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He heard her rapid footsteps, turned, his eyes puzzled and she told him breathily, 'You can't leave it at that.'
'No?' Whether he deliberately misunderstood her, she couldn't tell, but he went on, 'Don't worry. According to the estate agent, the house is solid. But we'll get surveyors' reports in any case. And as the garden itself is immaterial to me, I'll wait here.' He sank down on the stone seat, his eyes closed wearily—or dismissively—and she snapped,
'I wasn't talking about the house, dammit!'
His eyes flicked open, azure slits. 'If you've got something to say, say it.' He sounded bored and she couldn't understand him, not at all.
'It's about the divorce.' She sat beside him, her heart pattering. She knew she shouldn't hope, but she really, couldn't help it. Telling herself that he plainly regarded her as a boring encumbrance, to be offloaded as soon as possible, didn't stop her remembering how he'd said he cared what happened to her and her child.
'It will take time, Cleo, but I'll put the wheels in motion tomorrow.' He spoke gently, as if to an impatient child, and she shook her head abruptly, sending her hair flying about her face. He was obviously determined to misconstrue everything she said!
'I meant,' she began with gritty patience, 'that there doesn't need to be one, surely?'
'What are you? A masochist?' He jerked up from the seat, his body tense with an inner violence she couldn't understand. The line of his mouth was savage. 'It's the only course that makes any sense. When Fiona told me how Fenton had been trying to blackmail you—told me what had really happened--' He smacked one fist into the open palm of the other hand. 'My God! If I see him again, I'll kill him!'
'Fiona told you?' Cleo's mouth was dry. She had thought she could trust Fiona, but the broken promise didn't really signify, not now. She had idiotically believed he'd decided to trust her all on his own, because he cared about her.
'Fiona promised--' she began woodenly, her voice trailing away, and he looked at her, almost sympathetically.
'I know. And yes, she told me. But you obviously don't know her well enough. She always makes her own mind up, and would break a promise with about as much compunction as she would break an egg if she believed good would come of it. You told Fiona what had really been going on between you and Fenton—why didn't you tell me?'
'Oh, God!' Cleo buried her head in her hands, almost laughing but nearer to tears at the injustice of his remark. 'Because you damn well wouldn't listen!'
She shot him an angry look. 'Fenton was doing his best to rape me when you walked in that day. And all you could do was jump to nasty, insulting conclusions!'
'I'm sorry!' he groaned, dropping to the seat beside her again, and Cleo, flicking him a sideways look, saw that his hands were shaking. But the spasm was over in a second and he was back in control again, leaning forward, his hands dangling between his knees, loosely held and almost relaxed.
'As I said before, any apologies of mine have to be inadequate and the only thing I can do—after making life intolerable for you—is agree to your request for a divorce.'
She stared at him, wanting to shake him. Of course she had asked for a divorce, but that had been in the heat of the moment, in desperation! Didn't the brute know divorce was the last thing she really wanted? She loved him, she carried his child, he was her husband, for pity's sake! But could she tell him all this, would her pride let her? And could they ever be happy together again? Could they make the marriage work?
She didn't know, but she was willing to try because, somehow, pride didn't come into it any more. And she was turning words over in her mind when he said coolly, 'I shall want access to the child, of course, on a regular basis.
You won't make any difficulties over that?'
And then she knew, and the knowledge chilled her, and it was her turn to jerk to her feet,
'Of course I won't.' She pulled herself to her full graceful height, her face ashen. 'Now you have everything you wanted, don't you? A child as an heir, the shares—so what would you want with a wife?'
She twisted on the heels of her strappy sandals and marched away, her back rigidly straight, her emotions heaving. 'I'm going to look over the grounds,'
she spat over her shoulder. 'While you sit there and count your blessings!'
She could see it all now. Every last thing had become hideously clear. He had already been thinking of children when she had made that reckless proposal. Not because he particularly liked children, but because he needed an heir. And along she had come—presentable, intelligent, and wealthy in her own right, dangling the Slade shares as bait!
Those shares had been the deciding factor, and now he had them, and he would have the heir he'd wanted— so what possible use could he have for a wife?
Tears were streaming down her cheeks, blinding her, and she stumbled through a thicket of shrubs, not knowing or caring what she was doing, and she heard him call her name.
He was close behind and there was nowhere to go, and she hated herself for the weakness of tears because now he would know.
'Cleo.' A hand held her, another pulled at branches as he extricated her, and then both hands cupped her face, tilting it, the pads of his thumbs wiping the shaming tears. 'Does it matter to you so much?'
'What?' Her mouth was mutinous. Two could play the game of deliberate misunderstandings.
'The divorce. It's what you wanted, after all. And I owe that to you, at least.'
Angrily, she jerked her head from his hands, her eyes flickering, looking for escape. But there was nowhere to go; he was blocking the only way out of the tangle of bushes she'd landed herself in.
