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ong reasons. 'Yes, yes, I damn well have. . .' She swore furiously.
'It won't happen again, I promise.' He held her gaze, his features taut. 'I—I lost control.'
'You don't see it, do you?' Shaking her head, she stared at him. 'I couldn't give a damn about your control or lack of it.'
'What? Then why?' He contemplated her from beneath half-lowered lids as though her anger were some strange phenomenon.
She drained her cup and stood up. Last night she had not had the nerve to ask about his final betrayal—had not wanted it confirmed—but twenty-four hours and a lot of heart-searching later she had no such qualms.
'Where were you the night before our wedding?' she demanded, and, glancing down, saw the guilty colour rise in his face.
'Janet, was it?' he asked, his mouth turning down. 'I might have guessed.'
'You have not answered the question,' she prompted icily. 'But your face says it all. You spent the night inher apartment until she threw you out at two in the morning.'
'It was not like that,' he said savagely. 'Nothing happened.' He leapt to his feet and, walking around the table, caught her arm as she would have walked out of the door. 'I can explain.' He spun her round to face him. 'If you would just give me the chance.'
Zoe watched him; he looked oddly vulnerable, still wearing the three-piece suit he had worn for the office, but his tie was loose and his hair rumpled. 'Go ahead; it should be interesting,' she sneered.
'I was at Janet's apartment on the eve of our wedding, but you have to understand that I hadn't seen the woman for over six months. She had been on a case in Hong Kong. She returned to England that day and called me. She had heard I was marrying you, and was upset.'
His dark eyes burned down into hers, a rare anxiety in their depths. 'God knows why. I hadn't slept with the woman in over a year. She was a friend, nothing more. I wouldn't have asked you to marry me otherwise, Zoe. Unfortunately Janet seemed to think differently and proceeded to get blind drunk, maudlin and suicidal in that order. I had a terrible time getting away from her.'
She didn't believe him for one second. Justin was a formidable, mature male by any standards; if he wanted to get rid of someone he could with one cutting phrase. He was renowned for it. Never mind about all the rest— his conniving with her uncle, his lack of desire for her when apparently he was a sex maniac with other women. He must think she was a complete fool.
But the worst part was that, deep inside, she wanted to believe him, to swallow her pride and forgive him. She opened her mouth, about to tell him so, when the telephone rang.
'Oh, hell!' Justin swore violently and, letting go of her arm, marched across the kitchen to the wall-mounted telephone and picked up the receiver.
'Yes, Gifford here,' he barked.
But Zoe was glad of the distraction. Without him holding her and the mesmerizing quality of his dark gaze muddling her mind she knew what she had to do. Get away. . . She turned towards the door.
'Zoe.' He called her name. She glanced back over her shoulder: one of his hands was stretched out to her, the other over the mouthpiece. 'Come here.'
Why not? It would be the last time, she told herself, and crossed to his side. He curved his long arm around her waist and hauled her in tight to his body. 'I have to drive back to London. A client has got in a bit of a bind.' He said urgently, 'I'll probably be back very late. I won't disturb you. But we will continue this discussion over breakfast, yes?' His mouth curved into a wary smile. 'Please?'
'Yes,' she affirmed. 'About nine, in the conservatory; the weather forecast is good for tomorrow.' And she would be long gone. . .
'Fine.' He gave her a relieved look and, bending, pressed a swift, hard kiss on her lips.
She responded—she could not help herself—but she laughed without amusement as she walked upstairs. How could she sink so low? Discuss the weather with an Englishman and he was instantly reassured of one's reliability, she thought wryly, completely ignoring the fact that neither Justin nor she was totally English.
CHAPTER FIVE
The VIP lounge for the Concorde flight to New York was filling up slowly. Zoe sat in a comfortable, soft-cushioned sofa, her head back and her eyes closed. She had done it; she had left her husband.
It had been ridiculously easy. With her bags already packed, she had simply crept out of the house at the crack of dawn, and free-wheeled her car down the drive so that the noise would not wake Justin.
She had known he was asleep because she had lain awake all night and heard him come home well after three in the morning. She had listened to him enter her room and feigned sleep when he'd stood over her and whispered her name. Much later she had stealthily crossed to his room, and heard the deep, even tenor of his breathing, before slipping quietly away.
'Zoe. What are you doing here?'
The sound of a familiar voice startled her, and her eyes flew open to rest on the rangy figure of the tall Texan as he strolled across the lounge towards her. 'Same as you—catching a plane, I hope.' Her attempt at humour was pathetic, and her smile wobbled dangerous. 'I—I got away earlier than expected,' she added hesitantly.
'And does your husband know?' Wayne asked quietly, sympathy softening his hard face as he lowered his considerable length on to the sofa beside her.
She shook her head, moisture flooding her lovely eyes, too choked to speak.
