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'Such a beautiful wife, too,' Sir Geoffrey chimed in gallantly, and Cleo felt her face burn with rage because domesticated she was not, and Jude knew it, and his reference to 'comfort' had an entirely different connotation.
Hoping the Blairs would attribute her fiery colour to new-bride embarrassment over Jude's seeming compliment, she plastered a smile on her face.
'I'll ask Meg for the recipe, of course. Now, shall we have coffee in the drawing-room, Hilda? Leave the men to what will probably be interminable business talk.'
Thankfully, Hilda was a talkative lady and Cleo only needed to make smiling responses now and again, so she should have been able to relax, but she didn't. Sooner or later their guests would leave. And then what? Would Jude walk away from her with icy contempt, or would he make good his threat to make love to her until she couldn't even think? Both options made her feel physically ill. She didn't want to be alone with him.
Almost hysterically, she wondered what Sir Geoffrey and his wife would say if she begged them to stay for the night—for the rest of the week, for the rest of the month!
Curbing the impulse to stride around the room, pulling, her hair out by the handful, she injected what she prayed were the right noises into Hilda's non-stop chatter and almost leapt out of her skin when the door opened and Jude brought Sir Geoffrey through.
The tubby little man looked pleased with life, rubbing his hands together, his smile effusive, and from that, and Jude's look of grim satisfaction, Cleo deduced that Jude had won the Blair and Dowd account, which was what he'd been angling for.
It wasn't long before their guests left and the house was silent, the only sound Cleo was aware of was her own shallow breathing. And she scrambled to her feet as Jude came back into the drawing-room, closing the door behind him, leaning against it as he untied his tie, his eyes never leaving her face.
'How much have you been able to gather from the Slade Securities books? I take it you made a start on them while I was away?'
About to tell him she was on her way to bed—the frosty words on the edge of her tongue—she stared right back at him, her heart jerking. Did he have to be so cold, so unforgiving? Not that there was actually anything to forgive, but he wouldn't believe that in a million years.
If only, a desperate little voice in her mind nudged, if only they could start conversing normally again, together about something in which they shared a common interest, then maybe she could find a way through to him and force him to accept he'd been wrong about her.
'As far as I've been able to tell, it's looking pretty groggy.'
She forced a level tone, forced herself to return to a chair. She had to stay calm. This wasn't personal, this was business, and they were perfectly attuned on that level, she had to remember that. But could she hold her own, given the churning state of her emotions? She doubted even that when he shot, smooth as ice, 'And?'
Her eyes clouded, and her hands felt clammy. He clearly expected her to have some idea of how to remedy the situation, and he was short on patience. But she hadn't been able to bring her usual concentration to the project—how could she, when her equilibrium had been shattered by what had happened? Not to mention her worries about what Robert Fenton might decide to do next!
'I'm waiting to hear your conclusions.' He had removed his tie now, his jacket, and the whiteness of his shirt contrasted starkly with the depth of his tan, his crisp, dark hair, the close-fitting black trousers that skimmed long, lean legs. He was standing, a brandy- glass in his hand, but although he was still there was a restlessness in him she could feel, an intimation of tension in the way he held his head.
'I honestly don't know.' She was on the defensive now. 'I haven't begun to form any conclusions. I've had too much on my mind,' she qualified with a bitterness she couldn't hide.
'Like Fenton?' he came back immediately, his mouth tightening, and Cleo felt drained and hopeless, her face paper-white. What was the use? What
was the use?
'No, not Fenton,' she told him wearily, and felt her head begin to ache. It wasn't the strict truth, of course. Fenton had been on her mind, but not for the reasons Jude persisted in believing.
And her depression deepened when he stated flatly, 'I don't believe you. But you're going to have to root him out of your mind and start concentrating on how to pull Slade Securities out of the mire. After all,' he slammed his empty glass down on the drinks table, making her flinch with the leashed violence of the action, 'I've a sizeable interest in the company now—you signed your shares over to me as a payment for the right to
get your hands on enough ready cash to satisfy your lover, remember? So when you've come up with a few ideas, let me know, and we'll discuss them.' He picked up his suit jacket and hooked it over his shoulder. 'I'm going to bed now, and I suggest you do, too.' He paused at the door, his voice cutting, 'I don't need to remind you that those shares were only a down payment for my services as your husband.
And I intend to extract what's owing. With interest.'
He closed the door quietly behind him and she stared at its blank surface mutinously. There was no way she was going to climb into the huge bed they had shared since returning from their honeymoon. No way on God's sweet earth! Tight with rage, she paced the room, pouring herself a generous dose of brandy and swallowing it recklessly.
She was seeing a side of him she hadn't known existed. She had always admired his objectivity, his ability to see all sides of a given situation, a given problem, his careful weighing of every angle. But in this situation he was seeing only the side he wanted to see, refusing to admit there could be another. And that wasn't like the man she had come to know, like and respect. He was acting out of character, being deliberately cruel, and his treatment of her was an insult.
Every time he killed her attempts to tell him the truth he insulted her. And if he thought she was going to sharehis bed then he had to be out of his mind!
And if she had any sense at all she would walk out on him now and never come back. And he could whistle for what he thought she owed him!
But walking out would point to her . guilt—in his jaundiced eyes, it would!
He would believe she had gone to Fenton. And besides, she admitted drearily, she still loved him, believed, crazily, that there was still a chance for them. Somewhere.
But tonight she wouldn't sleep with him.
There was a slip of a dressing-room adjoining the master bedroom and it contained a narrow bed. Jude had used it for the first two nights after their wedding because she had stipulated they wouldn't sleep together for the first two weeks of their marriage.
