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And she knew for a fact that his lunch companion—very close companion—was the former Chloe Abbot whose married name was Cole. Hadn’t she seen the shiny gold wedding band with her own eyes?
He was devious and tricky, a smooth charmer. Right now he seemed to be charming someone who looked like the hotel manager—a very deferential hotel manager. And now a porter had taken their ill-assorted luggage. A recent school-leaver, she guessed, looking very proud of his smart uniform. And she was with Jethro, mounting the sweeping staircase towards the dreaded bridal suite.
She was only going along because she had to get at the truth, had to tell him that she wasn’t some empty-headed bimbo who would swallow a lorry-load of lies provided they led to a night of out-of-this-world sex!
Nothing to do with wanting to believe him when he’d said she was the only wife he had, the only wife he wanted.
The suite was fabulous. Even her tired brain was able to register that. Sitting room, bathroom, bedroom. Furnished in the period, softly lit, with lush carpets and the decor subtly blending tones of old rose, soft sage-green and cream. Fresh roses perfumed the air and champagne was on ice.
At the sight of such opulence, the decadence of the huge four-poster bed, she crossed the room and closed the bedroom door firmly, hating the way her face seemed to be burning. Jethro was pressing something into the young porter’s hand.
‘We’re later than I anticipated, have more to talk about, too. So we’ll eat here. I’ve already ordered for us both.’ He shrugged out of his jacket, removed his black tie, saw the way she narrowed her eyes at him and assured her, ‘I can pay the bill. You won’t have to spend the next two months of your life washing dishes.’
The fine white cotton of his shirt clung to his upper body; she could see the faint shadow of dark body hair, almost feel its crispness beneath the tips of her fingers. She swallowed hard. How could someone who was so bad look so mouthwateringly good?
Remembering just why she was here with him, she ground out impatiently, ‘I don’t give a damn how you spend the money you earned from me. Fancy hotel room, expensive suits and a hired Rolls don’t impress me. What would impress me is the truth—why you lied about not being romantically involved with your friend’s sister, why she’s changed her name to Cole, why she’s wearing a wedding ring, why you were smooching over lunch. I’m not interested in the rest of the garbage,’ she flung at him. ‘The house in Mayfair, the fancy car kept to impress visitors, the personal secretary—or whatever it was you said he was!’
She was pacing the floor, didn’t realise she was doing it until he took her by the shoulders and turned her gently round to face him.
‘Sweetheart, why don’t you sit down? If you’ll listen I can explain everything.’ His fingers grazed her naked shoulders, and of its own accord her body began to sway into his.
So sitting down seemed like a great idea. She felt the edge of a chair at the back of her knees and sank into it, closing her eyes briefly as physical and mental exhaustion washed over her in a huge black wave. And when she forced them open again he was holding a slip of paper in his hand.
‘Recognise this?’
It was the cheque she had given him shortly after their marriage. She watched him slowly tear it into tiny pieces, her fingers flying to her temples.
‘I don’t understand!’ Not this, not anything. Offering him that money had been the only way she could persuade him to marry her.
‘Of course you don’t. How could you? But you will; I promise,’
His promises weren’t worth the air he uttered them with, and she wasn’t prepared to sit and listen to whatever make-believe he decided to tell her.
She jumped to her feet, eyes wildly scanning the room for where her purse had landed up. ‘I’m out of here! If you won’t call me a taxi I’ll do it myself from Reception. I don’t want to be here. I don’t know you!’
He was quicker than she was. He reached her long before she got to the door, pinioning her arms at her sides, his eyes insistent as they held her own. ‘You know everything about me.’ He saw panic flare briefly in her lovely eyes, followed by the sheen of tears. Her soft lips were trembling. She was almost at the end of her tether.
Pulling in a ragged breath, he said gently, ‘Think back, Allie. At the cottage, I told you everything about the owner. Everything I said was true, except his identity. I got his Christian names mixed up, and when you wanted to know his surname I gave the name of my PA because I knew I wouldn’t forget that. I was telling you about myself, my darling. Chloe is my sister—half-sister, to be precise. And of course I love her—we’ve come through some sad, bad times together.’
Hardly daring to breathe, he carefully folded his arms around her. It was like holding a ticking time bomb. She was so wired up she could explode at any moment, or she could swing the other way, settle down and listen. At least she wasn’t struggling in his arms, demanding to get away from here. But she wasn’t relaxing, either.
He felt a tiny tremor ripple through her body, felt the loosening of tension in her muscles just as someone knocked on the door. Turning, he swore under his breath, saw the trolley, the white-coated waiter, and snapped, ‘Not now, Mike! Bin it, and bring the order back, fresh, a bit later on. Better still, phone through first!’
‘That wasn’t very polite,’ Allie said stiffly as the door closed behind the trolley. And she pushed herself away from him. What had she been thinking of, letting him hold her when she knew very well how being close to him made her forget everything else?
‘I wasn’t feeling polite. As majority shareholder in this establishment I guess I’m entitled, for once in my life, to throw my weight around. I’ll apologise later—fulsomely. OK?’ He smiled at her, saw the way her face tightened before she turned her back on him, and said heavily, ‘I’m not shooting a line, Allie. Everything I say to you is the truth.’
She gritted her teeth to stop herself from having hysterics. Did he know what the truth was? Could she believe anything he told her? Did it all come down, in the end, to trust?
And please, God, she prayed fervently, don’t let him smile at me again. Don’t let him touch me because my brain cells all close down when he does!
But nobody was listening to her, because he came to stand behind her. Her hair had started to tumble down and he moved his fingers through it, releasing the pins, letting it fall down her back.
‘Try to relax,’ he said, and began to massage her shoulders, her neck, loosening the kinks in her taut muscles, moving the narrow sequinned straps out of the way. And Allie, betrayed by the sheer magic of his touch, by what it did to her, felt her whole body blossom for him and burst into noisy sobs.
Smothering a groan, he lifted her in his arms and carried her, clinging to him, sobbing wretchedly, to the bedroom, eased her hands from their stranglehold around his neck and laid her on the bed.
He wanted to join her, to hold her close, but he slipped the shoes off her narrow feet instead, then knelt at her side, holding her hands until her sobs became sniffles, and then he reached a tissue from the box on the bedside table and handed it to her.
