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Marriage On Trial
Lee Wilkinson


Elizabeth had barely whispered "I do" when she discovered that her new husband hadn't married her for love. Her wedding dreams shattered, Elizabeth insisted on an annulment and disappeared from Quinn Durville's life, changed her identity and vowed never to see him again….But Quinn had tracked her down– and claimed she was still his wife! Did this mean Quinn really did love her after all, or was he suggesting a trial marriage to get his revenge?









“You don’t mean that I’m…?”


“Still my wife? That’s exactly what I mean.”

“No, I can’t be,” Elizabeth cried desperately. “The marriage was going to be annulled.”

“That was your idea,” Quinn reminded her. “You didn’t wait to see if I was in agreement.”

“But when I swore I had no intention of living with you, the family lawyers drew up the necessary papers and I signed them.”

“Well, I didn’t….”


LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a village in Derbyshire, England. Most winters they get cut off by snow! Both enjoy traveling, and previously joined forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spending a year going round 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.




Marriage on Trial

Lee Wilkinson





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




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN




CHAPTER ONE


GUESSING that the occasion would be a glittering one, Elizabeth, unable to compete, had chosen simplicity: a midnight-blue cocktail dress, silk-clad legs, plain suede court shoes, and her long, sable-dark hair in an elegant chignon.

Her fingers were ringless, and she wore no jewellery apart from a watch on her left wrist and earrings in her neat lobes. Made of silver and mother-of-pearl, intricately curved in the shape of a mermaid, they were extremely old and very beautiful.

She was ready and waiting when the bell rang.

Slipping into her grey, fun-fur coat and picking up her squashy bag, she opened the door of her tiny mews cottage and smiled at the tall, well-built man wearing impeccable evening clothes.

Richard Beaumont bent his head and kissed her cheek. ‘You look delightful, as always.’ His voice was clear and cultured, his blond hair brushed smooth, his aristocratic face full of charm.

The November evening was dark and damp, with more than a hint of fog in the air. By the black-painted door of Cantle Cottage a yellow rose, still flowering bravely, was beaded with moisture, and in the light shed by the old-fashioned street lamps the wet cobbles gleamed like golden fish scales.

‘What time does the sale start?’ Elizabeth asked, as he helped her into the Beaumonts’ chauffeur-driven limousine.

‘Nine-thirty, after a champagne buffet. Because it’s a small, private collection of gems that are being sold, the auction itself should be over fairly quickly.’

Wealthy, and a lover of beautiful things, Richard collected precious stones as another man might collect postage stamps.

‘Will you be bidding for anything special?’ she asked, as the sleek car pulled out of the cul-de-sac hidden away in the heart of town, and turned towards Hyde Park.

His blue eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘Very special. The Van Hamel diamond.’

‘Is there likely to be much competition?’

‘Though only a relatively small, select group of people have been invited, I’d be surprised if there wasn’t quite a lot.’

‘But you will get it?’

Smiling at the thought of being beaten, he answered with supreme confidence, ‘Oh, yes, I’ll get it. It’s not particularly large, but it’s flawless, and the cutting is exquisite. It would make a perfect engagement ring.’

This last was added so casually that she blinked.

‘You seem surprised.’

She had guessed that he was getting serious, but unsure of herself, of what she wanted, she hadn’t known whether to be pleased or anxious.

Neither an impetuous youth nor a man to mistime things, apparently reading her indecision, Richard had played a waiting game, asking for nothing more than her company, refusing to press her.

Until now.

They were held up by traffic signals, and in the light from the street lamps he studied her half-averted face, the sweep of dark lashes, the straight nose, the warm curve of her lips, the pure line of her jaw. ‘Surely you know I love you and want to marry you?’

Though aware that he was expecting some response to his declaration, thrown by the suddenness of it, she remained silent while her thoughts whirled.

The only son of a baronet, he was a handsome, charismatic man, polished and considerate. A brilliant brain and an unsurpassed knowledge of the world’s stock markets had made him wealthy in his own right, and well respected in business circles.

She was twenty-six. If she wasted this chance, there would be very few other men to come anywhere near him, and she wanted a real home and children while she was still young.

After a moment, his voice even, he added, ‘If the answer’s yes, I thought after the auction we might go back to my apartment?’

As well as the Beaumonts’ large Georgian house in Lombard Square, which Elizabeth knew well, Richard had a suite of rooms at a Park Lane hotel, which she didn’t know at all.

Conventional in many ways, he was making it abundantly clear that, though he’d accepted a more or less platonic relationship so far, he wasn’t prepared to keep on doing so.

It was make-your-mind-up time.

So what was she to do? It was more than five years since her life had fallen apart. She was genuinely fond of Richard, so surely it should be possible to put the past behind her and start living again? To give him the commitment he was asking for?

‘Well, my dear?’ he pressed.

She turned to look at him, her clear, dark grey eyes steady. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

With a little smile of triumph, he took her hand and squeezed it. As they moved off once more, he said, ‘I don’t see any need for a long engagement, so will you give some thought to a spring wedding…?’

A moment later they were leaving the main road and turning into Belham Place. Belham House, where the sale was being held, was a blaze of lights.

Originally a small palace, the beautiful old building was set back behind a grey stone wall surmounted by black and gold spiked railings.

A uniformed policeman was standing by the tall, ornamental, wrought-iron gates. After a glance at Richard’s gilt-edged invitation card, he waved them through.

The chauffeur drove past an apron crowded with cars and set them down by an imposing, studded door guarded by a plain-clothes officer.

‘You needn’t wait, Smithers,’ Richard informed his driver crisply. ‘We’ll get a taxi back.’

Elizabeth gave him full marks for discretion.

Once inside the marble-floored and pillared foyer her coat was whisked away by a liveried attendant. A moment or two later they were being greeted by their silver-haired host—an impoverished earl, she learnt later—before being handed a glass of vintage champagne.

When they joined the other well-dressed guests in the chandelier-lit dining hall, Richard introduced her to several of his acquaintances, then, sotto voce, pointed out a couple of security men mingling inconspicuously with the crowd.

During an excellent buffet, where the champagne flowed freely, her companion appeared to be his usual cool, relaxed self, but she could sense a simmering excitement, a feeling of expectancy beneath the surface calm.

As nine-thirty approached, the assembled company moved through to the salesroom: a large salon, with double doors at each end. At the entrance they were each presented with a catalogue, before being shown to their seats.

A slim, sprightly man with fair, thinning hair carefully styled to hide incipient baldness, took his place on the auctioneer’s stand. He tapped with his gavel, and the sale began.

Some exceptional stones, both cut and uncut, came up but, his face impassive, Richard showed no particular interest until the last item was reached.

Clearing his throat, the auctioneer announced, ‘The final lot is a diamond of the first water, known as the Van Hamel…’

He went on to give precise details of its provenance, before suggesting, ‘May I start the ball rolling at two hundred and fifty thousand pounds?’

The bidding moved cautiously, as would-be buyers tried to judge the extent of the opposition. Richard watched and waited, his hands lying lightly in his lap, making no move.

Only when the price had reached three hundred and fifty thousand did he join the fray with a flick of his catalogue.

Two of the other bidders dropped out fairly quickly, making it a straight fight between Richard and a middle-aged, genteel-looking lady, whom earlier he’d identified as a dealer.

A ruby flashing fire whenever she raised her hand, she hung on tenaciously, and the price had been pushed up another fifty thousand before she shook her head, signalling defeat.

‘Four hundred thousand pounds,’ the auctioneer repeated for the third time, and raised his gavel.

Richard gave a murmur of satisfaction and smiled at Elizabeth, who smiled back.

But, his gaze travelling to the rear of the room, the auctioneer paused. Having lifted his brows questioningly, he nodded and announced, ‘Four hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’

A murmur of excitement rippled through the audience like a breeze through a cornfield.

Up till now, bidders had been raising the price by five or ten thousand pounds a time. The newcomer had raised it by fifty thousand in a single bid.

It was tactics, meant to be the coup de grâce, she realized dazedly.

Momentarily, Richard looked staggered, then, his blue eyes gleaming with the light of battle, he coolly topped the previous bid by the same amount.

Impassively, the auctioneer repeated the latest figure and looked across at the other contender, who responded promptly.

Elizabeth bit her lip. She’d been hoping that dramatic first bid was the only shot in the newcomer’s armoury. Clearly it wasn’t.

Raising it another fifty thousand, Richard asked in an undertone, ‘Can you see who’s bidding against me?’

She turned to peer cautiously over her shoulder, and saw a man wearing immaculate evening dress lounging nonchalantly against the far wall. He was looking away from her, but the arrogant set of that dark head, the easy stance were only too familiar.

The breath caught in her throat and her heart seemed to stop. No, no, it couldn’t be Quinn. It couldn’t.

He moved slightly, giving her a clear view of his hawk-like profile.

Oh, dear God, it was! There was no mistaking that powerful, hard-boned face… She felt faint and dizzy, as if all the blood was draining from her body.

While shock kept her eyes fixed on him, he raised the bidding once more with a slight movement of his index finger.

Until then she hadn’t considered the possibility that Richard might lose. Now she realized it was a battle of the giants.

Terrified that if she kept on looking Quinn might notice her, she dragged her gaze away and turned to the front.

Richard gave her a questioning glance.

Her mouth desert-dry, she shook her head.

Another flick of his catalogue and he was momentarily on top, the bidding running now at seven hundred thousand.

There was a slight pause, and Elizabeth felt a stir of hope. Then the auctioneer was announcing, ‘Eight hundred thousand pounds.’

A rise of one hundred thousand pounds.

The audience gasped.

Richard’s jaw tightened, and with an abrupt movement he indicated that his part in the proceedings had ended.

Elizabeth, shaken to the core, was bitterly sorry for him. She guessed that, though he would probably have given even more for the diamond, in the face of such competition he must have thought it lunacy to continue bidding.

The moment the sale was declared over, he rose, and, a hand beneath her elbow, helped her to her feet. Although he was hiding his disappointment and chagrin beneath a spurious air of calm, it was obvious he couldn’t wait to get out of the place.

Neither could she.

Quinn mustn’t see her. He mustn’t. She stifled a panicky urge to push her way through the crowd and bolt.

Richard’s hand at her waist, a hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach, she started to move towards the nearest exit as fast as the slow-moving throng would allow.

A glimpse of a tall, dark-haired man brought her heart into her mouth, but a second look showed he was at least forty, with a beefy face and a paunch.

They had reached the doors when one of Richard’s acquaintances drew level. ‘Hard luck,’ he remarked sympathetically. ‘But what can you do against opposition like that?’

‘Did you see who it was?’

‘Yes, it was Quinn Durville, a multimillionaire banker from the States. I heard a whisper that he came over specially, so he must have intended to get it.’

‘I should have known,’ Richard said morosely as the other man moved away. ‘I’ve come up against Durville before…’

Elizabeth felt as though she’d been kicked in the solar plexus. She had never dreamt that the two men might have met. It was so unlikely. Yet wasn’t there an old saying ‘The most unlikely thing to happen is nearly always the thing that does happen’?

His face set, Richard was going on, ‘When it’s something he wants, the swine doesn’t give any quarter, and he won’t let anything stand in his way.’

It was the simple truth. About six weeks after she’d left him, a man who was obviously a hired detective had tracked her down and started to watch her every move.

Realizing then how utterly ruthless Quinn could be, and knowing she could never go back to him, she had been forced to run, to change her name and find a fresh place to hide.

She shuddered at the memory.

Richard felt the slight movement and, his manner cool and controlled again after that brief, betraying flash of anger, asked, ‘You don’t know Durville, do you?’

Somehow she found her voice and answered, ‘No.’

‘Is there something wrong?’ Richard sounded solicitous. ‘You’re looking distinctly pale.’

‘I’m fine, really. I expect it’s just reaction.’

Coffee was being served in the dining hall. ‘Would you like to sit down and have a cup?’ he suggested.

‘No!’ Then, more moderately, she said, ‘No, thank you.’

His relief was evident. ‘In that case I’ll get your coat.’

Though he returned quite quickly with it over his arm, to Elizabeth it seemed a long time before she’d slipped it on and they were making their way across the foyer.

They were nearing the door when a man with crisp, peat-dark hair, easily topping six feet, and looking even bigger because of the breadth of his shoulders, appeared from behind a pillar.

As if he’d been lying in wait to intercept them, he moved purposefully to block their way.

Elizabeth’s heart lurched and began to race with suffocating speed. Face to face with this man she had hoped never to see again, she tried to stay calm, to convince herself that no matter what happened he could no longer hurt her.

But she was unable to do either. She felt sick with fear and remembered pain.

Sparing her barely a glance, the newcomer held out his hand to Richard. ‘Ah, Beaumont… You put up a good fight.’ The words only just escaped being patronizing.

Hiding his antagonism, Richard shook the proffered hand and remarked, ‘I fancy this makes us even?’

‘I hardly think so,’ Quinn disagreed smoothly.

There was a brief pause. When he showed no sign of moving away, impelled by good manners, Richard began the necessary introduction.

‘Elizabeth, may I present Mr Quinn Durville…?’

A kind of despairing pride kept her head high while she looked into that lean, autocratic face, with its high-bridged nose and chiselled mouth, and waited for Quinn to say they knew each other very well.

Feeling the tension already crackling between the two men, she was well aware that Richard would find the news unwelcome, to say the least.

It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if she’d confessed to knowing Quinn when he’d asked her… But, by denying it, she had effectively involved herself in a deception.

‘Durville, my fiancée, Miss Cavendish.’

Quinn took her hand and said a perfunctory, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Cavendish.’ His glance was cool and impersonal and, to her amazement, the greeting held nothing but conventional courtesy.

She drew a deep, unsteady breath, hardly daring to believe he hadn’t recognized her.

Of course he wouldn’t know the name Cavendish, and, having been christened Josian Elizabeth, she had been known from childhood as Jo…

Added to that she had altered a great deal in the time they’d been apart. Then, her fine bones had been smudged beneath a layer of puppy fat, her thick, silky eyebrows unshaped, her hair short and curly.

But perhaps the biggest change lay in her manner. Gone was the curvaceous, casually dressed girl, with a smiling mouth and laughing eyes, who had been as naïve and friendly as a Labrador puppy.

In her place was a slender, elegantly dressed woman, poised and sophisticated, her grey eyes guarded, her mouth vulnerable.

Oh, yes, she’d altered. Enough, it seemed, to save the stress and trauma that would surely have followed if Quinn had identified her.

As his warm clasp closed around her cold fingers, she felt her legs start to tremble and every nerve-ending in her body tighten in response to his touch.

He had always possessed a potent physical attraction that had been able to draw her like a magnet and hold her even against her will.

Panic-stricken, she reminded herself that she was a mature woman now, no longer young and susceptible, and no longer on her own. She had Richard. If the need arose, he would be a rock she could cling to.

Though surely it wouldn’t arise? Judging by Quinn’s distant civility, he’d forgotten her entirely, so she was safe, thank God.

Or was she? Could he be playing some deep dark game? Well, if he was, she had little option but to go along with it.

Somehow, she managed a husky, ‘How do you do?’ before withdrawing her hand.

‘Have you been engaged long, Miss Cavendish?’

The question startled her, and as she gaped at him stupidly Quinn added, ‘Only I notice you’re not wearing a ring.’

Turning to a thin-lipped Richard, he smiled a shade tauntingly. ‘It made me wonder if perhaps you had a special reason for wanting the Van Hamel diamond?’

Quinn had always had a brain as sharp as a razor, she thought with reluctant admiration.

Pointedly ignoring the question, Richard said curtly, ‘Will you excuse us?’ He took Elizabeth’s elbow. ‘If we don’t get moving we’ll have a job to find a taxi.’

Continuing to block their way, Quinn enquired, ‘Where are you heading?’

‘Park Lane.’ Obviously Richard was finding it an effort to remain civil.

‘As it happens, I’m going that way myself…’

Sensing what was to come, and desperate to get away, she froze.

‘I have a car, so I’ll be happy to drop you.’

Tension making her hold her breath, she glanced at Richard’s face, and was cheered to see that he was about to refuse.

Before he could speak, however, Quinn went on urbanely, ‘If you’re still interested in owning the Van Hamel, maybe we could talk about it on the way?’

By her side, Elizabeth felt Richard tense. He badly wanted the diamond. Would he be willing to sink his pride and negotiate?

But why should Quinn be disposed to?

If it was true that he’d come over from the States specially to get the Van Hamel, why should he be prepared to part with it to a rival?

There was something disturbing about the offer, something that put her in mind of, “‘Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly…’

She repressed a shiver, and with every ounce of her concentration willed Richard to reject it.

But, after an endless few seconds, to her consternation, he agreed, ‘Very well.’

Her stomach churning, she moved to rejoin the straggle of people still discussing the evening’s events.

As they headed for the main exit, she noticed two women pause in their conversation to glance covertly at Quinn. Without being conventionally handsome, he had the kind of tough, dynamic good looks that attracted and held the attention of most females.

Outside the fog had thickened. On the apron, car doors slammed and engines purred into life as they accompanied Quinn to a silver-grey Mercedes parked nearby.

He produced a key and opened the doors. Before Elizabeth could form any kind of protest she found herself being helped into the front passenger seat, while Richard, looking anything but pleased, was forced to climb into the back alone.

A moment later Quinn had slid behind the wheel and was querying, ‘Quite comfortable, Miss Cavendish?’

In the light from the dashboard his green eyes met and held hers. Just for an instant she fancied both his question and his glance held derision, as if he was well aware of how very uncomfortable she was. But then it was gone, leaving just a polite enquiry from a stranger.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered flatly.

Their headlights like searching antennae in the foggy air, they joined a stream of vehicles following each other through the gates and into Belham Place.

Beyond the quiet square the streets were busy, and as they negotiated the Friday-night traffic Quinn asked, ‘What do you do for a living, Miss Cavendish? Or perhaps you don’t need to actually work?’

Disliking both the question and the way it had been phrased, she hesitated before responding stiffly, ‘I’m Lady Beaumont’s secretary.’

‘Really? Well, if the position is a live-in one—’

‘It isn’t,’ Richard broke in brusquely. Then, with barely masked annoyance, he said, ‘You indicated that you were prepared to talk about the diamond?’

‘Ah, yes, the diamond…’ Quinn mimicked the other man’s cut-glass accent. ‘For a stone of its size it aroused a fair bit of interest.’

‘I heard you came over specially for the sale?’ Apparently Richard also had doubts.

‘Did you?’ Quinn, it seemed, was giving nothing away. Slipping neatly between a bus and a taxi, he added conversationally, ‘In the event, I almost missed it. Due to some last-minute technical fault, our landing was delayed. I only just managed to change, pick up a hire car, and get to Belham House in time.’

If only he hadn’t, Elizabeth thought with a sigh.

Sounding distinctly sour, Richard remarked, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bid by phone.’

A slight smile tugging at his lips, Quinn responded trenchantly, ‘Bidding by phone tends to be rather tame, don’t you think? I get more of a buzz from actually being there. Especially when there’s some action.

‘I must admit I was expecting rather more excitement in regard to some of the earlier lots…’

Elizabeth knew well that Quinn wasn’t a man for small talk, and, staring straight ahead, listening to his low-pitched, slightly husky voice analyzing the sale, she wondered what he was up to.

It was a little while before it dawned on her that rather than actually getting down to discussing the diamond he was employing delaying tactics.

But why?

When they reached Park Lane, with a glance in the rear-view mirror at his back-seat passenger, he broke off what he was saying to enquire, ‘The Linchbeck, isn’t it?’

Without waiting for an answer, he turned into the fore-court and drew to a stop outside the entrance to the quiet, exclusive hotel.

Aware that just by knowing the exact address Quinn had gained a subtle advantage, Elizabeth bit her lip as he came round to open her door.

Richard climbed out, and, his face expressing his annoyance, asked shortly, ‘Perhaps we could make an appointment to talk about the Van Hamel? Would any particular time and place suit you?’

‘There’s no time like the present,’ Quinn suggested, his voice bland.

Elizabeth felt sure that in the circumstances, and after the evening’s debacle, Richard would choose to wait until he’d fully regained his cool.

But to her surprise he agreed. ‘Then perhaps you’ll join us in the bar for a drink?’

‘Your suite would be preferable,’ Quinn said smoothly. ‘Rather more private.’

So there was the answer to her question, Elizabeth thought uneasily. For some reason of his own, Quinn wanted to see the other man’s apartment.

Convinced now that Richard was being manipulated, she found herself praying that he would tell his tormentor to go to the devil.

But before he could speak the doorman said a cheerful, ‘Nasty evening,’ and held open the heavy glass door.

Richard nodded abruptly and, his jaw tight, led the way inside and across the luxuriously carpeted foyer to the lift.

Elizabeth was five foot seven, fairly tall for a woman, but sandwiched between two men who both easily topped six feet she felt dwarfed, loomed over.

When they left the lift at the top floor, she took care to keep Richard between herself and Quinn until they reached the apartment.

The sitting room, with its plum-coloured curtains and carpet, its leather suite and sporting prints, was handsome, comfortable, and undoubtedly masculine.

After slipping her coat from her shoulders and hanging it in a recessed cupboard, Richard moved towards a small but well-stocked bar. ‘What would you like to drink, darling?’

She half shook her head. ‘I’d prefer a coffee later, thank you.’

Motioning his unwelcome guest to take a seat, Richard picked up the whisky decanter and queried, ‘Durville?’

‘I’m driving, so I’ll stick with coffee.’

Clearly in need of a drink, Richard poured himself a stiff whisky and swallowed a mouthful.

As he turned towards the kitchen, Quinn asked casually, ‘Mind if I take a look around? At one time I had a service flat in the Brenton Building, but I gave it up…’

Recalling her own brief stay there, Elizabeth shuddered. What should have been the happiest night of her life had turned into a nightmare.

‘Now I’m considering having a pied-à-terre here, for the times I’m in London,’ Quinn was going on, ‘rather than staying at hotels.’

His interest open, undisguised, with cool effrontery he began to prowl, peering first into a small study and then into a good-sized bedroom and bathroom.

Tense and ill at ease, Elizabeth perched on the edge of a chair and watched him warily. Oh, why had he come back into her life just when she was about to make a new commitment?

She had found it impossible to forget him, but she had almost succeeded in leaving the past behind, in convincing herself he no longer mattered.

But the past had suddenly caught up with her, and he did matter. Even though she feared and resented his presence, just the sight of him took her breath away and left her full of the bitter-sweet longing he had always effortlessly aroused in her.

Glancing in her direction, Quinn met her eyes.

Terrified of what he might read in them, she looked hurriedly away. It seemed he had blotted out both her and the past, and the last thing she wanted to do was remind him.

He came and sat down opposite, his ease mocking her lack of it. After a thoughtful scrutiny, one dark brow raised, he observed, ‘I take it you don’t live here, Miss Cavendish?’

Wanting to consolidate her position as Richard’s fiancée, she was loath to admit it. ‘What makes you think that?’ She strove to sound dismissive, even slightly amused.

‘There are no signs of female occupancy, and if you had lived here I’m fairly sure you would have made the coffee.’

‘A male chauvinist, I see,’ she said sweetly.

‘Not at all.’

‘But you consider a woman’s place is in the kitchen?’

His smile mocking, he said, ‘I can think of a better place for a woman to be.’

Her colour rising, she looked anywhere but at him.

‘So where do you live, Miss Cavendish?’

Her impulse was to say sharply that it was none of his business. Common sense warning that overreacting might make him suspicious, she stayed purposely vague. ‘At the moment I’m living in a small cottage.’

‘A mews cottage?’ It was as though he could read her mind.

‘Yes.’

‘In the West End?’

Whatever his motives for wanting to know, it was clear that he wasn’t going to be put off.

‘Hawks Lane,’ she said, hoping against hope that he hadn’t the faintest idea where that was. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she added coldly, ‘I’ll see if Richard needs any help.’

At that precise moment their host reappeared, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee.

When they had each been handed a cup, a slightly belligerent look on his face, Richard swallowed the rest of his whisky and, still standing, turned to the other man. ‘I was hoping to have an early night, so if we can discuss the diamond without further delay?’

‘Of course,’ Quinn agreed, his tone equable.

A moment or two passed in silence.

When it became obvious that the ball was in his court, a touch of angry colour appearing along his cheekbones, Richard suggested shortly, ‘Perhaps you’ll be good enough to name your price?’

‘Before I do, I’d like to know why you’re so keen to have that particular stone.’

There was another taut silence before, clearly at the end of his patience, Richard admitted, ‘You were right earlier. I was hoping to have it set into an engagement ring. If that puts the price up—’

‘Just the opposite,’ Quinn broke in. ‘In fact I’ll let you have it for the exact amount I’m paying for it.’

Elizabeth was once again besieged by doubts and misgivings. Why was he willing to part with a diamond he’d taken so much trouble to acquire, without making a profit?

It simply didn’t make sense.




CHAPTER TWO


RICHARD said slowly, ‘That’s very decent of you.’ Then, proving he had the same kind of doubts as Elizabeth, he asked, ‘May I ask why?’

‘Call it a wedding present.’ Quinn’s smile was sardonic. ‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow to complete the transaction.’

‘I’m in Amsterdam for the weekend. I fly back Monday morning.’

‘Say Monday afternoon, then?’

‘Fine. I’ll be at Lombard Square.’

Quinn put down his untasted coffee and rose to his feet. ‘Now, you mentioned that you wanted an early night, so I’ll get moving.’

Elizabeth drew a deep breath. He was going, and with a bit of luck she’d never have to see him again.

The evening had been a great strain, but she should be thankful for two things at least: Quinn hadn’t recognized her and, for whatever reason, he’d made no attempt to hold Richard to ransom over the diamond.

‘Let me see you out.’ Failing to hide his relief, Richard turned to lead the way to the door.

Standing where he was, Quinn said, ‘I’ll be happy to see you home, Miss Cavendish.’

His quiet announcement shook her rigid.

‘N-no, really…’ she stammered. ‘I couldn’t put you to so much trouble…’

The very last thing she wanted was for Quinn to see her home. But neither, she suddenly realized, did she want to stay at the apartment.

Since she’d agreed to come back with Richard, the whole mood of the evening had altered. So much had happened that both her mind and her emotions were in a whirl. She needed time to think, to get over the shock of seeing Quinn again.

As it was, she knew it would be impossible to go to bed with Richard tonight without a dark, mocking face coming between them…

Shuddering at the very idea, she added jerkily, ‘I’ll get a taxi later.’

She must talk to Richard. Tell him she had a headache… Make some excuse…

‘I doubt if there’ll be any taxis willing to venture out.’ Quinn’s level tones penetrated her thoughts. ‘The fog’s getting thicker by the minute.’

He indicated the windows, where nothing was visible but opaque grey mist. ‘If you don’t leave with me now, you’ll almost certainly be stuck for the night.’

Suppose he was right? If she was stuck, with only one bedroom it could prove difficult…

‘And believe me it’s no trouble,’ he added briskly. ‘I pass the end of Hawks Lane.’

As though the matter was settled, he strode across to the cupboard, retrieved her coat and held it for her.

Seeing that a furious-looking Richard was about to intervene, Elizabeth made up her mind. Giving him a speaking glance, she said, ‘In the circumstances I think it would make sense to go.’

Just for a second he looked ready to protest, then, apparently thinking her decision was because she wanted to observe the proprieties, being a gentleman, he stayed silent.

Slipping into her coat, she went on a shade awkwardly, ‘It’s been a tiring evening, and I’m more than ready for some sleep.’

If they’d been alone, Richard would almost certainly have taken her in his arms and kissed her with pleasurable skill and expertise, but, clearly inhibited by the other man’s presence, he gave her a mere peck on the cheek.

‘You’re off on Monday, aren’t you?’ His voice was tightly controlled. ‘So I’ll see you Tuesday. Perhaps we can go to Swann Neilson and discuss a suitable setting for the diamond?’

‘Lovely.’ She managed to smile at him, while a strange presentiment made a chill run through her.

‘Was that shiver caused by cold or excitement?’ Quinn’s mocking voice asked, as they left the penthouse together.

Without thinking, she answered, ‘Neither. Just a goose walking over my grave.’

His heavy-lidded eyes gleaming green as a cat’s between thick dark lashes, he remarked softly, ‘I once knew a girl who used to say that.’

Elizabeth cursed her careless tongue as, a hand at her waist, Quinn escorted her across the small foyer and into the lift.

Like some jailer, he stood much too close for comfort, but, afraid to move away in case it was obvious, she made herself stay where she was.

They descended without speaking, while she tried to convince herself that his remark had just been an idle one.

But suppose he’d guessed? Her blood ran cold at the thought.

Oh, why on earth had she left with him? In retrospect it had been a stupid and dangerous thing to do. Like jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire.

At least she would have been safe with Richard. If she’d simply told him that she didn’t want to sleep with him, he wouldn’t have pressed her.

Or would he?

He didn’t take kindly to being disappointed, and nothing had gone as he’d planned.

Still, he wasn’t an insensitive man, and without knowing the truth about Quinn surely he would have appreciated that the evening’s events had affected her, and forgiven her change of heart?

But now it was too late.

Outside, the fog was dense and clammy, enveloping the hotel entrance, obscuring the ornamental façade and turning the wrought-iron lamps into hovering, luminous ghosts.

There were hardly any pedestrians about, and a lot fewer cars than usual, the normal Park Lane traffic noise muffled and muted.

‘Looks pretty bad, sir,’ the doorman remarked.

‘Conditions certainly aren’t improving,’ Quinn agreed, dropping a generous tip into his ready palm.

‘Perhaps it would be wiser to stay?’ Elizabeth suggested eagerly. ‘They’d almost certainly have a room, and it would save you having to drive in this.’

‘I don’t see it as a problem.’ Already the car door was open and, a hand beneath her elbow, Quinn was helping her in. ‘I’ve driven in worse.’

As they joined the slow-moving traffic and began to crawl through fog-shrouded streets, tense and nervous, she stared straight ahead, until the amorphous grey mass made her eyes ache.

Needing to break a silence that was lengthening and beginning to get intolerable, she said, ‘This is the kind of fog one reads about in Victorian melodramas.’

Her normally clear, well-modulated voice sounded somewhat hoarse and strained.

‘Don’t tell me you read Victorian melodramas?’ While pretending to be shocked, Quinn’s sidelong glance was tolerant, even a trifle amused.

Relaxing a little, she admitted a shade ruefully, ‘I’ve developed quite a passion for them.

He laughed. ‘Does Beaumont approve of your taste in literature?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You don’t appear to know each other too well.’

‘We know each other very well.’ Even as she spoke she was aware that wasn’t the truth. Richard only knew the cool, collected, rather reserved woman she had become.

All her warmth and passion, her easy gaiety and generosity of spirit, her joie de vivre, were dead and gone, buried beneath the tombstone of the past.

‘When did you two meet?’ The question seemed to be an idle one.

‘When I started to work for Lady Beaumont.’

‘And when was that?’

Elizabeth wondered whether he was genuinely interested or just making polite conversation. But either way it seemed better to talk than sit in silence.

‘Last February,’ she answered. And, feeling on relatively safe ground, she went on, ‘The writer I had been working for was going abroad. I needed to find another job, so I joined an agency who sent me as a temp, after Miss Williams, Lady Beaumont’s secretary, went down with flu.

‘Then in April, when Miss Williams left to get married, I was offered the position permanently.’

‘So you spend your days dealing with a flood of social correspondence? That must be fascinating.’ The sarcasm was blatant.

There was a great deal more to it than that, but admitting that she was helping Lady Beaumont to research and write the Beaumont family history would be a dead giveaway.

Quinn slanted her a glance. ‘No comment?’

‘The salary’s good,’ she informed him tartly.

Saluting her spirit, he pursued, ‘So you and Beaumont have known each other since February… Have you been engaged long?’

‘You asked that before.’

‘As I recall, I didn’t get an answer.’

When she said nothing, he went on, ‘At a guess I should say not very long at all.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You looked startled when Beaumont introduced you as his fiancée—as if you hadn’t had time to get used to the idea.’

Quinn had always been a formidable opponent, she thought bitterly. He missed nothing, and his keen brain drew fast and accurate conclusions.

‘In my opinion,’ he went on, ‘Beaumont’s the conservative type, the sort to go down on one knee with a background of soft lights and sweet music and a ring ready to slip onto his chosen one’s finger…’

Vexed by the open mockery, Elizabeth bit her lip.

‘Yet you had no ring. Which suggested a spur-of-the-moment proposal, with the Van Hamel as a carrot. Possibly because he was unsure of you…’

The summing-up was so precise that he could almost have been there.

‘Or maybe for some other reason.’

‘Some other reason?’

‘Either to persuade you into his bed, or to keep you there, if you were getting restive.’

If the past five years had taught Elizabeth anything, it was how to hide her feelings and exercise self-control. Slowly she began to count up to ten.

She had reached four when he invited, ‘Go ahead, say it.’

‘Say what?’ Her voice was husky with suppressed anger.

‘If you can’t think of anything better, try, “How dare you?”’

‘It sounds as though I’m not the only one who reads Victorian melodramas.’

He laughed as if genuinely amused. ‘Touché.’ Then, like a terrier worrying at a bone, he said, ‘I gather no wedding date has yet been set?’

‘No. But Richard has suggested spring.’ She made her answer as offhand as possible.

‘Will Lady Beaumont approve of her son’s choice of future wife, do you think?’ There was a bite to the question.

Elizabeth rather doubted it. Though pleasant and friendly up to a point, Lady Beaumont would almost certainly have preferred a society girl, rather than a secretary, for a daughter-in-law.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ she answered shortly. ‘You’d have to ask her.’

‘Suppose she doesn’t?’

Wondering if he was trying to rattle her, Elizabeth said, ‘I’d rather suppose she does.’ Adding calmly, ‘But, whether she does or not, Richard isn’t a man to allow himself to be influenced.’

‘So you’re satisfied that he really does want to marry you?’

‘He said he did.’

‘And you want to marry him?’

‘Of course I want to marry him.’

Quinn lifted a dark brow, and instantly she wished that rather than being so emphatic she’d simply said yes.

‘Why?’ he asked softly. ‘Or is that a silly question?’

‘You mean am I marrying him for his money?’

‘Are you?’

‘No.’

‘Then why?’

Rattled by his persistence, she spoke the exact truth. ‘I want a real home and a family.’ Noting the wry twist to his lips, she added, ‘Isn’t that what the majority of women want?’

‘So you don’t love him?’

‘Of course I love him.’ Damn! There she was, doing it again.

‘In that case I would have expected you to mention love first. The majority of women would have done.’

He was a hard man to fool.

Trying not to sound defensive, she said, ‘I wouldn’t have agreed to marry Richard if I didn’t love him.’

Quinn laughed harshly. ‘If he really loves you, the poor devil has all my sympathy.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she denied sharply.

‘Oh, I think you do.’

‘You’re mistaken.’

He shrugged. ‘I thought I detected a distinct lack of passion on your part.’

The last thing she wanted to feel was passion. Like a fire that blazed out of control, it ended up destroying everything it touched.

She fought back. ‘What makes you think there’s any lack of passion? In any case there’s nothing wrong with a marriage that doesn’t send both partners up in flames.’

‘There’s not much right with it.’

Stung, she cried, ‘I suppose you consider you’re an expert?’

‘Hardly. However, if my wife—’

‘But you’re not married,’ she burst out. Then, beset by a veritable tumult of emotion, she asked, ‘Are you?’

‘Yes, I’m married. What made you so sure I wasn’t?’

‘I-I wasn’t sure… I just thought… I mean I presumed you…’ The words tailed off helplessly.

He was a virile, red-blooded man and she hadn’t expected him to stay celibate. Indeed she’d tortured herself with the thought of him taking a string of mistresses, and been bitterly jealous of all those unknown women. But somehow she hadn’t expected him to be married.

Yet why shouldn’t he be? Five years was a long time, and he’d once said he wanted children. He might even have a family by now… The thought was like a knife twisting in her heart.

But she ought to be thankful, she told herself firmly. As far as he was concerned the past was clearly over and done with. Even if he had recognized her, he would no longer pose any kind of threat…

‘Here we are.’ Quinn’s voice, holding a quiet satisfaction, broke into her thoughts.

Peering through the dense, smothering curtain of fog, Elizabeth could just make out that they were turning into Hawks Lane.

Unwilling to let Quinn know exactly where she lived, she had intended to get out of the car on the main road, and walk the hundred yards or so home. But now it was too late.

‘What number is it?’ he enquired casually.

‘Fifteen,’ she answered reluctantly. ‘It’s just past the second lamp.’

As the big car slipped down the mews like a grey ghost through the grey fog, she fumbled in her bag for her key.

When they drew up outside Cantle Cottage, she said hurriedly, ‘Thank you very much for bringing me home… You needn’t get out. If you drive straight on there’s a turning space in about fifty yards.’

Ignoring her words, he switched off the engine and slid from behind the wheel. A moment later he was holding open her door.

In her haste to escape she stumbled and dropped the key, and heard it tinkle on the cobbles.

A hand beneath her elbow, Quinn steadied her and stooped to retrieve it.

She wondered how on earth he’d see to find it. But a moment later he was opening the door and ushering her inside.

As she switched on the wall lights and, half blocking the doorway, opened her mouth to thank him again, he calmly walked past her.

Before she knew what was happening he had closed the door against the swirling fog and was helping her off with her coat.

Having hung it in the alcove, he turned and, seeing the panic in her grey eyes, asked innocently, ‘Something wrong?’

Enunciating carefully, she said, ‘I’m grateful to you for bringing me home, Mr Durville, but I wasn’t planing to invite you in… As I said earlier, it’s been a tiring evening and I’m in need of some sleep.’

She was moving to re-open the door when his fingers closed around her wrist, his grip light but somehow relentless.

As she froze, he suggested silkily, ‘Before you throw me out, I think the least you can do is offer me some coffee.’

That mocking ‘before you throw me out’ echoing in her ears, and knowing only too well there was no way she could make him leave until he was good and ready, she agreed stiffly, ‘Very well.’

When he released her wrist, Elizabeth made herself walk in a controlled manner towards the kitchen. But somehow it still felt like a rushed escape.

Deciding instant would be quicker, she part filled the kettle and, her hands unsteady, spooned dark roast granules into a cup.

He’d always liked his coffee black and fairly strong, with just one spoonful of sugar. As soon as it was ready, she picked it up and hurried back to the living room.

The chintz curtains had been drawn across the casement windows, the standard lamp was lit, and the living-flame gas fire, which stood in the inglenook fireplace, had been turned on.

Quinn had discarded his evening jacket and loosened his bow-tie, and looked alarmingly settled and at home in shirt-sleeves, sitting on the settee in front of the leaping flames.

‘Thank you.’ He accepted the cup, and queried, ‘Aren’t you having one?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not thirsty.’

Giving her an upward glance from between thick dark lashes, he used his free hand to pat the settee beside him. ‘Then come and sit by me.’

She had been intending to sit well away from him, but after a moment’s hesitation, deciding it would be quicker and easier to take the line of least resistance, she obeyed, leaving as much space as possible between them.

If only he’d drink his coffee and go!

As though she’d faxed him the thought, he took a sip, and remarked, ‘You must have extrasensory perception.’

When she looked at him blankly, he explained, ‘You appear to know exactly how I like my coffee.’

Thrown into confusion, she lied, ‘I must have been thinking of Richard. That’s how he takes his… So it’s just as well your tastes coincide.’

‘It surprises me that a man who likes his coffee black would automatically put cream into other people’s.’

Too late she recalled the creamy coffee that Richard had provided. ‘He knows I take cream,’ she said, and prayed that Quinn would let the matter drop.

Her prayer was answered.

With a slight shrug, he set his cup down on the oval coffee table, and looking around the low-ceilinged room with its white plaster walls, black beams and polished oak floorboards, commented, ‘This is a real gem of a place. How long have you been living here?’

‘About nine months.’

‘You struck lucky. It isn’t often something like this comes up for rent.’

‘It isn’t rented.’

‘Ah!’ Softly he observed, ‘If one’s romantically inclined, it must make an ideal love-nest.’

‘If you’re implying that Richard comes here—’ Realising that she was playing into his hands, she broke off abruptly.

‘Doesn’t he?’

‘Certainly not! Except to pick me up occasionally.’

Raising a dark brow, Quinn pursued, ‘But he did set you up here?’

‘He did no such thing!’

Quinn made no attempt to hide his scepticism. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anyone on a secretary’s salary, even if it’s an exceptionally good one, to be able to buy a place like this.’

‘I didn’t buy it. Emily Henderson, the writer I’d worked for for several years, asked me to take care of it…’

After living in a cramped and dingy bedsit above a seedy video shop, having the opportunity to move into Cantle Cottage had seemed like a miracle.

‘She’s gone to Australia for a year to stay with her son and his family,’ Elizabeth added flatly, and wondered why she was taking the trouble to explain.

But she knew only too well why. It was a hangover from the past, when Quinn had so badly misjudged her. Well, the past was long gone, she reminded herself briskly, and she no longer had to justify anything.

Frowning, as though he could read her thoughts, he harked back, ‘So where do you and Beaumont meet when you have your…shall we say…trysts? Obviously not his apartment… And I can’t see the family home being at all suitable.’

Losing her temper, she snapped, ‘And I can’t see what makes where we meet any of your business.’

‘Then you do sleep with him…’ Though the words themselves were triumphant, there was a kind of weary acceptance in the low-pitched voice, rather than satisfaction. ‘And he wants the Van Hamel as a carrot to keep you where he—’

‘You’re quite wrong,’ she broke in furiously. ‘Richard wants the Van Hamel for its own sake… And whether or not I sleep with him is entirely my affair.’

A look that seemed to hold both anger and pain crossed Quinn’s dark face, but a split second later it was gone, and Elizabeth knew she must have imagined it.

After a moment, his expression thoughtful, he pursued, ‘Though you clearly weren’t at home in the apartment, I got the distinct impression that you were intending to stay the night?’

‘What if I was?’ She tried to sound offhand.

‘Yet you seemed to be unprepared, not even a sponge bag, which leads me to believe that it hadn’t been planned in advance…

‘It’s my guess that he only proposed to you this evening, perhaps on the way to the sale, and that he asked you then to go back with him.’

Her expression telling him more clearly than words that he was right, he smiled sardonically.

When she remained determinedly silent, he went on, ‘He was certainly expecting you to stay, and though he did his best to act like a gentleman he was furious when he realized you really were going to leave…’

Then, like a cobra striking, he asked, ‘Why did you change your mind? Was it because of me?’

‘Why on earth should it be?’ She made an effort to sound dismissive.

‘You tell me.’

‘It was nothing to do with you,’ she lied hardily.

‘Then why?’

‘I had a headache. Now, I really would like to go to bed, so if you could finish your coffee…?’

Picking up his cup, he drained it, before remarking, ‘My, but you seem uncommonly eager to be rid of me.’

When she made no effort to refute that statement, he turned to look at her, his green eyes gleaming. ‘Bearing in mind that I still have the Van Hamel, I’m surprised you can’t bring yourself to be a little more gracious.’

It was a threat, however subtly worded.

‘I don’t care a damn about the Van Hamel.’ The retort was out before she could prevent it.

‘You may not, but your fiancé certainly does. In fact, judging by the amount I was able to push him to tonight, I’d say he’s set his heart on having it…’

Once again Quinn was one hundred per cent accurate.

‘So if you don’t want to see him disappointed…’

She didn’t.

Possibly because of his nature and privileged upbringing, Richard wasn’t a good loser. Like a spoilt child, he was unable to forget a failure. Losing the Van Hamel now would rankle, and could end up souring their whole engagement.

No matter what other precious stone he chose for her ring, Elizabeth knew quite well that, in his eyes at least, it would always be second best, and every time he looked at it he would feel angry and dissatisfied.

Gritting her teeth, she made an effort to be civil. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been ungracious…’

‘That’s better,’ Quinn murmured encouragingly. ‘Now perhaps you could make me some supper and another cup of coffee? Oh, and please do join me. I dislike eating alone.’

Though politely framed it was undoubtedly an order.

Knowing only too well that he was playing with her, deliberately provoking her, she felt a fierce desire to smack his mocking face and tell him to get out.

Instead, she rose to her feet without a word, and, picking up his empty cup, carried it through to the kitchen.

This time she got out the cafetière and warmed it, before taking a wholegrain loaf from the bread bin, and ham and cheese from the fridge.

She was cutting bread, when a movement in the doorway distracted her and the knife slipped and nicked her finger, making her gasp.

‘Let me see.’ Quinn was by her side in an instant. Lifting her hand, he examined the cut where a blob of red blood was welling.

‘It’s nothing,’ she assured him.

All at once her stomach clenched and fire flashed through her, as he put her finger in his mouth and sucked. While he kept it there, his green eyes met and held hers, as though assessing her response.

It seemed an eternity before, head spinning, she was able to tear her gaze away.

Inspecting the now bloodless cut, he asked, ‘Where do you keep your sticking-plasters?’

Trembling in every limb, and feeling as though she’d narrowly survived some disaster, she said jerkily, ‘There’s a first-aid box in the cupboard.’

When, with deft efficiency, he’d put a plaster on her finger and replaced the box, he remarked, ‘You look shaken.’ He sounded smug and self-satisfied, as if he knew perfectly well that it had nothing to do with cutting herself. ‘Perhaps I’d better make the sandwiches?’

‘No, I’m quite all right, really.’ It seemed easier to be occupied.

While he leaned against one of the oak units and watched her, she finished making the sandwiches and filled the cafetière.

When it was assembled on a tray—and remembering his ‘do join me’ she’d added an extra plate and cup—he straightened. ‘Let me carry that.’

With a sense of unreality, she followed him back to the living room.

She was about to take a seat in one of the armchairs when, having put the tray on the low table, he motioned her to sit beside him. Then, as though he owned the place, he pressed the plunger and poured coffee for them both.

Passing her a plate, he urged, ‘Won’t you have a sandwich?’

‘Thank you.’ Elizabeth took a sandwich she didn’t want and toyed with it, while he began to eat with a healthy appetite.

She had presumed that, in asking for supper, he was simply demonstrating his power, but he seemed to be genuinely hungry.

Catching her look of surprise, he said, ‘I missed dinner tonight.’ Then he added wryly, ‘You thought I was just practising being obnoxious, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t think you needed any practice.’ The words were out before she could prevent them.

‘Oh, well, I suppose I asked for that.’

To her amazement he was laughing, white, healthy teeth gleaming, deep creases appearing at each side of his chiselled mouth.

She felt her heart lurch then begin to race as she remembered the feel of that mouth touching hers…caressing her throat…finding the soft curves of her breasts…closing on a taut nipple…bringing a pleasure so exquisite it had been almost pain… Arousing a hunger that had made her shudder against him in an agony of need…

Perhaps she made some small sound, because he turned his head to look directly at her. In an instant her face flooded with scalding colour.

‘Erotic thoughts?’ he asked quizzically.

Knowing it was useless to deny it, she lied huskily, ‘In spite of the headache I was just wishing I’d stayed with Richard.’

Hoping desperately that Quinn would believe her, she knew he had when his face tightened.

But why should he be angry? What she did was nothing to do with him.

Slowly, he said, ‘If you can look like that when you think of him, your feelings must be a great deal more passionate than I’d imagined. I doubt if I’ve ever seen such naked longing on any woman’s face…’

She bit her soft inner lip until she tasted blood, before saying with what equanimity she could muster, ‘It’s getting very late…’

Desperate for him to be gone, she jumped to her feet and, walking to the window on legs that felt like chewed string, drew back the curtain.

A grey blanket of fog pressed damply against the glass, thick and smothering, allowing no glimpse of the outside world.

As levelly as possible, she went on, ‘And I’m afraid the conditions aren’t improving…’

‘No,’ he agreed, coming to stand behind her shoulder.

Awkwardly, she went on, ‘So don’t you think it would make sense to—?’

‘You’re quite right,’ he broke in smoothly. ‘Rather than risk an accident, it would make more sense to stay here.’

‘N-no, I didn’t mean that,’ she stammered. ‘You can’t possibly stay here. There’s only one bedroom.’

‘I’m quite willing to sleep on the couch.’

Panic-stricken, she cried, ‘No, I don’t want you to do that…’

His brows shot up. ‘I see! Well, if you want me to share your bed, I’ll be happy to stand in for Beaumont.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant!’

He sighed. ‘Pity. For a moment I thought—’

‘And you know quite well it wasn’t.’

His grin confirming that he’d just been baiting her, he said with mock resignation, ‘So the couch it is.’

With growing desperation, she clutched at straws. ‘But you don’t have any night things… And surely your hotel can’t be too far away?’

‘I do have some night things,’ he contradicted her calmly. ‘What I don’t have is a hotel. You see, I hadn’t planned on staying in town. My intention was to go on to Saltmarsh.’

‘Saltmarsh?’ The word was only a whisper.

Unbidden, her mind produced a series of vivid pictures. The town of Saltmarsh, with its narrow streets and half-timbered houses, its air of time standing still… Saltmarsh Island, some mile long by half a mile wide, connected to the mainland by a causeway which was only passable at low tide… Saltmarsh House, the beautiful old house that dominated the island…

‘It’s in Essex. Have you ever been there?’ Quinn’s glance was searching.

Her mind still full of images, she shook her head mutely.

‘It was once a thriving coastal town; now it’s a sleepy backwater with a population of a few thousand. My father used to live just off shore, on an island connected by a causeway.’

Used to? Henry Durville had once told her he would never willingly leave his home.

Had he become too ill to remain there? She saw Quinn’s eyes narrow, and for one frightening second thought she’d asked the question aloud.

But of course she hadn’t. Making an effort to pull herself together, Elizabeth went back to the real issue. ‘I’m quite sure you could find a hotel. There are several not too far away.’

‘I’m quite sure you’re right,’ he agreed easily. ‘But, taking everything into consideration, I’d rather stay here.’

She found herself begging. ‘No… Please…’

‘What are you so scared of? Don’t you trust me not to wander in the night?’

It wasn’t that. By his own admission he was married, and she was oddly convinced that he was a man who wouldn’t cheat on his wife.

As she began to shake her head, he went on, ‘If that’s it, I promise I won’t move off the couch.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

A gleam in his eye, he suggested, ‘You’re scared that with such a build-up of frustration you’ll wander?’

‘Nothing of the kind!’

‘Then why are you so against me staying until morning?’

She wanted him to go now. At once. Wanted never to have to see him again. The thought of him being here under her roof until morning was unendurable.

Hoarsely, she said, ‘Richard would be furious if he found out.’

‘Then we won’t tell him. Now, if you could just rustle up a spare pillow and a blanket, I’ll fetch my things in.’

Shrugging into his jacket, he went out to the car, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Feeling sick and helpless, she stood rooted to the spot, watching swirls of fog drifting into the room and disappearing like wraiths in the warmer air.

A moment or two later she heard the boot lid being closed. Only then, as though some part of her mind had just kicked in, she hurried to the door and slammed it shut. If he couldn’t see to drive, he could walk to the nearest hotel.




CHAPTER THREE


ALMOST before the thought was completed, she heard the key turn in the lock. A second later the door swung open.

Too late, she wished desperately that she’d reacted quicker and either pushed home the bolt or set the safety chain.

Closing the door carefully behind him, Quinn put the small grip he was carrying down beside the settee, and shook his head reprovingly. ‘That wasn’t very kind. It’s just as well I had the key in my pocket.’

‘Was that chance or foresight?’ she asked bitterly.

‘I try not to leave too much to chance…’

So the first time he’d opened the door he’d kept her key. She’d had so much on her mind she hadn’t given a thought to what might have happened to it.

‘Which is just as well. It’s as thick as soup out there. Even trying to walk to the nearest hotel would have been no picnic.’

Deliberately, he stepped towards her. ‘Don’t you think you owe me an apology?’

‘No, I don’t,’ she retorted with a boldness she was far from feeling. Then, standing her ground with an effort, she added, ‘I didn’t invite you in in the first place, and I want you to go.’

‘I’m afraid it’s what I want that counts.’ Though he spoke quietly, there was little doubt that beneath his air of calm he was furiously angry.

He took another step, and all at once he was much too near. She saw, as though magnified by some glass in her mind, that his dark hair was dewed with tiny droplets, his lashes were long and curly, and his green eyes had flecks of gold in their depths. At the corner of his mouth a muscle twitched spasmodically.

As she stood staring into that tough, dynamic face, he took her head between his hands.

She froze. Afraid he was going to kiss her. Wanting him to kiss her.

Even after all this time, and remembering how he’d cruelly shattered her life, part of her still hungered for him with a deep, primitive desire that frightened her half to death.

One hand dropping to cradle the warmth of her nape, the fingers of the other following the curve of her cheek and tracing the neat contours of her ear, he leaned closer.

Her lips parted and, drowning in a wave of emotion, she waited.

But instead of kissing her he tugged at first one earlobe, then the other.

She saw him slip something into his pocket but, dazed and disorientated, it was a second or two before she realized he had deftly removed her earrings.

‘What are you…?’ The slurred words were lost and every thought went out of her head as he nuzzled her ear, exploring the neat whorls with the tip of his tongue, making her shudder.

Firm and sensual, his lips travelled along the line of her jaw to find and linger at the warm hollow at the base of her other ear. While she stood spellbound, his teeth nipped playfully at the lobe, before that marauding mouth began to move towards hers.

At last. She closed her eyes.

His lips reached the corner of her mouth and lingered there tantalizingly. She was waiting in an agony of suspense, when suddenly he lifted his head and moved away, leaving her bereft.

Her eyes flew open.

He was watching her with a taunting little smile. ‘In view of what I said earlier about not moving off the couch, it might be better to call a halt before things get too heated.’

‘Why did you do that?’ she asked jerkily.

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Because you were angry?’

He raised a dark brow. ‘You think it was meant to be a punishment?’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘Suppose we call it an experiment.’

‘An experiment?’

‘I wanted to find out just how much you do care about Beaumont…’

Watching her bite her lip, he added softly, ‘And I’d say not a great deal.’

‘How did you reach that conclusion?’

Quinn smiled. ‘If you can stop thinking about him and react to me in that way…’

‘It hasn’t occurred to you that I might have reacted as I did because I was thinking about him?’

She had the satisfaction of seeing that mocking smile vanish and his mouth tighten.

‘In any case I don’t see that what I feel about Richard is any concern of yours.

Discarding his jacket once more, he said, ‘Well, if I’m giving up the Van Hamel, I have a kind of vested interest.’

All her earlier doubts surfaced in a rush.

Without pausing to think, she asked, ‘Are you really prepared to let Richard have the diamond? Or is this some kind of game?’

‘I’m quite prepared to let him have it,’ Quinn said evenly.

‘Why, when you went to so much trouble to outbid him? It makes no sense.’

‘The diamond doesn’t matter. It was just the means to an end.’

Determined to have some answers, she persisted, ‘Then what does matter? Why are you here? What’s the point of all this?’

‘Haven’t you guessed, Jo?’

For a second or two shock made her head spin, there was a roaring in her ears, and faintness threatened to overwhelm her.

Watching her lose every last trace of colour, Quinn said abruptly, ‘You’d better sit down.’

He steered her to the nearest chair and, pushing her into it, sat down opposite, so he could see her face. ‘Do you really believe I wouldn’t remember you?’

No, perhaps she had never really believed it. But, reassured to some extent by Quinn’s apparent lack of recognition, she had clung to a forlorn hope, played out the charade he had instigated, because she had been frightened to face the reality.

Somehow she found her voice, and answered obliquely, ‘It all happened a long time ago, and we were only together a very short time.’

‘But you remembered me.’

She’d tried hard to forget him, but she knew now she would never succeed. While ever she lived, he would be part of her very being.

Her eyes were drawn to his face and held there as though mesmerized. In looks alone, the years hadn’t altered him. The only difference was an air of added maturity, lines of control and self-discipline around his mouth, that made him even more fascinating and formidable.

If Quinn had been inordinately attractive then, now he was even more so. He would still be good-looking and charismatic at eighty.

‘See any difference?’ he enquired mockingly.

She shook her head. ‘You haven’t altered at all. I’ve altered a great deal.’

‘Including your name.’ Then he said slowly, ‘You used to be as pretty as a picture. Now you have a kind of poignant beauty… But I never doubted you were the same woman.’

‘If you recognized me straight away, why didn’t you say something?’

‘I was curious as to how things were. It was quite obvious you hadn’t told Beaumont about me.’

‘There was no reason to tell him,’ she said, and was aware that she sounded defensive.

‘I would have thought there was one very good reason.’

She half shook her head. ‘In the circumstances I decided the past was better left behind.’

That was only part of the truth. She had shied away from talking about Quinn. It was like tearing open old, but still unhealed, wounds.

‘Even though you’d agreed to marry him?’

‘You were right in presuming we hadn’t been engaged long. Richard only proposed to me on the way to Belham House. I’d had no time to think things through or decide how much to tell him.’

His green eyes thoughtful, Quinn pursued, ‘But when I appeared on the scene and Beaumont began to introduce us, why didn’t you admit then that we knew each other?’

Elizabeth looked down at her hands clenched in her lap. ‘You treated me like a stranger and I hoped…I hoped I wouldn’t need to…’




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