Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | A Husband′s Revenge

A Husband's Revenge
Lee Wilkinson


Forgotten husband! After waking up in a hospital bed, Clare couldn't even remember her own name, let alone who she was married to! When Jos introduced himself as her husband, he was a complete stranger to her… . Clare couldn't deny the sparks of sexual attraction between her and Jos, but she sensed a deeper bond between them.Was it simply the love between man and wife - or something dark and dangerous? Clare was about to find out if Jos really wanted a reunion, or revenge… .







“I am your husband, you know. ” (#u7b9b142b-6a0a-5e30-a563-c9fb652c4276)About the Author (#ud276a623-fe1c-5f6f-832a-3940fe51665f)Dedication (#u51ba6451-73d3-5ef4-bcf9-0f2e2db446b8)Title Page (#udb9327a8-c24c-558e-94b6-a59420e3ed23)CHAPTER ONE (#ubb4d04c1-53c8-589f-846e-6db32e2b3497)CHAPTER TWO (#u9c08300b-f7bb-5a66-99a8-56877bf36eee)CHAPTER THREE (#u96a0ab59-b80a-59c4-abf1-78b639e7b89b)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“I am your husband, you know. ”

But that was just it, she thought, she didn’t know. As far as she was concerned he was a stranger. “I just get the feeling you don’t like me very much,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“Liking is such a bloodless, insipid emotion. It has nothing to do with what I feel for you.”


LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in England, in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a Derbyshire village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy travel, and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going around the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Lee’s hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.


Lee Wilkinson writes romances with strong heroes

and a gripping emotional suspense that will keep you

hooked to the very last page!


A Husband’s Revenge

Lee Wilkinson










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

SHE opened her eyes to a strange, underwater world of light and shade. After a moment her blurred vision cleared and she found herself looking at a bare, impersonal room, little more than a cubicle.

The walls and ceiling were painted sickly green; the floor covering was grey rubberised tiles. A metal locker and a wheeled trolley stood next to a white porcelain sink, where a tap dripped with monotonous regularity.

There were no curtains at the window, and bright sunshine slanted in. It was the only cheerful thing in the room. A panacea. Something to be filtered in between the fear and the smell of disinfectant.

She was wearing a much washed blue cotton gown that fastened down the back with tapes and lying on a hard, narrow bed. A hospital bed. It made no sense. Too tired to try and think, she closed her eyes once more.

The next time she awoke the sunshine had gone and dusk had taken its place. Shadows gathered in the room like a menacing crowd. Her throat was dry, her mouth parched. The tap was still dripping, and there was a red plastic beaker on the sink.

Pushing herself up on one elbow, she swung her bare feet to the floor. But when she straightened and attempted to take a step her head swam, and she was forced to hang onto the metal bar at the top of the bed.

At the same instant the door opened to admit a young and pretty dark-haired nurse, who hurried over and, after helping her patient back into the high bed, scolded, ‘You shouldn’t be trying to get out on your own.’

‘I’m thirsty.’ The words were just a croak.

‘Well, stay where you are and I’ll get you some nice cool orange juice.’ She plumped up the thin pillows and switched on a harsh overhead light. ‘The doctor will be pleased you’re awake at last.’

Awake... Yes, she was awake. Yet it was as if her brain was still asleep. She was conscious of physical things—her head ached dully and her throat felt as if it was full of hot shards of glass—but she was dazed and disorientated, her mind a curious blank.

The nurse returned and handed her the promised glass of orange juice. While she drank eagerly there was a flurry of footsteps, and a short sandy-haired man hurried in. He wore a white coat, steel-rimmed glasses and an air of harassed self-importance.

Pulling a pencil-torch from his pocket, he shone it into her eyes before taking her pulse. Then, sitting down on the bed, he informed her, ‘My name’s Hauser. I’m the doctor in charge.’

His complexion was pasty, and he appeared so effete that he would have made a better patient, she decided wryly, and asked, ‘In charge of what?’

Judging from his look of disapproval, he thought she was being facetious.

‘I mean, what is this place?’ Her voice was husky.

‘The accident and emergency wing of the charity hospital.’

‘Have I had an accident?’

‘You were brought in earlier today by a cabby. He says you stepped off the sidewalk in front of him. His fender caught you and you fell and hit your head. As far as we can tell, you have no injuries other than minor bruising and slight concussion. Unfortunately you weren’t carrying any means of identification, so we were unable to notify your next of kin.’

He made it sound as if she’d planned the whole thing just to annoy and inconvenience both him and the nursing staff.

‘This is a very busy hospital, and it gets busier late at night. Especially at the weekend.’ Having made that point, he headed for the door, saying over his shoulder, ‘If you’ll give the nurse details of who you are and where you live, we’ll contact your family so someone can come and collect you.’

‘But I don’t know where I live...’

The forlorn statement brought him back.

‘You’ve had a shock. Try and think. Are you a tourist?’

‘A tourist? I don’t know.’

‘Do you remember your name?’

‘No... I don’t remember anything... Oh, dear God!’

‘Don’t worry.’ He became a little more human. ‘Temporary amnesia isn’t uncommon after your kind of accident. It just means you’ll have to stay.’ His frown made it clear that this wasn’t a popular option. ‘Until either you regain your memory or someone misses you and checks the hospitals.’

Temporary amnesia. As the door closed behind him and the nurse began to make notes on her chart she did her best to cling to that thought, but a rising panic fought its way to the surface. ‘I don’t know if there’s anyone to make enquiries... I don’t know if I’ve got any family...’

A terrible sense of desolation swept over her. She covered her face with her hands. Her skin felt too tight for her bones, her cheeks and jaw all angles and sharp lines. ‘I don’t even know what I look like.’

Opening the locker, the nurse brought out a grubby, finger-marked mirror and handed it to her. ‘Well, at least that should cheer you up.’

A pale, heart-shaped face surrounded by a cloud of dark silky hair stared back at her. There was an ugly purple bruise spreading over her right temple. Almond-shaped eyes, a short, straight nose, high, slanting cheekbones and a disproportionately wide mouth, the lips of which looked bloodless, did little to cheer her.

The blue eyes, so deep they looked violet, and the fine, clear skin, seemed to be her best features. Well, my girl, you’re no beauty, she told herself silently as she handed back the mirror.

Looking down at her hands, she saw they were slim and shapely, the oval nails free of polish, the fingers bare of rings.

She felt a peculiar relief.

When the nurse had rinsed the glass and refilled it with tap water, she said, ‘It looks as if you’ll be here for the night at least, so would you like a little supper?’

‘No, thank you. I’m not hungry.’

‘Then get some sleep. Perhaps by morning your memory will have come back.’ Switching off the light, the nurse departed.

Oh, if only! It was terrifying, this feeling of being lost, isolated in a black void. She lay for what seemed hours, trying fruitlessly to shed some light on who she was and where she’d come from, before finally falling asleep.

Some time later she woke with a start, hugging her pillow in a death grip.

Someone was just closing the door. Failing to latch, it swung open a few inches, letting a crack of light spill into the room from the corridor.

‘I’ve no intention of waiting until morning.’ Just outside the door a masculine voice spoke clearly, decisively.

Sounding flustered, the nurse said, ‘We don’t normally release patients this late.’

‘I’m sure you could make an exception.’

‘Well, you’d have to speak to Dr Hauser.’

‘Very well.’

They began to move away.

‘I couldn’t let her go without his permission, and I’m not sure if... Oh, here he is...’

Though she could still hear the murmur of conversation, the actual words were no longer clear. After a minute or two the voices came closer, apparently returning.

Dr Hauser was saying, ‘We certainly need the bed, but I’m afraid I can’t allow—’

That authoritative voice cut in crisply. ‘I want her out of this place. Now!’

Stiffly, the doctor said, ‘I have my patient’s welfare to consider, and I really don’t think—’

‘Look—’ this time the tone was more moderate, the impatience curbed—I’m aware you do some very good work here. I’m also well aware that this kind of charity hospital is always drastically underfunded...’

There was a pause and a rustle. ‘Here’s a cheque made out to the hospital. It’s blank at the moment. If you’ll make the necessary arrangements for her immediate release, I’ll be happy to make a substantial contribution towards the hospital’s running costs.’

Sounding mollified, the doctor said, ‘Will you step into my office for a moment?’ and three pairs of footsteps moved away.

Sitting up against her pillows, torn between hope and anxiety, she waited. Was this someone come for her? If it was, and please God it was, surely a familiar face would bring her memory back?

It seemed an age before one set of footsteps returned and the door swung wider. ‘Ah, you’re awake. Good.’

The doctor switched on the shaded night-light. ‘Have you remembered anything?’

Her throat moved as she swallowed. ‘No.’

He came to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know you’ve been identified as Clare Saunders...’

The name meant nothing to her.

‘And you’re English. That accounts for the accent’

Of course she was English. Yet both the nurse and doctor had American accents. That fact hadn’t really registered until now, almost as if subconsciously she’d expected to hear American accents... ‘But I’ve never been to the States.’ She spoke the thought aloud.

‘You mean until you came to live here?’

‘I live in England.’ Of that she was sure.

‘At the moment you’re living here in New York.’

‘New York! No, I can’t possibly be living in New York.’ For some reason the idea scared her witless. ‘You must have got the wrong person.’

He shook his head. ‘You’re Mrs Clare Saunders. Your husband has given us definite proof of your identity.’

‘My husband! But I haven’t got a husband!’ That was something else she was sure of. ‘I’m not married!’

Reacting to the note of rising hysteria in her voice, Dr Hauser said sharply, ‘Now, try to stay calm. Amnesia can be extremely upsetting, but it should only be a matter of time before your memory returns in full.’

‘What if it doesn’t?’

‘In the vast majority of cases it does,’ he said a shade irritably. ‘Believe me, Mrs Saunders, you have nothing to fear. We are quite sadsned—both with your husband’s identity and with yours. We’re prepared to let you leave at once, and as soon as Mr Saunders has signed the papers that release you into his care, he’ll be here.’

What would have been good news a short time ago was all at once terrifying. If only she didn’t have to go tonight. By tomorrow her memory might have returned.

She caught at the doctor’s arm. ‘Oh, please, can’t I stay until morning?’ But even as she begged she sensed there was no help to be had from that quarter.

‘Do you know where this hospital is situated?’

‘No.’ It was just a whisper.

‘This downtown area is rough,’ he told her. ‘Late at night we get a lot of drunks and people injured in brawls. You obviously don’t belong in a place like this, and I can’t blame your husband for wanting to take you home without delay.’

He patted her hand. ‘Don’t forget, all your doubts will be set at rest if you recognise him.’

And if she didn’t?

But the doctor was satisfied, and that was all there was to it. If he hadn’t been, despite the contribution to the hospital’s funds—she closed her mind to the word ‘bribe’—he wouldn’t have released her.

Or would he?

The door swung open and a tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered man strode in. He was very well dressed, but it was his easy air of power and authority, his natural arrogance, that proclaimed him top of the heap.

As if by right he took the doctor’s place on the edge of the bed. He appeared to be in his early thirties, his face was lean and tough, and his handsome blackpupilled eyes were a light, clear green beneath curved brows.

He was a complete stranger.

As though mesmerised, she found herself staring at his mouth. The upper lip was thin, the lower fuller, and with a slight dip in the centre that echoed the cleft in his chin. It was an austere, yet sensual mouth—a mouth that was at once beautiful and ruthless.

Suddenly she shivered.

Those brilliant eyes searched her face, apparently looking for some sign of recognition. When he found none, his own face hardened, as though with anger, but his voice was soft as he said, ‘Clare, darling...I’ve been nearly frantic.’

Then, as without conscious volition she shrank away, he said, ‘It’s Jos... Surely you remember me? I’m your husband.’

If he was, why did she feel this instinctive fear of him? And why did she get the impression that he was cloaking his displeasure, playing the part of a loving husband to satisfy Dr Hauser?

He took her hand.

In a reflex action she snatched it away, cradling it against her chest as though he’d hurt it.

‘You’re not my husband! I know you’re not.’ Turning to the doctor, she cried desperately, ‘I’ve never seen him before!’ She held out her left hand. ‘Look, I’m not even wearing a ring.’

The man who called himself Jos felt in his pocket and produced a wide band of chased gold and a huge diamond solitaire. ‘You took your rings off when you showered this morning and forgot to put them back.’

No, she didn’t believe him. Somehow she knew she wasn’t the kind of woman who would lightly remove her wedding ring.

As she began to shake her head he caught her hand, and, holding it with delicate cruelty when she would have pulled it free, slipped both rings onto her slender finger. ‘See? A perfect fit.’

He gave her a cool, implacable stare, which sent a quiver of apprehension through her, before lifting her hand to his lips and kissing the palm. ‘And if you want further proof that we’re married...’ Removing a marriage certificate and a couple of snapshots from his wallet, he held them out to her.

A marriage certificate might be anyone’s, so she didn’t even bother to look at it, but photographs couldn’t lie. Afraid of what she might see, she forced herself to take the Polaroid pictures and look at them.

The first one had been taken in what appeared to be a cottage garden. She was smiling up at a tall, dark-haired attractive man. His arm was around her waist and she looked radiantly happy.

‘That was the day we got engaged...and that was our wedding day.’

The second picture showed a couple just emerging from the stone porch of a village church. Dressed in an ivory satin bridal gown and holding a spray of pale pink rosebuds, she was on the arm of the same man, who now wore a well-cut grey suit with a white carnation in his buttonhole.

A man who was undoubtedly Jos.

‘Do you still believe we’re not married?’

She couldn’t deny the evidence of her own eyes, but she knew that no matter what the picture suggested she didn’t want to be married to this man.

‘Well, Clare?’

‘No.’ It was just a whisper.

Standing in the background, Dr Hauser nodded his approval just as his bleeper summoned him. ‘I must go. Try not to worry, Mrs Saunders. I’m sure your loss of memory will prove to be only temporary.’

The door had hardly closed behind him when there was a bump and it swung open again to admit the nurse, pushing a shabby wheelchair. ‘Well, isn’t this good news?’ she asked her patient cheerfully. ‘As soon as you’re dressed, you can go home.’

Taking a small pile of clothing from the locker, she pulled back the bed-sheet and the single greyish cellular blanket. ‘Shall I give you a hand with the gown? Or would you prefer your husband to help you?’

Jos eyed the hospital gown with distaste, and raised an enquiring brow.

Agitated, because she was naked beneath the faded cotton and he knew it, Clare folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself defensively. ‘No, I...I don’t need any help.’

He rose to his feet in one lithe movement and said smoothly, ‘Then I’ll wait outside.’

‘You didn’t remember him?’ the nurse queried, unfastening the tapes.

Clare shook her head mutely.

‘So I guess you’re entitled to be shy. Though I’d have thought a man like that would have been impossible to forget. He’s really something...’

Seeing nothing else for it, Clare swung her legs off the bed and stood up. Moving slowly, carefully, wincing as she touched her bruised ribs, she began to get dressed in clothes she didn’t even recognise as hers.

The undies were pretty and delicate, the silky suit and sandals well-chosen and smart, but all of them appeared to be relatively cheap. Which didn’t seem to tie in with his expensive clothes.

Her tongue loosened, the nurse was chattering on. ‘I must say I envy you. It’s so thrilling and exciting. Like meeting for the first time and falling in love all over again...’

Clare wished she could see things in such a romantic light. Caught between an unknown future with a man who was a stranger to her and a blank past, all she could feel was alarm and dread.

All too soon she was dressed. With no further excuse for dawdling she took a few steps and, feeling weak, found herself glad to sink into the wheelchair the nurse was holding for her.

Standing at ease, showing no sign of impatience now, Jos was waiting in the bare corridor. He was very tall, six feet three or four, with wide shoulders and narrow hips.

He looked hard and handsome. And somehow dangerous.

Though he was so big, when he came towards them she saw he moved with the grace and agility of a man perfectly in control of his body.

‘Shall I come down with you?’ the nurse asked.

Anxious to put off the time when she’d be left alone with him, Clare was about to accept the offer when he said pleasantly, ‘Thank you, but there’s really no need. I’m sure I can handle a wheelchair.’

The smile accompanying his words held such devastating charm that the nurse almost swooned. She was still standing staring after them when they reached the lift.

It came promptly at his summons.

It probably didn’t dare do anything else, Clare found herself thinking as the doors slid open. Then she was trapped with him in a small steel box. It was a relief when it stopped a few floors down and a hospital porter got in pushing a trolley.

As the doctor had predicted, things were hotting up. The main concourse was busy and bustling, with people and staff milling about.

At the reception desk a hard-pressed woman was trying to cope with a growing queue. A large calendar with a picture of Cape Cod on it proclaimed the month was June.

When they reached an area close to the entrance, where a straggling row of shabby wheelchairs jostled each other, Jos asked, ‘Can you manage to walk from here?’ His deep, incisive voice startled her. ‘Or shall I carry you?’

The idea of being held against that broad chest startled her even more. Sharply, she said, ‘Of course I can walk.’ They were foolhardy words that she was soon to regret.

Struggling out of the chair, ignoring the hand he held out, she added, ‘I’ve only lost my memory, not the use of my legs,’ and saw his lips tighten ominously.

Once on her feet, Clare swayed a little, and he put a steady arm around her waist. As soon as she regained her balance she pulled away, leaving a good foot of space between them.

His face cold and aloof, he walked by her side, making no further attempt to touch her.

Somehow she managed to keep her chin high and her spine ramrod-straight, but, legs trembling, head curiously light and hot, just to put one foot in front of the other took a tremendous effort of will.

His car was quite close, parked in a ‘Doctors Only’ area. A sleek silvery grey, it had that unmistakable air of luxury possessed only by the most expensive of vehicles.

By the time he’d unlocked and opened the passenger door she was enveloped in a cold sweat and her head had started to whirl. Eyes closed, she leaned against the car.

Muttering, ‘Stubborn little fool!’ he caught her beneath the arms and lowered her into the seat. A moment later he slid in beside her and leaned over to fasten her safety belt.

‘Have you had anything to eat?’ he demanded.

As soon as she was sitting down the faintness began to pass and the world stopped spinning. Lifting her head, she answered, ‘I wasn’t hungry.’

‘No wonder you look like a ghost!’

Knowing it was as much emotional exhaustion as physical, she said helplessly, ‘It’s not just that. It’s everything.’

He started the car and drove to the entrance, giving way to a small ambulance with blue flashing lights before turning uptown.

The dashboard clock told her it was two-thirty in the morning, and, apart from the ubiquitous yellow cabs and a few late revellers, the streets of New York were relatively quiet though as bright as day.

Above the streetlamps and the lighted shop windows, by contrast it looked black—black towers of glass and concrete rising into a black sky.

It was totally strange. Alien.

As though sensing her shiver, he remarked more moderately, ‘Waking up with amnesia must be distressing.’

‘It is,’ she said simply. ‘Not to know who you are, where you are, where you’re going—and I mean know rather than just being told—is truly terrifying.’

‘I can imagine.’ He sounded almost sympathetic.

‘At first you just seemed to be... angry...’ She struggled to put her earlier impression into words. ‘As if you blamed me in some way...’

‘It’s been rather a fraught day... And I wasn’t convinced your loss of memory was genuine.’

‘You thought I was making it up! Why on earth should I do a thing like that?’

‘Why does a woman do anything?’ he asked bitterly.

It appeared that he didn’t think much of women in general and her in particular.

‘But I would have had to have some reason, surely?’

After a slight hesitation, he said evasively, ‘It’s irrelevant as you have lost your memory.’

‘What makes you believe it now when you didn’t earlier?’

They stopped at a red light and he turned his head to study her. ‘Because you have a kind of poignant, lost look that would be almost impossible to fake.’

‘I still don’t understand why you think I’d want to fake it.’

He gave her a cool glance. ‘Perhaps to get a little of your own back.’ Then, as if conceding that some further explanation was needed, he went on, ‘We’d quarrelled. I had to go out. When I came back I found you’d gone off in a huff.’

Instinctively she glanced down at her left hand.

‘Yes—’ his eyes followed hers ‘—that was why you weren’t wearing your rings.’

It must have been some quarrel to make her take her wedding ring off. She racked her brains, trying to remember.

Nothing.

Giving up the attempt, she asked, ‘What did we quarrel about?’

For an instant he looked discomposed, then, as the lights turned to green and the car moved smoothly forward, he replied, ‘As with most quarrels, it began over something comparatively unimportant. But somehow it escalated.’

She was about to point out that he hadn’t really answered her question when he forestalled her.

‘I can’t see much sense in raking over the ashes. As soon as your memory returns you’ll be able to judge for yourself how trivial it was. Now I suggest that you try and relax. Let things come back in their own good time rather than keep asking questions.’

Questions he didn’t want to answer?

Yet if not, why not? Unless he didn’t want her to regain her memory?

Helplessly, she said, ‘But there’s so much I don’t know. I don’t even know where L..we...live.’

‘Upper East Side.’

That figured. It went with his obvious wealth, his air of good breeding, his educated accent. She frowned. His accent... Basically an English accent?

‘You’re not American?’

‘I was born in England.’

‘How long have you been in the States?’

‘Since I was twenty-one.’

‘How old are you now?’

‘Thirty.’

‘Do your family still live in England?’

Glancing at his handsome profile, she saw his jaw tighten before, his voice repressive, he replied, ‘I haven’t any family.’

Plainly he was in no mood to be questioned. But, needing to know more about this stranger she was married to, about their life together, she persisted, ‘Where did we meet...?’

He swung the wheel and they turned into a paved forecourt and drew to a halt in front of a huge apartment block.

‘Was it in England?’

Curtly, he said, ‘I thought I’d made it clear that I wanted you to rest rather than keep asking questions.’

Resenting the way he was treating her, she protested, ‘But I—

He put a finger to her lips. This is the Ventnor Building and we’re home. Any further questions will keep until tomorrow.’

The light pressure of that lean finger against her mouth stopped her breath and made her lower lip start to tremble.

Watching her with hooded eyes, he moved it slowly, tracing the lovely, passionate outline of her mouth, and she was submerged by a wave of sensation so strong that it scared her half to death.

She saw his white teeth gleam in a smile, and suddenly felt terribly vulnerable. He knew only too well what effect his touch had on her.

As he got out and came round to open her door a blue-uniformed night-security guard appeared from nowhere.

‘Mr Saunders, Mrs Saunders...’ He gave them a laconic salute. ‘Want me to park her for you?’

‘Please, Bill.’ Jos tossed him the keys and stooped to help Clare from the car. With a strong arm around her waist he led her past the main doors to a side entrance and slid a card into the lock.

The chandelier-lit marble foyer, ringed by glittering stores and boutiques, was vast and empty. Their footsteps echoed eerily in the silence as, watched by the glassy eyes of the elegantly dressed mannequins in the shop windows, they crossed to a bank of elevators.

He produced a key, and a moment later the doors of his private elevator slid to behind them.

‘You live in the penthouse.’ Her own certainty surprised her.

Brilliant eyes narrowed to slits, he turned to watch her like a hawk, his hard face all planes and angles. ‘What makes you so sure?’

As they shot smoothly upwards she pressed her fingers to her temples and struggled to pin down the elusive recollection. It was like trying to trace one particular shadow in a room full of shadows.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

They slid to a halt, and with a hand beneath her elbow he led her across a luxuriously carpeted hall and into an elegant living room. The room must be on a corner of the building, she realised, because two walls at right angles seemed to be made entirely of lightly smoked glass panels which opened onto a terrace and roof garden.

She could see the shapes of trees and bushes and hear the splash of a fountain. It seemed strange when they were so far above the city.

With some trepidation, she said, ‘I think I’m scared of heights.’

‘Then perhaps you shouldn’t have chosen to marry a man who lives in a penthouse.’

With a sudden sensation of déjà vu, she felt sure he’d said those mocking words to her once before, used the same coolly cutting tone.

Though unable to recall the precise terms of their relationship, she was certain it wasn’t of the pleasant, friendly ‘rub along together’ sort, but rather the tempestuous ‘strike sparks off each other’ kind.

The kind where someone could get hurt.

No, not someone. Her. Every instinct warned her that Jos was dangerous, that he wanted to hurt her, would enjoy hurting her.

‘Why do you want to hurt me?’ The question was out before she could prevent it.

‘Why should I want to hurt you?’

Glancing quickly at him, she saw his dark face was cool and shuttered. It would only reveal what he wanted it to reveal. He would only tell her what he wanted her to know.

‘What makes you imagine I want to hurt you?’ he persisted.

She made a helpless gesture with her hands. ‘I don’t know. I just get the feeling you don’t like me very much.’

He moved towards her.

Instinctively she backed away.

Reaching out, he caught her wrist and pulled her against him. One arm held her while his free hand came up to encircle her throat lightly.

Something about his stillness, the tension in his muscles, warned her that he was waiting for her to struggle.

When she stood as if frozen, he bent his dark head and let his lips wander over her cheek and jaw. She caught her breath, aware of the faint scent of his skin, the slight roughness of stubble.

His lips brushed her ear, making her shiver, as he said, ‘Liking is such a bloodless, insipid emotion. It has nothing to do with what I feel for you.’

Recognising something fundamental in his words, knowing she was close to an important truth, she felt her heart begin to race with suffocating speed. ‘What do you feel for me?’

The sudden flare of anger in his eyes made her blood run cold. Before she could do or say anything he covered her mouth with his own.

While he deepened the kiss, ravaging her mouth with a savage, punitive expertise, she lay against him, lost and dazed, knowing only that if he released his grip she would fall.

When he finally lifted his head she was trembling in every limb, her breath coming in harsh gasps.

He looked down at her, studying the violet eyes that looked too big for her heart-shaped face, the swollen lips, the fine dew of perspiration on her forehead, and said tightly, ‘You should know better than to try to provoke me.’

‘I wasn’t trying to provoke you,’ she denied in a husky whisper.

With a muttered oath he let her go so suddenly that she staggered a little, and the beautiful room whirled sickeningly around her head.

A moment later he had swept her up in his arms and was carrying her into what was obviously the master bedroom.

‘What are you doing?’ she croaked.

‘Taking you to bed.’

‘No!’ Every trace of colour drained from her face, leaving it ashen.

Setting her on her feet, he said coldly, ‘Credit me with some sensitivity. I can see you’ve had about as much stress as you can handle, so for tonight at least I’ll sleep in the guest room.’

She gave the kind of shuddering sigh a child might give.

The impatience dying out of his face, he opened one of the drawers and tossed her an ivory satin nightgown with shoestring straps and a matching negligee. ‘Do you need any help?’

‘No!’ she snapped, then added more moderately, ‘No, thank you.’

‘You’ll find your toilet things in the bathroom. I’ll give you ten minutes.’

In the big, luxurious bathroom, hurrying as much as her debilitating weakness would allow, she pulled off her clothes and dropped them into the dirty linen basket, showered, cleaned her teeth and dragged a brush through her damp hair.

She was safely in bed, leaning against the pillows, the lightweight duvet pulled chest-high, when he returned.

Sitting on the edge of the king-sized divan, he handed her a beaker of hot chocolate. ‘Drink that before I tuck you in.’

The smell made her wrinkle her nose. ‘I don’t like hot chocolate.’

‘Drink it all the same. It’ll help you sleep soundly.’

Sipping obediently, she avoided his eyes.

As soon as the beaker was empty he put it on the bedside cabinet and then, rising to his feet, reached to flatten her pillows.

As she slid down his hand brushed her breast and she flinched away.

His chiselled mouth tightened. ‘There’s no need to look quite so alarmed. I am your husband, you know.’

But that was just it, she thought as the door closed behind him, she didn’t know. As far as she was concerned he was a stranger.

But a stranger who had a devastating effect on her.

Earlier, when he’d kissed her, desire, terrifying in its intensity, had overwhelmed her. And, though his intention had clearly been to punish her, she’d sensed a fierce reciprocal hunger in him, which even such a cold, self-controlled man as he couldn’t totally hide.

Their relationship, whatever other dark threads were woven into it, was undoubtedly a passionate one.

Suddenly she was even more afraid of what the future held than she had been when she’d left the hospital.


CHAPTER TWO

CLARE’S brain stirred into life slowly, unwillingly. Lying stretched on her back, eyes closed, she was aware of softness and warmth, of a physical comfort that went hand in hand with a kind of bleak mental anguish.

Bodily she was at ease, but her mind was a teeming mass of disturbing, shadowy thoughts. When she tried to hold onto them, to coax them into the light, they vanished like wraiths, leaving only a set of hard, handsome features indelibly printed there.

Jos. Her husband.

Her heart began to beat at a fast, suffocating speed. She recalled him coming to the hospital. Bringing her home. Kissing her. Innocuous enough memories except for the powerful black undercurrents which, like some deadly whirlpool, threatened to drag her down and drown her.

Undercurrents which, if she could only remember, would almost certainly explain why she had taken off her rings and walked out in the first place.

But had she just stormed off in a temper, as he’d tried to imply? Or had she meant to go for good?

If she had meant to leave him, surely she would have taken a case? Certainly she would have had a handbag. Some money...

Eyelids still closed, to help her concentration, she tried to think, but her memory would go back no further than awakening in the hospital.

Sighing, she opened her eyes to semi-gloom. Abruptly the sigh turned into a gasp. The sight of Jos lounging in a chair by the bed, his eyes fixed on her face, made her jerk upright.

His mere presence brought a surge of dismay and excitement that took her breath and made her heart start to race again.

As though he’d run restless fingers through it, his hair, peat-dark, not quite black, was slightly rumpled, his jaw was smooth, clean-shaven, his lean face, with its fascinating planes and angles, heart-stoppingly attractive.

He was casually dressed in light trousers and a dark green cotton-knit shirt open at the neck, exposing his tanned throat, and with the sleeves pushed up his muscular hair-sprinkled forearms.

Pulling the duvet high, though her nightgown was perfectly modest, she demanded hoarsely, ‘How long have you been there?’

His clearly delineated mouth curved slightly. ‘Most of the afternoon.’

The idea of him sitting watching her sleep was disturbing, to say the least. Slowly, with an effort, she smoothed her face into a careful, unrevealing mask, before asking, ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

Rising to his feet, he crossed to the wide window and drew aside the curtains, flooding the attractive blue and white room with light, before answering, ‘I wanted you to wake up naturally. I thought perhaps...?’ He allowed the question to tail off.

‘It’s no use...’ She heard the desolation of her own despair. ‘I can’t remember anything prior to waking up in the hospital.’

Suddenly he was by her side again, looming too close. Tilting her chin, he examined her face, taking in the translucent skin stretched tightly over the wonderful bone structure, the paleness of her lips, the lost look in the long-lashed violet eyes.

His touch closed her throat and made her mouth go dry. Unconsciously, she ran the tip of her tongue over parched lips.

Something flaring in his green eyes, he followed the small, betraying movement. She froze, terrified he was going to kiss her, wanting him to kiss her...

He, who seemed never to miss a thing, obviously noted her reaction and smiled a little. Releasing her chin, he touched a bell by the bedhead before sitting down again. ‘When you say “anything”...?’

It took her a moment or two to recover. Then, forehead creased in thought, she said slowly, ‘I remember the ordinary everyday things of life. How to read and write, add up and subtract...that kind of thing. It’s personal memories that have gone...’

Were those memories so dark, so disturbing, that her subconscious wanted them blanked out? Had she needed to lose herself and the past in order to survive some emotional trauma?

Or was this feeling of being threatened by past and future alike merely symptomatic of her amnesia? When her memory returned would she find she was a perfectly ordinary woman with a perfectly ordinary marriage?

But suppose it never returned?

Fighting down a rush of blind panic at the thought, she went on, ‘I don’t know anything about myself. If I’ve got a middle name or what my maiden name was... I don’t even know how old I am.’

‘Your middle name is Linden, your maiden name was Berkeley and you’re twenty-four. You’ll be twenty-five on September the third. A Virgo,’ he added, with a derisive twist to his lips.

Before Clare could react to what seemed to be a sneer, there was a tap at the door, and it opened to admit a dark-suited dignified man, carrying a tray. Pulling the metal supports into position, he placed it carefully across her knees.

Bending his balding head deferentially, he said, ‘I’m delighted that madam is safely home.’

‘Thank you, er...’ She hesitated.

‘This is Roberts,’ Jos informed her. Then, to the manservant, he said, ‘I’m afraid Mrs Saunders still hasn’t recovered her memory.’

Roberts looked suitably grave. ‘Very upsetting for both of you, sir.’

After deftly removing the lid from a dish of poached salmon, he opened and shook out a white damask napkin. ‘Mr Saunders thought a light meal... If, however, madam would prefer chicken, or an omelette...?’

‘Oh, no... Thank you.’ Then, sensing a genuine wish to please, she remarked with a smile, ‘I’m sure this will be delicious.’

Roberts departed noiselessly.

‘A butler instead of a housekeeper?’ Sipping her tea, Clare spoke her thoughts aloud. ‘I get the feeling you don’t care much for women?’

‘In one area at least I find a woman is indispensable.’ His mocking glance left her in no doubt as to which area he referred to. ‘I also employ a couple of female cleaners. But I happen to prefer a male servant to run the household.’

Head bent, hoping to hide her blush, she asked, ‘Has Roberts been with you long?’

‘He came with the penthouse.’ Then, with no change of tone, he added, ‘Your salmon will get cold.’

Uncomfortably, she asked, ‘Aren’t you eating?’

‘I had a late lunch a couple of hours ago, when it appeared that you were still in shock and were going to sleep the clock round.’

She glanced at her bare left wrist before asking, ‘What time is it now?’

‘Nearly four-thirty.’ Lifting her hand, making the huge diamond solitaire flash in the light, he asked, ‘Do you remember what happened to your watch?’

‘Do I usually wear one?’

‘Yes. So far as I know, always.’ Letting go of her hand, he urged, ‘Do eat something or you’ll upset Roberts.’

Feeling suddenly ravenous, Clare began to tuck in with a will. Glancing up to find Jos’s eyes were watching her every move, she hesitated.

‘Don’t let me put you off,’ he said abruptly. ‘You must be starving. It’s over twenty-four hours since you were knocked down.’

Glancing once again at her empty wrist, she suggested, ‘Perhaps I left my watch behind when I... with my rings...’

He shook his head emphatically. ‘You wouldn’t have left it behind.’ Dark face thoughtful, he went on, ‘When you arrived at the hospital you had no handbag with you. Didn’t you think that was strange? Don’t most women carry a bag?’

Putting down her knife and fork, she agreed, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘It’s my belief that when you were knocked down, by the time the cabby had pulled himself together and got out, your bag and watch had been stolen. It’s a pretty rough area... Have you any idea what you were doing there?’

‘No.’ Then, harking back, she asked curiously, ‘What makes you so sure I wouldn’t have left my watch behind?’

He rose to his feet and, lifting the tray from her knees, set it aside before answering, ‘Because it was a twenty-first birthday gift from your parents.’

‘My parents?’ Her heart suddenly lifted with hope. ‘Where do they—?’

‘They’re dead,’ he said harshly, resuming his seat. ‘They died in a plane crash in Panama a few months ago.’

‘Oh...’ She felt a curious hollowness, an emptiness that grief should have filled. ‘Did you know them?’

After an almost imperceptible hesitation, he said, ‘I knew of them.’

‘Can you tell me anything about them?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Anything that might help me to remember? Our family background... where they lived?’

This time he hesitated so long that she found herself wondering anew if he would prefer her not to remember.

Then, as though making up his mind, he said, ‘Yes, I can tell you about your family background.’ His face hard, his green eyes curiously angry, he went on, ‘Your father was Sir Roger Berkeley, your mother, Lady Isobel Berkeley. He was a diplomat and she was a well-known hostess, prominent in fashionable society.’

Clare could sense an underlying tension in his manner, a marked bitterness.

‘You were born and brought up in a house called Stratton Place, a mile or so from Meredith.’

‘Meredith?’

‘A pretty little village not too far from London. A lot of rich people live there—bankers, stockbrokers, politicians... You went to an expensive boarding-school until you were eighteen, then a Swiss finishing-school.’

He sounded as if he resented their wealth and position, and she wondered briefly if he’d come from a poorer environment. But that didn’t tally with his voice and his educated accent.

‘You were an only child—and a mistake, I fancy.’ Chilled both by the concept and Jos’s deliberate cruelty, she asked, ‘How could you know a thing like that?’

He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I’m judging by the type of woman your mother was, and the fact that you were pushed off to boarding-school at a very early age...’

Clare felt impelled to defend the mother she couldn’t remember. ‘But are you in a position to judge? If you didn’t really know her...’

‘I know all I need to know. When your father was posted to the States she joined him in New York. The society gossip columns had a field-day. Men swarmed round her like flies, and she soon got quite a reputation as a goer...’ There was contempt in the deep voice. Softly, he added, ‘You’re very like her.’

Every trace of colour draining from her face, she sat quite still. Surely she couldn’t be the kind of woman he was describing?

Watching her expressive face mirror her consternation, he allowed a scornful little smile to play around his lips.

In response to that smile, she lifted her chin. No, she refused to believe it. Some fundamental self-knowledge told her he must be wrong.

‘I can’t answer for my mother,’ she said calmly, ‘but I’m sure I’m not like that.’

‘You’re the image of her in looks...’

‘That doesn’t necessarily make me like her.’

As though she hadn’t spoken, he went on, ‘You both have the kind of beauty that can drive any man wild.’

Clare shook her head. ‘When I woke in the hospital I had no idea what I looked like. The nurse gave me a mirror. I’m not even pretty.’

‘You’re far more than pretty. You’re fascinating. Wholly bewitching.’

But the way he spoke the words made them a damning indictment rather than a compliment.

A shiver ran through her. ‘I didn’t bewitch you,’ she said with certainty.

His voice brittle as ice crystals, he contradicted her. ‘Oh, but my darling, you did.’

She didn’t believe it for one moment. Almost in despair, she asked, ‘Why did you marry me?’

‘Why do you think?’

‘I don’t know. If I’m like my mother—’ She broke off in confusion.

‘You mean it wouldn’t have been necessary?’ He smiled like a tiger. ‘If I’d only wanted a casual affair, it wouldn’t have been.’

He spoke with such certainty that her blood turned to ice in her veins.

‘But I wanted a great deal more than that...’

Without knowing why, she shivered. ‘So what did you want?’ Perhaps she needed to hear him put it into words, like some coup de grâce.

His mouth smiled, but his eyes were cold as green glass. ‘I wanted to own you body and soul.’

She shivered again. Then slowly, almost as if in accusation, she said, ‘You didn’t love me.’

With no reason to dissemble, he told her matter-of-factly, ‘I never pretended to. On the contrary, I went to great lengths not to mention the word “love”, so there would be no possibility that you could have any illusions, be under any misapprehension...’

Filled with a lost, bleak emptiness that was far worse than anything she had yet experienced, she accepted the fact that he had never loved her and she must have been aware of that.

Then why had she married him?

Recalling the overwhelming effect his kisses had had on her, one reason immediately sprang to mind. Yet surely common sense would have prevented her marrying a man simply because he attracted her physically?

Unless that attraction had developed into an infatuation and, more like her mother than she wanted to believe, she’d been unable to help herself...

‘And neither was I...’ Jos was going on, his voice like polished steel. ‘I knew perfectly well why you agreed to marry me.’

Shrinking inwardly at the realisation that her sexual enslavement must have been obvious, she waited for him to crow.

Incredibly, he said, ‘I was wealthy, and you wanted a rich husband.’

At that moment all she could feel was relief. The fact that he didn’t realise how obsessed she must have been went some way towards salving her pride.

‘Someone who could give you the right kind of lifestyle.’

‘It’s my impression that I already had that.’ Somehow she kept her voice steady.

‘Ah, but you didn’t. When you left your smart finishing-school, for some reason—you never told me exactly what—you struck out on your own. You rented a small cottage in the village and took a job in a real estate office while you waited for the opportunity to catch a suitable husband.’

‘Did I tell you that?’ she asked sharply.

‘You didn’t need to.’

‘And I suppose by “suitable” you mean...?’

‘Stinking rich.’ He spoke bitterly. ‘Because of the kind of life your parents led—jet—setting, champagne parties, lots of entertaining-they always lived above their income, and I suppose you must have realised there’d be nothing left when they died. Therefore, you needed to hook a man with money.’

The picture he was painting of her was a far from pleasant one. Pushing back a tendril of dark silky hair, she objected, ‘If I was an ordinary working girl, what chance would I have had of ever meeting any rich men?’

‘Hardly ordinary. You still had that air of good breeding, that finishing-school gloss, and Ashleigh Kent, the firm you worked for, was an up-market one, dealing mainly with wealthy clients wanting country estates and the like. In fact that was where I met you—when I was over in England on a business trip.’

‘And you blame me for hooking you?’ That explained at least some of the hostility she sensed in him.

To her amazement, he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t blame you for that. It would be different if you’d used your wiles to try and captivate me, but you didn’t, did you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted huskily. ‘I don’t know what I did, how I acted...’

‘Like a perfect lady.’ His lips twisted into a smile that wasn’t a smile. ‘You intrigued me from the first moment I laid eyes on you. Though you were obviously attracted to me, you looked at me with such composure, such cool reserve.’

Whereas a lot of women, she guessed, would drool over a man with his kind of looks and that amount of blatant sex appeal.

Slowly, she said, ‘You seem pretty sure I was looking for a rich husband...so if I didn’t, as you put it, use my “wiles” to try to catch you...’ She hesitated. ‘Why didn’t I?’

‘When I first asked you to have dinner with me, you refused without giving a reason. I found out later that you already had Graham Ashleigh—who was worth quite a bit—in your sights.

‘Though I didn’t think the...shall we say attachment... on your side, at least, was too serious, and I had a great deal more to offer financially, it still took me over a week to persuade you to go out with me.’

He sounded annoyed.

Her smile ironic, she suggested, ‘Perhaps I was just playing hard to get.’

Privately she thought it far more probable that she’d been chicken—scared stiff by all that overpowering masculinity.

He shook his head. ‘Somehow I feel that playing hard to get isn’t your style... It certainly wasn’t your mother’s.’

She flinched at his deliberate unkindness.

‘But that’s enough delving into the past for the moment,’ Jos said decidedly. With a short, sharp sigh, he rose to his feet and stretched long limbs. ‘Now I suggest a breath of air. If you have no objection to New Yorkers en masse, Saturday afternoon is a good time to take a stroll in the park. Feel up to it?’

His tone was neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly, and, only too happy to leave the confines of the bedroom, she agreed eagerly. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’ Then, unwilling to get out of bed while he was there, she added, ‘If you’ll give me a few minutes...?’

His smile sardonic, he said, ‘I’ll use the dressing room to change.’

As soon as the door closed behind him, Clare got out of bed and made for the sumptuous bathroom. Whether it was due to the food or to the prolonged sleep, she was pleased to find that the worst of the weakness had gone and she felt much better.

After cleaning her teeth and taking a quick shower, she donned a terrycloth robe while she looked for some fresh undies and something to wear.

A look at the clothes hanging in the walk-in wardrobe suggested that her tastes were quiet and classical rather than flamboyant. For which she was truly thankful.

Trying to rid herself of the feeling that she was rifling another woman’s things, she took out a grey and white patterned dress, a white jacket and a pair of high-heeled sandals. Rather to her surprise, everything fitted her perfectly.

When she was dressed she brushed the tangles from her shoulder-length hair. Seeming to be naturally curly, it settled in a soft, dark cloud around her face.

Wrinkling her nose in the mirror at the bruise on her temple, she looked for some tinted foundation to mask it. There was a range of light cosmetics in a pretty, daisy-strewn bag—cream, cleansing lotion and lip-gloss. No sign of any foundation or mascara. Perhaps with dark brows and lashes and a clear skin she didn’t use any?

In a side pocket of the bag she came across a narrow flat packet, and froze. Each pill was packed separately and marked with a day of the week.

But that didn’t necessarily mean she was like her mother, she told herself firmly. After all, she was a married woman—even if she didn’t feel like one...

Hiding her nervousness, her uncertainty, beneath a veneer of calm, she squared her shoulders and went to find Jos.

Everything was quiet and in perfect order. Too perfect. It struck her that the penthouse, with its impersonal opulence, was more like a luxury film-set than a home.

Without her knowing why, the thought made her sad.

In the living room, the long glass panels had been slid aside and he was standing on the terrace looking out across the green leafiness of Central Park. He’d changed into a lightweight suit, the jacket of which was slung over one shoulder and held by a crooked finger.

Clare could have sworn she had made no sound on the thick pale carpet, but, as though some sixth sense was at work, he turned to face her.

Though she didn’t know him, he was no longer a stranger. Outwardly, at least, he was achingly familiar, and she could have picked him out unerringly from a thousand other tall, dark men.

His hair, brushed straight back from a high forehead, formed a widow’s peak, his skin was tanned and his eyes were a clear, brilliant green between thick lashes. He looked tough and intelligent and heart-stoppingly handsome, with the kind of animal magnetism that would have made even an ugly man completely irresistible.

At her approach he held out his hand.

As if under a spell, she put hers into it.

He used the hand he was holding to draw her close, and, smiling into her eyes, bent his head.

Her nostrils were filled with the faint, masculine scent of his aftershave, and, feeling his warm breath on her cheek, she trembled inside while, eyes closed, lips parted, she waited transfixed for his kiss.

But the kiss never came.

When she lifted heavy lids he had drawn back. He was still smiling, but his smile was mocking, derisive.

She didn’t need that smile to tell her he was amused by her reaction. Feeling as though she had been slapped in the face, she snatched her hand free and turned away.

Why was he playing with her like this? To remind her that he could? To put her at a disadvantage? For his own entertainment? Or a combination of all three?

Chilled and alarmed, she began dimly to realise something of the power he had over her.

But until her memory returned, and she knew exactly how things stood between them, all she could do was stay calm and resist his potent attraction.

He put on his jacket and, a hand at her waist, accompanied her across the hall and into the lift. Though she was tall and wearing high heels, standing by her side he still seemed to tower over her.

Glancing down at her set profile, he remarked blandly, ‘You’re looking rather...militant. Something to do with a need for self-preservation?’

She studied his face with calm deliberation, then said, just as blandly, ‘And you’re looking rather conceited. Something to do with a mistaken belief in your own powers of attraction?’

To her surprise he laughed, and said appreciatively, ‘You’re starting to sound less like some forlorn waif and more like yourself.’

A moment later the lift slid to a halt and they emerged into the glittering foyer, now thronging with people.

His hand beneath her elbow, he escorted her through the main doors and out onto Fifth Avenue. That famous street was teeming with life and vitality, and had, Clare thought, an air of being en fête.

The early evening was hot and sunny, and the park was full of people. Bright summer dresses and colourful umbrellas blossomed everywhere; candy wrappers and soft drink cans littered the paths, radios blared, babies bawled, children played and perspiring joggers jogged.

It was a scene full of noise and gaiety, and Clare loved it.

Jos tucked her hand through his arm and, as he matched his pace to her slower one, they strolled in silence.

After a while, her thoughts busy, she remarked, ‘You mentioned we met when you came over to England on a business trip. How did we get to know each other?’

Face guarded, green eyes suddenly wary, Jos answered, ‘I’d approached Ashleigh Kent with the intention of buying a house...’

She frowned. Why would he want a house in rural England when he lived in New York?

‘You were the representative they sent to show me around.’

A chill feathering over her skin, Clare stopped walking and stood stock-still. As a dim crystal ball, her mind produced a faint, intangible impression of a bare hall, open to the rafters, with dark galleries running round three sides, and a man standing looking up to a pair of high, narrow windows which threw lozenges of light onto the dusty stone flags three floors below.

Head bent, slim fingers pressed to her temples, she tried to seize the elusive memory that hovered almost within her grasp.

Just when she thought she had it, it vanished like a spectre. Suddenly convinced it held some terrible significance, she gave a low moan and began to tremble violently.

Jos took her shoulders. ‘Clare, what is it? What have you remembered?’

‘Nothing. I...I thought I had, but then it was gone.’


CHAPTER THREE

SHE was shaking so much that she could scarcely stand. Steering her to the nearest vacant bench, he pushed her onto it and stood over her. After a while the trembling stopped. Gathering herself, she looked up at him and said steadily, ‘I’m all right now. We can go on.’

‘I think not. You’ve done enough walking for today. Wait here a moment.’

He went a hundred yards or so to an intersection, where the path they were on was crossed by a wider one. Raising his hand, he snapped his fingers.

As he came back to offer his arm she heard the clatter of a horse’s hooves, and by the time they’d reached the intersection a polished black carriage with a top-hatted driver was waiting. It had a festive, holiday air—the well-groomed horse wore yellow rosettes and the driver’s whip was adorned with a matching bow of ribbon.

Jos helped her step up and then sat beside her. The driver clicked his tongue at the horse and they were off, bowling merrily through the park.

Clare looked at her companion with awe. ‘And I didn’t catch a glimpse of either the mouse or the pumpkin.’

He laughed, white teeth gleaming, charm momentarily banishing the hardness. ‘There are plenty of these carriages about. The only magic is in knowing where to find an empty one.’

The word ‘empty’ reminded her of the memory she had so nearly grasped. ‘The house I took you to see, was it—?’

‘No more questions for the moment,’ he broke in firmly. ‘Just relax and enjoy the drive. Don’t make any attempt to remember. Later on we’ll try a spot of therapy, but I was planning to have a meal out first, if you feel up to it?’

So that was why he’d changed into a suit and tie.

‘Oh, yes, that would be nice,’ she agreed.

The sun shone and, despite the traffic fumes, the balmy evening air fanning her face felt fresh and clean. As they clip-clopped along Jos pointed out all the things of interest, and after a while Clare found herself enjoying the leisurely drive.

It was well past seven when they crossed the Grand Army Plaza and their carriage stopped alongside some others. Beyond rose the pale marble and glazed brick, the richly ornamented mansard of the Plaza Hotel.

‘I thought we’d have dinner here tonight,’ Jos told her as he helped her down and paid the driver. ‘Tomorrow evening, if you like, we can go further afield.’

When he’d given her a glimpse of the celebrated hotel, with its fine shops, lounges and places to eat, he asked, ‘Which of the restaurants do you prefer, Clare?’

‘I really don’t mind. I’ll leave it to you.’

‘In that case...’ With a firm hand beneath her elbow, he steered her towards the nearest, where he appeared to be well known—the maitre d’ calling him by name and ushering them to a secluded table for two.

The very air breathed luxury—the rich aroma of smoked salmon and caviare mingling with expensive perfumes and the sweet smell of success. Above the discreet murmur of conversation and an occasional laugh, ice buckets rattled and champagne corks popped.

As they sipped an aperitif and studied the menu Jos made light conversation, giving Clare an opportunity to respond in kind.

She asked him what it was really like to live in Manhattan, and discovered that he was a born raconteur with a pithy way of expressing himself and a dry sense of humour.

‘A taxi had just dropped me at Madison and Sixty-third one evening,’ he told her, ‘when footsteps hurried up behind me and a tough-looking character grabbed hold of my arm. He was picking himself up from the sidewalk for the second time before he managed to explain that I’d lost my wallet and he was trying to return it. To add to my chagrin, when we had a drink together I discovered he was a fellow colleague in the banking business.’

‘Is New York a very violent city?’ she asked, when she’d stopped laughing.

‘There’s not as much violence as the media might lead you to believe. Though, as with most big cities, it has its share.’

The food and wine proved to be excellent, and the service first class, but it was the atmosphere that Clare found herself enjoying most, and she said so.

He nodded agreement. ‘That’s why I come here.’

‘Do we tend to like the same things?’

With a strange note in his voice, he said, ‘Oh, yes. Though we can disagree and have stimulating arguments, it’s been clear from the start that our tastes and minds mesh...’

For a moment she felt warmed, though common sense told her that as they didn’t love each other there had to have been something, apart from sex, to draw them together.

‘For one thing we both enjoy the good life and being rich.’

There was a bitter cynicism in his tone that chilled the warmth, and she recalled his certainty that she’d married him for what he could give her.

‘Who wouldn’t enjoy being rich?’ she asked wryly. ‘Though I doubt very much if money can buy real happiness.’

His brilliant gaze on her face, he enquired silkily, ‘Still, it must have its compensations? You were prepared to sell yourself...’

‘I’ve only your word that I did.’

‘Don’t doubt it.’

‘But, J—’ She broke off, biting her lip, somehow unable to call him by his name.

He reached across the table and took her hand, his thumb pressing menacingly against the soft palm.

‘Did I forget to tell you what I’m called?’

‘Wh-what?’ she stammered.

The green eyes pinned her. ‘Do you know what my name is?’

‘Of course I know what your name is.’

‘You seem unwilling to use it.’

She found herself scoffing, ‘Why on earth should I be?’

‘Then let me hear you say it.’

Reluctantly, and scarcely above a whisper, she said, ‘Jos.’

‘Again.’

When she hesitated, he lifted her hand to his lips, biting the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb.

‘Jos, please...’

His smile was sardonic. ‘That sounded more as if you meant it.’

That little show of dominance effectively spoiled the calm of the evening, and though he went on to prove himself an entertaining companion she was unable to relax.

They were sipping their coffee when, despite her long sleep, she found herself drooping, having to make an effort to sit up straight.

He noticed at once. ‘Getting tired?’

‘A little,’ she admitted.

He signalled for the bill.

Outside, the summer evening was clear and warm, making the prospect of a short walk back to the Ventnor Building a not unpleasant one. As they began to stroll Jos took her hand.

She shivered, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the little night breeze that had sprung up.

The scent of flowering shrubs drifted across from Central Park, perfuming the air, and far above Fifth Avenue and the lights of the city stars shone in a deep blue sky.

But Clare scarcely noticed the beauty of the night. Tense and aware, with her hand imprisoned in his, their arms occasionally brushing, all her attention was focused on Jos.

When they got back to the penthouse though the lights were on there wasn’t a sound, and the place appeared to be empty.

Confirming that, Jos remarked casually, ‘It’s Roberts’ night off.’

The realisation that they were quite alone made her feel distinctly apprehensive.

He slid aside the glass panels and led her onto the lamplit terrace to look over the glittering panorama that was Manhattan by night.

As they approached the balustrade she held back.

Feeling her instinctive reluctance, he stopped. ‘Have you always been scared of heights?’

‘I’m not sure...I don’t think so.’ She wrinkled her smooth forehead. ‘Maybe something happened that frightened me...’ As she spoke her skin chilled and a shudder ran through her.

‘What is it?’ he demanded sharply. ‘What do you know?’

‘It’s nothing... Just someone walking over my grave.’ She tried to speak lightly. ‘And all I know is, I feel safer back here.’

She was wearing her jacket draped around her shoulders, and as Jos slipped it off he brushed aside the dark silky cloud of hair and kissed her nape.

Feeling that frisson of fear and excitement she experienced every time he touched her, she caught her breath in an audible gasp.

Indicating a luxuriously cushioned swing-seat beyond the splashing fountain, he suggested blandly, ‘Why don’t you sit down and relax while I get us a nightcap?’

More than uneasy, with all her doubts and worries, her fear of both the future and the past suddenly crowding in on her, she shook her head. ‘I think I’ll go straight to bed.’

When he said nothing, she added awkwardly, ‘Goodnight... Jos.’

She was turning away when his hand shot out and grasped her wrist, bringing her to a halt, not hurting—not if she stood quietly—but keeping her where he wanted her. ‘We haven’t tried that therapy I mentioned.’

‘Therapy?’ she echoed unsteadily. ‘What kind of therapy?’

‘The kind that might help you to remember just what it’s like between us.’

Recalling his apparent reluctance to answer some of her questions, and her own sneaking suspicion that perhaps he didn’t want her to regain her memory, she was surprised.

Seeing that surprise, he smiled mirthlessly. ‘Did you think I’d prefer you not to remember?’

‘I wondered,’ she admitted.

Green eyes gleaming beneath dark, well-marked brows, he shook his head. ‘If you didn’t get your memory back it would spoil my plans...’

That veiled statement seemed almost to hold a hint of menace, and she was about to ask him what he meant when he went on, ‘However, as your remembering might prove to be a two-edged sword, until you’re more able to cope I think we should take it easy and not try to hurry things. Except in one area...’

He used the wrist he was holding to draw her closer, so his other hand could raise her chin. His face was only inches away—a lean, attractive face, with beautiful hollows beneath the cheekbones and a mouth that gave her goosebumps.

She felt his breath on her cheek and shivered, her lips suddenly yearning for his. As though he knew, he bent his dark head to touch his mouth to hers.

Last time his kiss had been hard and punishing. This time it was light as thistledown, coaxing and tantalising until her lips parted for him. Then he deepened the kiss, cradling her face between his hands while his mouth made an uncompromising demand that sent her head spinning.

Somehow she knew that she was normally cool and in control, but this man had the power to heat her blood and arouse a fierce, almost overwhelming desire.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lee-wilkinson/a-husband-s-revenge/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.