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As for the future—her mind cringed away from its contemplation.
At least she knew now, with total certainty, why he'd asked her to marry him in the first place. Not because he'd ever wanted her in any real way, but because she was young, and probably fertile, and he needed her to give him a chi Id. Something the woman he really loved could not provide, she thought, wincing as all the old pain and anger slashed at her again.
A year ago she'd been a naive, trusting fool, but she would not fall into the same trap again. She'd accepted his terms now and she would adhere lo them. There would be no more nonsense about imagining herself in love, or using Nick Tempest as the focus for her pathetic romantic fantasies. He was a businessman and he was offering her a business deal. Nothing more, nothing less.
She owed him, and he expected to be repaid. It was as simple as that.
And while she was with him she would learn to turn a blind eye to his extra-marilal indiscretions. Steel herself never lo ask where he was going, or where he had been. And, above all, never— ever—again follow him anywhere...
Those were matters of priority, and certainly she would be under no ludicrous illusions about love, marriage and ' happy ever after' this time around.
She got up and went across to the luggage stand, unzipping the overnight bag. The exquisite nightgown she'd bought with such shy hopes a year ago and never worn lay neatly folded on lop of the other contents. She picked it up an d shook it out, feeling the soft folds of white chiffon and lace drifting through her trembling fingers.
Everything in the case was new, in honour of her brand-new future, including the quilted apricot bag for toiletries with its pretty beaded embroidery. She took it, with the nightdress, into the bathroom.
The fittings were old-fashioned, and the shower was a trickle rather than a torrent, but she managed somehow, patting herself dry with one of the meagre towels. Then she slid the nightdress slowly over her head.
A year ago the chiffon would have enhanced slender, blossoming curves and made them seductive. Now it hung from her, she thought, giving herself a last disparaging glance in the mirror before turning away. Her shoulders and arms were thin, and her collarbones like pits. Her breasts were t hose of a child again.
But why should she repine? After all, the last thing in the world she wanted was for Nick to find her attractive. He liked beautiful women—
he'd never made a secret of it. And for a while there, as she'd bloomed under his careful tutelage, she'd been— almost lovely.
But that girl no longer existed, and what was he left with instead? A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair. That was all.
And maybe the connoisseur in him, the sensualist, would not find that enough.
She trailed back into the other room, took clothes for the next day from the case—fresh underwear and a mid-calf dress in primrose linen, square-necked and cap-sleeved, which she hung up in one of the fitted wardrobes. After all, she'd bought it purposely to wear on the first day of the rest of her life, so it seemed an appropriate choice for tomorrow, if slightly sick.
And it was barely creased, indicating that her bag had not simply been left unopened and untouched over the past twelve months, as she'd thought likely.
Either that or she'd expected the entire contents of her luggage to have been removed to the nearest charity shop, erasing all physical reminders of her from his life. And yet it was all still there, wrapped in tissue and wailing for her.
He really had intended that she should go back to him, she thought shivering.
Her time was nearly up, so, with another apprehensive glance towards the sitting room, she reluctantly climbed in to the wide bed, hugging its extreme edge as she reached up and turned off the pink-shaded befrilled lamp. Lying rigidly on her side, she closed her eyes tightly and kept them closed, trying to breathe deeply and evenly as if she was asleep.
It seemed an eternity before the door between them opened quietly and she knew she was no longer alone. She was aware of Nick moving about softly, then the click of the bathroom door, and beyond it the noise from the shower.
Cally tried to relax—to sink down into the mattress— giving the impression that she was dead to the world. But it wasn't easy— not with tension building inside her all the while.
For the first time in her life she was about to spend a night in bed with a man, and in spite of the assurances she was petrified.
Eventually she heard him come back into the room and walk quietly across to the bed. There was a soft rustle like silk, as if he was removing a dressing gown, then she felt the m at tress dip slightly as he joined her. The other equally awful pink lamp was extinguished, and the room was dark.
