to trundle out to find some kind of job. Liz had her pride, didn’t want to be a burden, was inclined to mutter on about Claire being able to spend some of her hard-earned salary on herself instead of using it to support her parent in idleness.

‘As I’ve told you, Anthea won’t be coming back, which leaves me, again, without a permanent personal secretary,’ Jake growled. ‘They come weighed down with all the right qualifications and good intentions, and before you know it they find some lame excuse or other to quit.’

So a disgruntled fiance, Anthea’s love-life, was considered to be a lame excuse, was it? Controlling the upward twitch of her mouth, Claire pushed her own worries out of her mind and concentrated on his.

While she sat, composed and still, he paced the floor, displaying all that restless energy she had grown to admire, and marvel at. He smacked a fist into the open palm of his other hand and grated, ‘They know what’s required and receive a blinding salary to compensate for any minor inconveniences! And God knows, I’m not a monster to work for, am I, Claire?’ He glared at her, his brows bunched, as if he couldn’t believe anyone fortunate enough to work for him would ever willingly depart—for any reason under the sun—and she clamped her teeth tightly together to control the grin that threatened to break out and gave him back a soothing, if necessarily tight-lipped smile, a confirming shake of her head.

Not a monster, never that. Demanding, brilliant, restless, capable of long, sustained bursts of energy that left lesser mortals feeling drained and giddy, sometimes impossible and sometimes staggeringly, generously thoughtful and kind. But never a monster.

‘Any suggestions?’ He had come to a standstill, hovering over her, his hands now bunched into his trouser pockets.

Disregarding the bluntly aggressive tone, she lifted cool eyes to meet the piercing blaze of his and replied calmly, ‘Hire someone who’s not interested in a love-life. A widow-woman, say, well into her fifties.’ She was trying very hard to keep a straight face. ‘Or, better still, a man. A man with a family to support, who would be grateful for a spectacular salary and the opportunity to escape the kids from time to time.’ A touch of bitterness there? she wondered. Memories of the way her own father had been?

‘Would a man take charge of my laundry, cook the occasional meal, buy my socks?’ he scorned. ‘And would your putative widow-woman have the stamina to keep up with my schedules?’

His smile was tight, almost feral, as he swept her suggestions aside. Then, with one of the mood swings she had come to expect, he dropped on to the opposite sofa, swinging one immaculately trousered leg over the other, tipping his head on one side as he gave her a long, considering look, before saying with languid smoothness, ‘Having wiped out the options, I want you to consider my proposition. Take the job; work for me. Permanently. And, to ensure you don’t dredge up some flimsy excuse to terminate your employment, I will marry you.’

Marriage! Her stomach muscles shivered, then clenched. She had expected him to offer her a permanent position, had been reluctantly prepared to turn it down because if she was on the other side of the globe with him who would keep an eye on Liz—but marriage! That was the last thing she’d expected him to offer! Quite out of the question!

‘And before you verbalize what’s written on your face,’ his voice came through the whirlpool of her thoughts, silky soft yet carrying the core of that iron will of his, ‘listen, absorb and contemplate. Firstly,’ he ticked off on a lean, long forefinger, ‘the marriage will not be consummated. To the outside world it will appear the perfect match, but privately you will function as my personal secretary. No more, no less. Your salary will be paid in the form of an allowance—and you won’t find me ungenerous. Secondly, you will enjoy the financial security, the luxury, my wife would naturally expect. In return, I will have the loyalty and continuity of service I need.’

‘This is crazy!’ Ignoring the fluttery sensations that invaded her insides, Claire fixed him with a cool, sea-blue stare. ‘I won’t pretend I wouldn’t jump at the job offer if it didn’t mean leaving Liz to her own devices, but you don’t need to tie yourself down to that extent, surely? When you find someone suitable you could insist on a watertight contract.’

‘In which a clever lawyer could find any number of leaks!’ He shook his head, leaning forward a little, his superbly hewn features softening with an obvious need to understand. ‘We get along well together and I can’t fault your work—the past few weeks have demonstrated that. And during that night when you feared you would lose Liz—and I’ll come to her in a moment—you were open enough to tell me of her disastrous marriage, confide that her experience, plus the way you’d seen quite a high proportion of your friends’ marriages go down the drain, had put you off ever making that commitment yourself. So tell me, where do you find the problem in my proposed business agreement?’

‘You,’ she said with stark honesty. Then wondered why her mouth had gone dry. Avoiding his eyes, she flicked her tongue over her lips and made herself elaborate, ‘Who you are, what you are.’ She didn’t need to go further, tell him what he already had to know—that with his looks, all that sexy charisma, his wealth and staggering power he could have the pick of any woman he fancied. Instead she said primly, ‘I can’t believe you’re a stranger to the opposite sex. And I can’t believe the day won’t dawn when you’ll fall in love and want a real marriage, a family to enjoy the empire you’ve created. And when that day does arrive I’ll be the first to go, with nothing but the dubious honor of being the first, and discarded, Mrs Jake Winter.’

Hearing the rising note of bitterness in her voice and not having any way of understanding it, she slumped back against the soft cushions and waited to hear how he’d get out of that. And she went into a state of shock, or something very like it, when he simply turned the power of his wide white smile on her, explaining lightly, ‘I won’t even try to pretend I’m a stranger to your sex. However, much as I enjoy female company I know myself well enough to avoid making any long-term emotional commitments. To make a marriage happy, secure and stable you have to work at it. I wouldn’t find the time. My business gives me all the challenge I can handle. It’s as addictive and demanding as playing chess at the highest level—I’m not looking for anything more. I could handle a paper marriage—I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to work at a proper one. Inevitably I’d get bored and restless. And, as I’ve experienced, paid secretaries and housekeepers can be a pain. I need someone who will be emotionally undemanding, always there when needed, wherever I happen to be. I hate hotel life as a general rule, so have my own apartments in most of the major capitals around the world, and I need someone there to organize some kind of home life as well as business breakfasts, lunches or dinners, put on her secretary hat when needed and, as I mentioned—’ his grin was sapping all her strength ‘—buy my socks. Or whatever. And as far as I’m concerned, unless and until I make a family of my own—which, at this moment in time, I can’t see myself ever contemplating—any children my sister and her husband might have would become my heirs. And I suppose there should be an opt-out clause,’ he clipped, his change of tone suddenly making her see how seriously he was taking this plethora of alarming nonsense. ‘In the unlikely event of my deciding I wanted to be free to remarry, you would receive a substantial settlement in money and property. If you wanted out, for the same reason, then I wouldn’t stand in your way. You would, however, forfeit the settlement.’

The smile he gave her was chilling, sending shivers riding down the length of her spine, and, shifting uneasily against the cushions, she was about to decline his offer politely when he forestalled her, knocking the breath out of her lungs as he added, ‘About Liz. As an added and, in my opinion—having spoken at length to her consultant—necessary inducement, I guarantee to keep her in comfort for the rest of her life. In a house of her own and your choosing, with a resident companion—medically trained—to keep an eye on her health and well being, keep her company, do all the little jobs around the place she shouldn’t be allowed to tackle. Think about it, Claire. Think carefully, and give me your answer in the morning.’

He stood up, terminating the crazy interview, and Claire, her legs feeling unbelievably unsteady, tottered off to the study, finishing up there and driving home in a daze, not able to bring herself to say goodnight to him because everything inside her head had gone on hold.

It was the promise he had made regarding Liz’s future that tipped the balance. True, the actual job he was offering was a challenge that was difficult to resist, and she could live with the marriage part of it. She would look at it as a strange type of job description, the utter sterility of the relationship a secret between Jake and herself. But it was the thought that her mother would at last be able to relax, live a life of comfort and ease, having a cosy home of her own and the lush country garden she had always dreamed of—with the added bonus that wherever Claire found herself she would know that Liz had someone close at hand to keep her from being lonely, watch that she didn’t overtire herself, make her go for regular check-ups—that brought Claire to Jake’s London apartment, an acceptance of his offer of marriage firmly lodged in her head.

Jake received her acceptance with a calm, ‘Thank you. You won’t regret it,’ but persuading Liz to accept his charity was a different matter.

She had met Jake, of course and, although bemused by the suddenness of it, was delighted by the prospect of the marriage. Her darling girl had fallen in love with a man who would care for her, provide handsomely for her, for the rest of her life. What mother could ask for more? But living on charity was something else altogether.

Not until Jake was brought in to fight Claire’s corner were matters resolved. He simply told her, ‘In three weeks’ time I am marrying your daughter. That makes you, like it or not, part of my family. And what type of man—especially one who has more money than he can count—leaves a valued member of his family to mooch around in a mediocre flat in an unlovely London backstreet?’

And so Lark Cottage was found, furnished with every comfort and convenience, Sally Harding, an ex-nurse, forthright but kind, employed, everything—even their paper marriage—running smoothly until now. Until her mother’s legacy had set her free.

An impatient rapping on the bedroom door had Claire dragging her eyes from the window-pane. The winter darkness had descended. She’d been looking at nothing. Blinking, she watched Jake enter the room, his impressive height and sheer physical presence seeming to diminish everything in it. His features were expressionless, yet his eyes pierced her, his voice harsh as he said, ‘Liz is presiding over the tea-table, staring with longing at the teapot. As is Sal. Might I suggest you join us and put them out of their misery?’

She rose slowly to her feet. She’d lost count of time. Eating her share of one of Sal’s massive teas—three different types of dainty sandwiches, mountainous sponge cakes, slab cake, a wild selection of home-made biscuits—was not, at the moment, very appealing.

She sighed, and he heard it. His eyes narrowed. He made an ‘after you’ gesture as she reached the door and his tone when he spoke, silk cloaking iron, rasped on her strangely jangled nerves.

‘Liz’s delight in finding herself so unexpectedly and independently wealthy was so transparent, I hadn’t the heart to insist that she continue to live off my allowance. However,’ he added, his mouth straightening in a grim line, ‘that doesn’t give you an opt-out, grounds for terminating our agreement. Only one thing can do that, so don’t you ever forget it.’

CHAPTER THREE

“ONLY one thing”. The only opt-out Jake would accept was if one or other of them fell in love.

Claire fastened her seat belt as Jake slid into the driver’s seat. She didn’t look at him, concentrated instead on waving goodbye to Liz and Sal, doing her best to look relaxed and cheerful.

For some reason the couple of days they’d spent at Lark Cottage had been a strain. Normally, it was no such thing. Claire valued any time she was able to spend with Liz, and her pretend marriage hadn’t been a problem before because Jake had the ability to make everyone relax. When it suited him, that was. And it always suited him when he was around Liz.