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Far from consulting Jude, she had said nothing about the conclusions she'd formed after days and days of concentrated work. True, he had asked her to let him know her findings, so that they could discuss them, and that was because he had a vested interest now. But the salvation of Slade Securities while it was still salvageable was her baby. She owed it to Uncle John. The fact that Jude now had thirty per cent of the voting stock was neither here nor there. She wasn't doing it for him. How. could she willingly do anything for him when he persisted in treating her like dirt?
'Cleo?' A hand touched her shoulder and she twisted round, her racing heart a testimony to how edgy she had become over the past ten days, quieting down to normal as she encountered Dawn's puzzled eyes.
'I thought it was you,' Jude's secretary explained. 'Though I couldn't be absolutely sure. You look awful. Lost weight, haven't you?' On that unflattering note Dawn prepared for a natter session, oblivious to the grim-faced throngs pushing past in their rush to squeeze on to homebound trains.
'I've been working flat out.' Cleo put on a brightish smile and lifted one shoulder in a gesture she hoped denoted unconcern. 'You know how it is—too busy to eat properly. Anyway,' she turned the subject quickly, 'how's Sheila settling down in my old job?' Dawn was far from a fool and Cleo didn't want anyone to guess that everything had turned sour between Jude and herself.
Dawn pulled a face. 'So-so. I couldn't stand her at first. She's capable enough but hell—those damned airs and graces. She acted as if she expected me to drop a curtsey every time she walked by.' She grinned suddenly, wryly. 'But we started to gel after that husband of yours reduced her to tears yesterday. I knew exactly how she felt! It's a pity you ever left. You were the only one who could handle him, make him remotely human. He's been worse than ever this last week or so. A real s.o.b., if you don't mind my saying so! And if he doesn't change his tune I, for one, am definitely looking for another job.'
Then a doubtful look flickered over her middle-aged face, as if she was afraid she'd said too much. 'I still think of you more as being his PA than as his wife. So excuse my big mouth, but you might do some good if you dropped a word in his ear.'
'I'll see what I can do,' Cleo said. Dawn had her sympathy, but she knew Jude would not listen to what she had to say on that, or any other subject. He would be more likely to walk naked through 'he centre of London in the rush-hour! And that made her recall the time when he would have made a point of listening to anything she had to say because in those days he had respected her viewpoint, her intelligence. There was nothing he respected about her now. She didn't even respect herself. And the knowledge hurt, filled her chest with pain. Quickly, before Dawn could guess her misery, she excused, 'I have to go, Dawn. Sorry to rush off, but I'm late as it is. And keep your chin up—try to remember, his bark's worse than his bite. And stand up to him if you think he's out of line.'
Not very helpful advice, she guessed, as Dawn's shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug beneath her sedate dark green coat. Cleo didn't want Jude's staff deserting him. She cared about him, still loved him, despite the way he'd been treating her, despite knowing, now, that he would never return her love.
Fenton, and Jude's reaction to the situation—as he stubbornly perceived it—had killed whatever chance their marriage might once have had. And as for that louse, Fenton, there hadn't been a peep out of him since Jude had ordered him out of the house in Bow. Maybe Jude's ferocity had made him think twice about carrying out his threats.
* * *
Her feet dragged as she emerged from the tube station at Knightsbridge. It was raining now, the heavy drizzle wetting her charcoal silk suit. It hung on her body where once—before her ill-fated marriage to Jude—it had clung lovingly. Reluctant to return to the cold comfort of the luxurious Regency house in Belgravia, she lingered in the almost deserted streets, growing colder, wetter, until an opulent saloon swept by, spraying her with muddy rainwater before purring on, its tail-lights glittering in the murk, her existence of no more importance than that of a fallen leaf.
Wiping ineffectually at the mud stains that had probably ruined the suit for ever, the first stirrings of rebellion stirred to life. She was sick to death of being made to feel that her existence was of no importance whatever. Her cousin hated her for some warped reason of his own and her husband didn't give a damn so long as she was an available body in his bed. A body he could use and punish.
She wasn't going to stand for it any longer!
She doubled her pace, her high heels beating a determined tattoo on the wet pavements, her shoulders straight. She still loved Jude but she wasn't going to allow him to make her feel defeated, shabby, worthless. Nor would she allow him to use her body to wreak his own savage brand of vengeance. He gave her no quarter. He made love to her with an eroticism that shamed her when, -in the clear light of morning, she recalled the depths of response he was so easily able to draw from her. Somehow, she was going to regain her self-respect!
His lovemaking was a bitter travesty of what they had shared earlier on in their marriage. Erotic it might be, but it was also a method of marking her as his pos-session, murdering her pride, making her hate herself for her uninhibited and ungovernable response.
Not any more, though. If there were to be any hope for the future of their marriage at all then it would have to be in name only until their differences were resolved—if they ever could be. She would use the guestroom, or move out altogether, and to hell with his objections, because the sort of marriage they had at this moment wasn't worth a damn.
Despite the now drenching rain, her neat pointed chin was set at a grimly determined angle as she ran up the four shallow steps that led to the front door and hunted through her handbag for her key. But the door swung open before her chilled fingers had located the key and Jude snapped, 'Where the hell have you been?'
A frisson of distaste snaked through her and her mouth compressed to a tight line as she pushed past him into the hall. Let him rage if he wanted—she was about to show him she had a mind of her own and would not be treated like worthless garbage!
The old Cleo was back, her fighting spirit stronger than ever after its absence during the last ten days.
'To discuss the future of Slade Securities with Luke,' she answered him tartly, then swung past him. 'Excuse me, I have to get out of these wet things.'
But he caught her, pulling her round, and there was nothing gentle about his grip as hard fingers bit into the fragile bones of her shoulders.
'Luke?' he queried nastily, his eyes narrow azure slits. 'Or was it Fenton?'
Cleo drew in a tired breath, striving to hold on to her new determination to hold her own. 'Luke,' she emphasised stonily, shuddering inside as his fingers bit more deeply. 'And if you don't believe me--'
'Why should I believe anything you say--' he interrupted cuttingly, 'when I walked in on a truth that turned everything you'd ever said or done into a living lie! And if; as you say, you were having a meeting with Luke, why didn't you ask Thornwood to fetch you? Why. choose to struggle home through the rain?' He released her, as if he couldn't bear to be this close, his mouth twisting with distance as he told her, 'You didn't ask for Thornwood because you didn't want him knowing where you'd spent the afternoon, he might have let something slip. So you thought it more prudent to make your own way home, regardless of what I might think when you tried to sneak in, looking like a drowned rat! Or were you counting on getting home before me?'
'Get lost!' The words were low and furious. 'You've got a sick mind.' She pushed the sodden briefcase at him. 'You'll find all my conclusions here.
Luke approved them, but only because he was convinced everything he read was your idea!' she snapped bitterly, stalking away from him and stamping up the stairs.
Her anger
was burned out by the time she emerged from the shower and wrapped herself in a giant blue towel. She might have expected his odious suspicions. He was paranoid where she was concerned. Nothing would convince him that she and Fenton weren't lovers. It was like a worm, eating into his soul, changing him into a man she didn't know.
Morosely, she rubbed herself dry and padded to the hanging cupboard to find something to wear. Something restrained, dignified. Because, over dinner, she was going to deliver her ultimatum. He must leave her alone, physically, allow her to use the guest-room—or to move out—until he was ready to listen to her explanation of her relationship with Robert Fenton.
And then, if necessary, if he still couldn't trust her word, he could check with Luke. Luke knew Fenton had been trying to blackmail her.
