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He tipped the contents of the package on the sofa, swinging his legs to the floor, his eyes furious. 'I reckon' you owe me this! You can't actually imagine I enjoyed sucking up to you, listening to you boring on about your wretched exam results and then your precious career? So, having said that, and put the record straight,' his voice changed, was smooth as oil, 'you don't mind if I count this, I hope. Not being trustworthy myself, I don't trust anyone else. Not even a self-righteous prude like you.'
So she gritted her teeth, not bothering to tell him to be quick about it, because even saying that would waste precious seconds and she wanted him out of here. He tainted the air. And when he had finished he stood up, looking down at the piles of notes—tens and twenties— spread out on the almond-green fabric.
'I should have asked for double,' he said.
'Just take it and go,' she gritted, controlling her voice with difficulty because she felt like screaming.
He raised his head then, tearing his eyes from the small fortune spread out in front of him, and he looked at her, at the taut whiplash lines of her body, and his eyes held something unspeakable.
'You always were a frigid bitch,' he mouthed slowly, and then advanced, putting himself between her and the door. 'But you're a married bitch now, and maybe Mescal's taught you what it's all about.'
He began to circle her and she sidestepped, her heart beginning to race, and she realised when it was too late to do anything about it that he had manoeuvred her into a corner.
'Don't come near me!' Her eyes glittered with a mixture of rage and fear, and he said thickly, 'Why not? I'll show you what you missed that night in Goldingstan.'
He made a single swift movement, lunging for her, but she twisted out of his reach, his hands finding nothing more substantial than the cloth of her shirt, and the buttons ripped as she jerked frenziedly away, the fabric parting to reveal the rounded globes of her breasts, barely covered by the midnight-blue lace of her scantily cut bra.
There was no time to think about making herself decent again, she had to get out of here because Fenton was serious, deadly serious, his hot eyes on her exposed skin. She made a desperate attempt to reach the door, but he was quick—and fitter than he deserved to be, considering his life-style—and he caught her, bringing her down in a fair imitation of a rugby tackle, knocking the breath out of her lungs as his body fell on hers.
Cleo twisted and fought, but he caught her head between his hands, twisting until she thought her hair would come out by the roots, and she began to scream, but he silenced her with his savage mouth and blood thundered in her head, a pounding roar. But she heard, above it, a voice like perma-frost.
'Just what the hell is going on?'
And then there was silence, and stillness, like the eye of a storm. Fenton's body went rigid on top of hers, and the taste of fear was on his lips which were still clamped over her mouth.
Then all was violence, movement and noise as Fenton's body was dragged from her, the sound of ripping fabric, the tearing of brown silk as Jude hauled him to his feet, flinging him against the wall.
Cleo opened her eyes, relief at Jude's timely arrival warring with panic as his glittering eyes swept over her sprawled body, her near-naked breasts, her wildly tangled hair. And his eyes held murder, dark, icy murder.
She tried to tell him it wasn't what it seemed, that she. had not been a willing partner in that torrid embrace, that he had saved her from possible rape, but the sounds she made were thickly incoherent and he turned from her as though she sickened him and she saw the lean, strong hands curl into fists as he swung round to tell Fenton, 'Get out before I tear you apart.'
Fenton hauled himself together as Cleo scrambled to her feet, tugging the two halves of her ripped shirt together, her breath coming raggedly. The younger man wasn't leaving without taking what he had come for, but Cleo saw how his hands shook as he tucked his shirt back into his tight leather trousers.
Jude's face was set, the darkly tanned skin pulled tight over jutting bones, danger explicit in every line of his athletically powerful body, so Cleo had to give Fenton a grudging ten marks for courage as he sauntered over to the sofa and began to pick up the piles of notes.
'On my way, mate,' he drawled. 'But I can't leave without taking my little gift, can I? Might hurt the lady's feelings.'
'Did you give him that?' Jude's eyes flicked coldly to her then back to Fenton, and the harsh, incisive tone made her blood run cold.
'Yes.' There was no point in lying, no point at all, and she felt giddy, the room swaying, and she wished she could faint because she'd rather be unconscious, in a coma, than have to try to explain all this away.
She closed her eyes briefly, fighting rising nausea, and she didn't see what happened next but she heard Jude's voice, dark and deadly, 'Get out. Now, before I plasterthe wall with you.' And no one who wasn't a suicidal idiot would ignore that kind of menace, because it filled the small room, turning the air sharp with violence, and she dragged her eyes open to see Fenton scurrying out.
He had left the money behind, and Jude grated, 'Pick it up.'
He looked as if he hated her, as if the very sight of her disgusted him, and she stared at him with huge grey frightened eyes, her body shaking, perspiring—
although she felt very cold.
The evidence he had walked in on was damning in itself; the money she'd admitted she'd given Robert Fenton made everything worse. She was going to have to tell him the truth about the way she'd been blackmailed, explain that she'd rather part with a slice of her inheritance than bring shame and embarrassment—and possibly something much worse—on to the sick old man who had been the only person she had ever received anything remotely like affection from during the past ten years.
Agitation made her voice shake as she took a tentative step towards him, her hands outspread in involuntary supplication.
'Jude—let me explain.'
'Just do as I said,' his voice lashed her. 'Pick that stuff up. And don't say anything, not a word, otherwise I might forget you're a female.'
He wouldn't listen, not now, not in this mood. She dragged herself to the sofa and dropped to her knees, her fingers shaking as she began to push the piled notes together in a bunch. He didn't consider that anything she could say could explain or justify the situation he had walked in on. He couldn't trust her. But then, he didn't love her, so why should he?
