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She had learned the trick of unemotionalism in a hard school. She met the vivid azure of his eyes, the small, courteously pleasant smile as he acknowledged her brief greeting. And before he could launch into plans for the day's work, or return his attention to the papers he had already extricated from the black leather briefcase, Cleo dragged a quick breath in through her nostrils and asked, 'Mr Mescal—will you marry me?'
CHAPTER TWO
FOR an agonisingly drawn-out moment Cleo thought he was going to refuse her without giving the matter any consideration at all. His body grew still, very still, before a ghost of a smile flickered briefly around the hard male mouth and was then erased, as if it had never been, as if she had dreamed it.
And then, as he still remained silent, her spine stiffened with impatience beneath the smooth, expensive fabric of her suit. Was he going to say nothing, nothing at all? What if he, like the gentleman he was, ignored her question? What if he treated her startling proposal of marriage as a regrettable mental aberration on her part, deeming it kinder, more polite, to pretend the words had never been said?
Well, in that case, she would just have to repeat her offer, she decided with grim stoicism. Against all her expectations she felt perspiration slick the palms of her hands and, slowly, she ran the tip of her tongue over lips gone suddenly dry. At that, as if her physical unease had recalled him, made some impact on his mind, he gestured her to a chair with an almost imperceptible movement of his hand. And Cleo sat, glad to, because for some reason her knees felt as if they were about to give way.
Silently, her eyes too big for her face, she willed him to answer, to say he'd give it some thought, at least. His agreement was the only solution she could see to a grotesque problem, and she needed it. For her uncle's sake she needed it.
But now, without knowing how or why it should have crept in, there was an indefinable something going on inside her head that warned her that his acquiescence was important on an entirely different plane. Whatever it was, she couldn't understand it, although she felt she should, and, whatever it was, it made her feel lightheaded, breathless.
'And?' he said at last, his tone prompting, his eyes holding hers from beneath thick, dark lashes.
Thrown off balance by the softly put question, the probing she hadn't expected, not in that nebulous form, her smoky eyes widened again, filling her face, while a faint flush of colour stole into her pale skin. 'And?' she repeated, parrot-fashion, her mouth dry.
'And why the unexpected interest?' Jude supplied. 'We've worked together for twelve months, very amicably, I do agree, but I've yet to see signs of a deathless passion from you. Neither,' his voice continued, polite in inflexion, perfectly level, 'do you strike me as being the type of woman who would be desperate for the married status—at any price.'
He was wrong there, she was desperate, but not for the reasons he imagined.
Marriage, for the sake of it, had never appealed. She had learned how to be sufficient unto herself, not to need emotional props. But marriage to someone as undeniably suitable as Jude Mesgal would be in the eyes of her guardians was the only answer to her awful problem.
But now, at least, he was asking her to give logical answers to her own seemingly illogical question, and she could handle that. For a moment back there she had felt herself to be losing her grip on the tangible, admitting the intangible—that nebulous thread—into her mind so that a union with this man had, for a strange, disjointed moment, seemed important on an entirely unexpected level.
And that particular reaction, she told herself firmly, was due to the momentary panic of nerves. She hadn't expected to feel nervous—so nervous, at least.
She began to relax, feeling the tension drain out of the tautly held muscles of her back and neck. She was completely at home with the unequivocal logic of facts, and she was fully prepared to present him with those facts—as far as she deemed entirely necessary.
She clasped her hands loosely together in her lap and her eyes were cool and frank as she told him, 'Under the terms of my father's will I don't come into my inheritance for another year, and I need a rather large amount now.
However, if I marry before then, provided my uncle and aunt approve my choice, my father's money automatically passes to me. They would approve of you, and if we married within, say, three weeks, I could control my inheritance, use the money 1 need. It wouldn't be a great deal,' she assured him, in case he thought she would spend the lot and then expect him
to keep her in luxury. 'Not when seen in context. My future inheritance is popularly known as the Slade Millions.'
He dipped his head in brief acknowledgement of the facts that were, after all, common knowledge in City circles, and she knew the facts had been concisely put, the reason for her proposal made clear enough. She was devastated when he chuckled, a rare occurrence indeed for the Frozen Asset!
His incredible azure eyes were irradiated with amusement and Cleo, looking at him, felt her skin crawl with hot colour. To ask him to marry her had been humiliating enough in itself, without him adding to her discomfort by treating the whole thing as a joke!
'Wouldn't it have been simpler to arrange a loan?' The amusement lingered for a while, sparkling in his eyes, then faded, leaving his face as it ever was—remote, cool, intelligent. 'Embarking on the commitment of marriage seems rather drastic. Couldn't you approach the trustees of your late father's estate? Come to that,' his wide shoulders lifted fractionally, 'I could lend you what you need. Your credit rating is excellent,' he added drily.
He sat down then, taking his chair on the opposite side of the huge desk, his clever eyes narrowed over steepled fingers as he watched her. 'How much?
And what for?'
But Cleo shook her head decisively, the shimmering silver fall of her hair swinging across her face. 'I'd prefer not to borrow.' She didn't want anyone to know why she needed the money, and anyone prepared to lend that amount would certainly demand to know where the money was going! And her eyes met his in unconscious, mute appeal and he asked her softly, 'Are you in some kind of trouble?'
Again the sharp negating swing of her head; the mess she was in was of her own making, she would extricate herself from it in her own way, without involving anyone else in the sordid details. She had made a mistake, a bad one, when she had allowed herself to be infatuated by Robert Fenton's silver tongue, his easy charm. But she had learned her lesson and was about to pay dearly for it. And sitting here, mutely supplicant under the remote eyes of the man who was known never to suffer involvement—except with his work—suddenly became unbearable.
She should never have dreamed up the idea, and clearly she was getting nowhere. The slow burn of anger started inside her, making her hate herself for the foolishness that had brought her to this totally humiliating position, hate Robert Fenton for the slimy, blackmailing creep he was, hate Jude Mescal for taking her vulnerability and examining it like something curious on the end of a pin.
She started to scramble to her feet, wanting nothing more than to get away from those coolly analytical eyes, but his voice stopped her.
'I can gather, roughly, what you would stand to gain from marriage. But it involves two. So can you tell me what I would get out of a situation I've spent my adult life steering well clear of?'
The slightly sardonic lift of heavy black brows, the look of superiority and distance the gesture imparted to his unforgettably strong features boosted the slow fuse of her anger, creating an explosion that erupted in scalding words.
'Rumour has it that you've never committed yourself to a woman because you're afraid of tying yourself to a gold-digger,' she snapped insultingly. 'If you married me you'd know I hadn't married you for your money. I've more than enough of my own—or will have! And I inherit a sizeable block of Slade Securities shares, which I could be persuaded to turn over to you—and I'd have thought that might interest you more than somewhat! And if that isn't enough--'
