Marriage On Trial

Too late she recalled the creamy coffee that Richard had provided. ‘He knows I take cream,’ she said, and prayed that Quinn would let the matter drop.

Her prayer was answered.

With a slight shrug, he set his cup down on the oval coffee table, and looking around the low-ceilinged room with its white plaster walls, black beams and polished oak floorboards, commented, ‘This is a real gem of a place. How long have you been living here?’

‘About nine months.’

‘You struck lucky. It isn’t often something like this comes up for rent.’

‘It isn’t rented.’

‘Ah!’ Softly he observed, ‘If one’s romantically inclined, it must make an ideal love-nest.’

‘If you’re implying that Richard comes here—’ Realising that she was playing into his hands, she broke off abruptly.

‘Doesn’t he?’

‘Certainly not! Except to pick me up occasionally.’

Raising a dark brow, Quinn pursued, ‘But he did set you up here?’

‘He did no such thing!’

Quinn made no attempt to hide his scepticism. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anyone on a secretary’s salary, even if it’s an exceptionally good one, to be able to buy a place like this.’

‘I didn’t buy it. Emily Henderson, the writer I’d worked for for several years, asked me to take care of it…’

After living in a cramped and dingy bedsit above a seedy video shop, having the opportunity to move into Cantle Cottage had seemed like a miracle.

‘She’s gone to Australia for a year to stay with her son and his family,’ Elizabeth added flatly, and wondered why she was taking the trouble to explain.

But she knew only too well why. It was a hangover from the past, when Quinn had so badly misjudged her. Well, the past was long gone, she reminded herself briskly, and she no longer had to justify anything.

Frowning, as though he could read her thoughts, he harked back, ‘So where do you and Beaumont meet when you have your…shall we say…trysts? Obviously not his apartment… And I can’t see the family home being at all suitable.’

Losing her temper, she snapped, ‘And I can’t see what makes where we meet any of your business.’

‘Then you do sleep with him…’ Though the words themselves were triumphant, there was a kind of weary acceptance in the low-pitched voice, rather than satisfaction. ‘And he wants the Van Hamel as a carrot to keep you where he—’

‘You’re quite wrong,’ she broke in furiously. ‘Richard wants the Van Hamel for its own sake… And whether or not I sleep with him is entirely my affair.’

A look that seemed to hold both anger and pain crossed Quinn’s dark face, but a split second later it was gone, and Elizabeth knew she must have imagined it.

After a moment, his expression thoughtful, he pursued, ‘Though you clearly weren’t at home in the apartment, I got the distinct impression that you were intending to stay the night?’

‘What if I was?’ She tried to sound offhand.

‘Yet you seemed to be unprepared, not even a sponge bag, which leads me to believe that it hadn’t been planned in advance…

‘It’s my guess that he only proposed to you this evening, perhaps on the way to the sale, and that he asked you then to go back with him.’

Her expression telling him more clearly than words that he was right, he smiled sardonically.

When she remained determinedly silent, he went on, ‘He was certainly expecting you to stay, and though he did his best to act like a gentleman he was furious when he realized you really were going to leave…’

Then, like a cobra striking, he asked, ‘Why did you change your mind? Was it because of me?’

‘Why on earth should it be?’ She made an effort to sound dismissive.

‘You tell me.’

‘It was nothing to do with you,’ she lied hardily.

‘Then why?’

‘I had a headache. Now, I really would like to go to bed, so if you could finish your coffee…?’

Picking up his cup, he drained it, before remarking, ‘My, but you seem uncommonly eager to be rid of me.’

When she made no effort to refute that statement, he turned to look at her, his green eyes gleaming. ‘Bearing in mind that I still have the Van Hamel, I’m surprised you can’t bring yourself to be a little more gracious.’

It was a threat, however subtly worded.

‘I don’t care a damn about the Van Hamel.’ The retort was out before she could prevent it.

‘You may not, but your fiancé certainly does. In fact, judging by the amount I was able to push him to tonight, I’d say he’s set his heart on having it…’

Once again Quinn was one hundred per cent accurate.

‘So if you don’t want to see him disappointed…’

She didn’t.

Possibly because of his nature and privileged upbringing, Richard wasn’t a good loser. Like a spoilt child, he was unable to forget a failure. Losing the Van Hamel now would rankle, and could end up souring their whole engagement.

No matter what other precious stone he chose for her ring, Elizabeth knew quite well that, in his eyes at least, it would always be second best, and every time he looked at it he would feel angry and dissatisfied.

Gritting her teeth, she made an effort to be civil. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been ungracious…’

‘That’s better,’ Quinn murmured encouragingly. ‘Now perhaps you could make me some supper and another cup of coffee? Oh, and please do join me. I dislike eating alone.’

Though politely framed it was undoubtedly an order.

Knowing only too well that he was playing with her, deliberately provoking her, she felt a fierce desire to smack his mocking face and tell him to get out.

Instead, she rose to her feet without a word, and, picking up his empty cup, carried it through to the kitchen.

This time she got out the cafetière and warmed it, before taking a wholegrain loaf from the bread bin, and ham and cheese from the fridge.

She was cutting bread, when a movement in the doorway distracted her and the knife slipped and nicked her finger, making her gasp.

‘Let me see.’ Quinn was by her side in an instant. Lifting her hand, he examined the cut where a blob of red blood was welling.

‘It’s nothing,’ she assured him.

All at once her stomach clenched and fire flashed through her, as he put her finger in his mouth and sucked. While he kept it there, his green eyes met and held hers, as though assessing her response.

It seemed an eternity before, head spinning, she was able to tear her gaze away.

Inspecting the now bloodless cut, he asked, ‘Where do you keep your sticking-plasters?’

Trembling in every limb, and feeling as though she’d narrowly survived some disaster, she said jerkily, ‘There’s a first-aid box in the cupboard.’

When, with deft efficiency, he’d put a plaster on her finger and replaced the box, he remarked, ‘You look shaken.’ He sounded smug and self-satisfied, as if he knew perfectly well that it had nothing to do with cutting herself. ‘Perhaps I’d better make the sandwiches?’

‘No, I’m quite all right, really.’ It seemed easier to be occupied.

While he leaned against one of the oak units and watched her, she finished making the sandwiches and filled the cafetière.

When it was assembled on a tray—and remembering his ‘do join me’ she’d added an extra plate and cup—he straightened. ‘Let me carry that.’

With a sense of unreality, she followed him back to the living room.

She was about to take a seat in one of the armchairs when, having put the tray on the low table, he motioned her to sit beside him. Then, as though he owned the place, he pressed the plunger and poured coffee for them both.

Passing her a plate, he urged, ‘Won’t you have a sandwich?’

‘Thank you.’ Elizabeth took a sandwich she didn’t want and toyed with it, while he began to eat with a healthy appetite.

She had presumed that, in asking for supper, he was simply demonstrating his power, but he seemed to be genuinely hungry.

Catching her look of surprise, he said, ‘I missed dinner tonight.’ Then he added wryly, ‘You thought I was just practising being obnoxious, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t think you needed any practice.’ The words were out before she could prevent them.

‘Oh, well, I suppose I asked for that.’

To her amazement he was laughing, white, healthy teeth gleaming, deep creases appearing at each side of his chiselled mouth.

She felt her heart lurch then begin to race as she remembered the feel of that mouth touching hers…caressing her throat…finding the soft curves of her breasts…closing on a taut nipple…bringing a pleasure so exquisite it had been almost pain… Arousing a hunger that had made her shudder against him in an agony of need…

Perhaps she made some small sound, because he turned his head to look directly at her. In an instant her face flooded with scalding colour.

‘Erotic thoughts?’ he asked quizzically.

Knowing it was useless to deny it, she lied huskily, ‘In spite of the headache I was just wishing I’d stayed with Richard.’

Hoping desperately that Quinn would believe her, she knew he had when his face tightened.

But why should he be angry? What she did was nothing to do with him.

Slowly, he said, ‘If you can look like that when you think of him, your feelings must be a great deal more passionate than I’d imagined. I doubt if I’ve ever seen such naked longing on any woman’s face…’

She bit her soft inner lip until she tasted blood, before saying with what equanimity she could muster, ‘It’s getting very late…’

Desperate for him to be gone, she jumped to her feet and, walking to the window on legs that felt like chewed string, drew back the curtain.

A grey blanket of fog pressed damply against the glass, thick and smothering, allowing no glimpse of the outside world.

As levelly as possible, she went on, ‘And I’m afraid the conditions aren’t improving…’

‘No,’ he agreed, coming to stand behind her shoulder.

Awkwardly, she went on, ‘So don’t you think it would make sense to—?’

‘You’re quite right,’ he broke in smoothly. ‘Rather than risk an accident, it would make more sense to stay here.’

‘N-no, I didn’t mean that,’ she stammered. ‘You can’t possibly stay here. There’s only one bedroom.’

‘I’m quite willing to sleep on the couch.’

Panic-stricken, she cried, ‘No, I don’t want you to do that…’

His brows shot up. ‘I see! Well, if you want me to share your bed, I’ll be happy to stand in for Beaumont.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant!’

He sighed. ‘Pity. For a moment I thought—’

‘And you know quite well it wasn’t.’

His grin confirming that he’d just been baiting her, he said with mock resignation, ‘So the couch it is.’

With growing desperation, she clutched at straws. ‘But you don’t have any night things… And surely your hotel can’t be too far away?’

‘I do have some night things,’ he contradicted her calmly. ‘What I don’t have is a hotel. You see, I hadn’t planned on staying in town. My intention was to go on to Saltmarsh.’

‘Saltmarsh?’ The word was only a whisper.

Unbidden, her mind produced a series of vivid pictures. The town of Saltmarsh, with its narrow streets and half-timbered houses, its air of time standing still… Saltmarsh Island, some mile long by half a mile wide, connected to the mainland by a causeway which was only passable at low tide… Saltmarsh House, the beautiful old house that dominated the island…

‘It’s in Essex. Have you ever been there?’ Quinn’s glance was searching.

Her mind still full of images, she shook her head mutely.

‘It was once a thriving coastal town; now it’s a sleepy backwater with a population of a few thousand. My father used to live just off shore, on an island connected by a causeway.’

Used to? Henry Durville had once told her he would never willingly leave his home.

Had he become too ill to remain there? She saw Quinn’s eyes narrow, and for one frightening second thought she’d asked the question aloud.

But of course she hadn’t. Making an effort to pull herself together, Elizabeth went back to the real issue. ‘I’m quite sure you could find a hotel. There are several not too far away.’

‘I’m quite sure you’re right,’ he agreed easily. ‘But, taking everything into consideration, I’d rather stay here.’

She found herself begging. ‘No… Please…’

‘What are you so scared of? Don’t you trust me not to wander in the night?’

It wasn’t that. By his own admission he was married, and she was oddly convinced that he was a man who wouldn’t cheat on his wife.

As she began to shake her head, he went on, ‘If that’s it, I promise I won’t move off the couch.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

A gleam in his eye, he suggested, ‘You’re scared that with such a build-up of frustration you’ll wander?’

‘Nothing of the kind!’

‘Then why are you so against me staying until morning?’

She wanted him to go now. At once. Wanted never to have to see him again. The thought of him being here under her roof until morning was unendurable.

Hoarsely, she said, ‘Richard would be furious if he found out.’

‘Then we won’t tell him. Now, if you could just rustle up a spare pillow and a blanket, I’ll fetch my things in.’

Shrugging into his jacket, he went out to the car, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Feeling sick and helpless, she stood rooted to the spot, watching swirls of fog drifting into the room and disappearing like wraiths in the warmer air.

A moment or two later she heard the boot lid being closed. Only then, as though some part of her mind had just kicked in, she hurried to the door and slammed it shut. If he couldn’t see to drive, he could walk to the nearest hotel.

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