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'A novel experience for you, I'm sure,' he said mockingly. 'But you don't think he will find it a little… farfetched? You accept a lift from a man you used to know—years ago,' he emphasised with a bitter twist to his lips, 'and then, instead of appearing bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as arranged, you are hours late. And the reason? You went to dinner with friends?' He shook his head slowly. 'Surely even this youthful-looking child will not accept such a story?' he asked with dark satisfaction.
'But it's true,' she protested angrily. 'You know it is.'
'I know it is. Idris and Fatima know it is.' The hard voice was merciless. 'But Keith will believe whatever I want him to believe. I met you by chance. I gave you a lift by chance. How could I have set up an evening such as you will describe?'
'Because… because your friend couldn't go with you to Idris's house, and you saw me and asked… ' Her voice trailed away as he shook his black head slowly, his profile without mercy.
'I came to Tangier alone,' he said softly, 'as the hotel will confirm: You have no proof that there is a friend.'
'But I saw you with people this lunchtime.' In spite of the dire situation she couldn't bring herself to mention the redhead specifically. 'You know you were with—with them.'
'Pure chance.' His smile was without humour. 'Prove otherwise.'
'But you told Idris and Fatima you were bringing someone,' she insisted desperately. 'You arranged it with them.'
'Yes, I did.' A brief pause and then, 'But you do not know their surname, where they live, their telephone number. You will not be able to substantiate your story to the anxious Keith.'
'I shan't need to give proof.' She raised her head proudly. 'Keith will believe me,' she declared firmly.
'A man in love is a jealous man, Annie,' he said coolly. 'And jealous men are not reasonable at the best of times. And this… this will not be the best of times. Keith imagines he loves you.'
'You would lie?' she asked dazedly. 'You'd really do that?'
'Without hesitation.' It was immediate and cold.
'But I've told you, he isn't my boyfriend.' She glared at the imperturbable profile, her eyes fiery. 'It's all in your imagination.'
'Then you have no cause to worry that pretty little head, have you?' he said urbanely. 'All, as they say, is well.'
But it wasn't A picture of Keith's face as it had been that lunchtime was suddenly there in front of her, and snippets of their conversation echoed in her mind. He had told her she wasn't over Hudson, at the same time as making it plain he cared about her. The way he had reacted to Hudson—his attitude towards her—it all confirmed her suspicions that Keith wanted more than just a working relationship.
'Don't ever try to play poker, Annie.' The voice was livid. 'And, as far as I'm concerned, I'm doing the guy a favour. At least he gets a warning, which is far more than I did.'
It's not like that' She had never wanted to hit someone so much in her life. I've told you, Keith and I are just friends.'
'Spare me.'
How could she hate someone, really hate them as she did Hudson at this minute, and yet love them so much it was a physical pain in her heart? Marianne asked herself bleakly as she settled back in her seat helplessly. And yet could she blame him for being like this? What would she have been like if the situation had been reversed and it had been Hudson who had walked out on her after that glorious two months they had shared? She would have wanted to kill him. It had been bad enough for her, knowing she had to go. But him…
She stared miserably through the dark windscreen as the car flashed swiftly through the black Moroccan night, her eyes blind.
She had been so happy when Hudson had asked her to marry him that night—ecstatic, wild with joy… She had known, from the first moment of meeting him, that there would never be anyone else for her, but that he'd felt the same had been too wonderful, too glorious to be true. He was an assured, astute man of the world, powerful, commanding, with a reputation that went before him to oil wheels and pave the way in a manner that had left her breathless. People held him in awe—not just for his wealth and formidable influence, but for the razor-sharp, ruthless intelligence that ravaged those foolish enough to try to deceive him.
He was incorruptible and totally honourable—and that in a profession known for its subtle, and at times doubtful, elucidation of the law. He had his own moral code and he stuck to it—whatever pressure was brought to bear by colleagues or criminals. And he had loved her. It had seemed like a fairy tale, a dream, when he could have had any woman he wanted just by lifting his little finger. Beautiful, sophisticated, experienced women who would know all there was to know about pleasing a man.
She had mentioned Hudson in her letters home to her mother in Scotland, unable to hide her happiness, but had been less than pleased when her mother and stepfather had popped up in France the day before Hudson had asked her to marry him. Not that she hadn't been pleased to see her mother, but her stepfather…
Michael Caxton, an American living and working in Scotland for a big American company, had married her mother after a whirlwind courtship eighteen months before when Marianne had been at university, and from the first moment of meeting him after the marriage she had disliked him. He'd been too handsome, too charming—too much of everything. But her mother had loved him, and, having struggled on her own for five years after the death of Mar
ianne's father, she had seized the chance of happiness with both hands.
So Marianne had kept her reservations to herself on her visits home, maintaining a surface civility whilst praying that her distrust and misgivings were unfounded. But they hadn't been, she reflected flatly.
Michael had still been up when she had got home on the night of Hudson's proposal—her mother, aunt and uncle having long since retired—and she had known somehow, as soon as she'd walked through the door, that his guise of being unable to sleep because of toothache was a lie. His eyes had been too sharp, too cunning.
'Nice evening?' It was deliberately casual.
'Yes, thank you.' She forced a smile whilst hoping she could escape with the minimum of conversation. He scared her.
