Marriage Under Suspicion
Marriage Under Suspicion
Sara Craven
Your husband loves another woman. The note was signed "A Friend," but no friend would ever do that to another woman. Could it be true? Was Kate Lassiter's marriage falling apart? She still loved her husband, Ryan, still thrilled at his touch, but how long was it since they'd last made love? On the surface they had it all: successful careers, a lovely home and the perfect marriage.But if Ryan had committed the ultimate betrayal, then revenge was no answer. Kate wanted her husband back and she was prepared to fight to keep him. Because while her marriage was under suspicion there was no way she could tell Ryan she was expecting his baby!
Cover (#u0c630963-7e89-5951-bb43-fea270be5c5c)She found the suite without difficulty. There was a notice attached to the door handle, stating “Please do not disturb.” (#u02be5052-53bb-5e33-8aef-44a4d048ec5c)About the Author (#ubb783caf-fb10-5f04-90f4-556a370b1c81)Title Page (#ub2d2aac6-676b-5217-b10b-834cc60953c8)CHAPTER ONE (#ubfe71535-8334-56b2-b2dc-5684b476ed5e)CHAPTER TWO (#u2b1bb530-0e3b-594a-b024-3991066c675d)CHAPTER THREE (#u77320e59-3e65-58c6-8d5c-bb0c4de4fef8)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)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
She found the suite without difficulty. There was a notice attached to the door handle, stating “Please do not disturb.”
I bet, thought Kate, bitterness clenching her throat. She flung the door wide and marched in.
Ryan had risen to his feet and was looking at her, head thrown slightly back, his eyes hooded. He said quietly, “Hello, Kate.”
She had planned it all on the walk here. She was going to be dignified—civilized. She was not going to break down, or make a scene. But at the sight of him—his self-possession when she was falling apart—something exploded in her head. Her voice when it emerged was on the edge of a scream.
“Don’t you dare say ‘Hello’ to me. Don’t you dare. I’m pregnant, do you hear me? Pregnant.”
SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon, England, and grew up surrounded by books, in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.
Sara Craven has recently become the latest (and last ever) winner of the British quiz show Mastermind.
Marriage Under Suspicion
Sara Craven
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
THIS, Kate decided, as she crossed the deserted hotel lounge, had quite definitely been the morning from hell.
She sank into a chair by the window, easing off her elegant black court shoes under the shelter of the table, and discreetly massaging the ball of one aching foot against the calf of her other leg.
Outside on the sunlit lawn, the pretty pink and white striped marquee, with its distinctive octagonal shape, was being swiftly and efficiently dismantled.
Kate, recalling how many hours and telephone calls had been required to track it down, surveyed the operation with genuine regret.
Elsewhere in the hotel, all preparation on the carefully chosen menu for two hundred and fifty people had ceased; the champagne was being returned to the cellar, together with the claret and the chablis; and phones were buzzing as disappointed guests were told their presence would not be required after all.
Kate sighed soundlessly, and opened the file in front of her, running a finger down a hastily assembled check list. Setting up a wedding was a long and complicated business. Cancelling it on the day itself was almost as complex, and probably twice as hectic.
Damn Davina Brent, she thought irritably, scanning through the invoices from her sub-contractors. Why couldn’t she have decided a month—a week—even yesterday—that she didn’t want to go through with it?
Quite apart from the drama and upset of the last few hours, she would also have saved her distraught family some massive but unavoidable bills.
It was the first time since Kate and Louie, her friend from college days, had started Special Occasions that a bride had actually cried off on her wedding morning. In fact, in the three years that they’d been functioning, they’d had remarkably few hiccups, organising other people’s parties, receptions and special events.
And certainly there’d been no prior hint that the beautiful Davina was likely to throw such a spectacular last-minute wobbly. During the preliminary discussions that Kate had had with her, and her unfortunate husband-not-to-be, and, indeed, ever since, she’d seemed very much in love.
But then, thought Kate with an inward shrug, how could you tell what went on in other peoples’ lives—or heads?
For a moment, she was very still, aware of an odd shiver tingling down her spine. A goose walking over my grave, she thought. Or an angel passing over.
And jumped, as a glass was placed on the table in front of her. A martini, if she was any judge, and served just as she liked it, very dry, very cold, and with a twist of lemon. Only, she hadn’t ordered it.
‘There must be some mistake,’ she began, turning in her chair to face the waiter. Instead she found herself looking up into the unsmiling face of Peter Henderson, the erstwhile best man, now casually clad in jeans and sweater.
‘No mistake at all.’ His voice was terse. ‘You look as if you need a drink. I know I do.’ He indicated the whisky glass he was holding.
‘Thanks for the thought.’ Kate accorded him a brief, formal smile. ‘But I make a rule—no alcohol while I’m working.’
He grimaced. ‘I thought, under the circumstances, you’d be off duty by now.’
Kate gestured at the open file. ‘There are still a few loose ends to tie up.’
‘May I join you, or will I be getting in the way?’
‘Of course not. Sit down—please.’ Kate searched around under the table with a stockinged foot for her discarded shoes.
‘Allow me.’ Peter Henderson went down on one knee, and deftly replaced the errant footwear before seating himself in an adjoining chair.
‘Thank you.’ Kate was aware of a faint, vexed flush warming her face.
‘No problem.’ He surveyed her, his expression openly appreciative of the dark blonde hair, drawn sleekly back from her face, and the slender figure set off by her elegant raspberry-pink suit, and black silk shirt. He reached across the table, touching his glass to hers.
‘What shall we drink to?’ he asked lightly. ‘Love and happiness?’
‘Under the circumstances, that could be something of a minefield,’ Kate said drily. ‘Let’s stick to something brief and uncomplicated like “Cheers.’” She paused. ‘How is your brother?’
His mouth tightened. ‘Not good. Shattered, in fact.’
‘I can believe it.’ Kate hesitated again. ‘I—I’m so sorry.’
He gave a slight shrug. ‘Maybe it’s all for the best. If one has genuine misgivings, a clean break now could be preferable to a messy divorce later, when children could be involved, and real damage done.’
‘I suppose so,’ Kate agreed slowly. ‘But they seemed so genuinely well-suited. Did he have any idea she was having second thoughts?’
‘I imagine any problems would be simply attributed to bridal nerves.’ He looked at the narrow gleam of platinum on her wedding finger. ‘A pitfall you apparently managed to avoid.’
She said lightly, ‘Goodness, it’s so long ago, I can hardly remember.’
‘Not that long, surely, unless you were a child bride.’
‘Oh, please.’ Kate sent him an ironic look, aware that she’d flushed again. ‘It was actually five years.’
‘A lifetime.’ He sounded amused. ‘Any regrets?’
‘None at all,’ Kate returned sedately. ‘We’re very happy. Extremely so,’ she added, wondering why she’d needed the extra emphasis.
‘Any children?’
She was aware, once again, of his blue eyes assessing her trim figure.
‘Not yet. We’re both busy establishing our careers.’ She picked up the waiting martini, and sipped it after all, relishing its forceful chill against her dry throat. ‘In Ryan’s case a change of career,’ she added.
‘Something you don’t approve of?’
‘On the contrary.’ Kate stiffened. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘The fact that you took a drink before you mentioned it.’
She laughed. ‘You made a wrong connection, I’m afraid. The actual fact is that martinis are my weakness in life.’
‘The only one?’
‘I try to limit them,,’ she said drily.
‘Would calling me Peter be regarded as a weakness? ’
She was suddenly conscious of a marginal shift in her body language—that she’d relaxed—turned towards him. She straightened, giving him a cool look. ‘An error of judgement, possibly.’
She picked up her file, shuffling some papers. ‘And not very businesslike,’ she added crisply.
‘But your business isn’t with me. Like you, I’m just trying to pick up the pieces.’
‘In that case, shouldn’t you be with your brother instead of me?’
‘Andrew’s with our parents. They’re taking him home with them for a few days.’ He frowned at his glass. ‘I don’t know if that’s a good thing, or a bad. My mother’s inclined to be rather emotional, and she’s never been a fan of Davina’s anyway. It might make any rapprochement a bit difficult.’
Kate’s brows lifted. ‘You really think that could happen—in spite of everything?’
‘Perhaps—if they’re left to come round without too much interference on either side.‘ He sighed. ’In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if they just sloped off to a registry office one day, and simply got married in front of a pair of witnesses off the street. Neither of them wanted this kind of shindig in the first place. I wonder if it was the pressure of it all that finally goaded Davina into flight?’
‘I do hope not.’ Kate swallowed the rest of her martini and put down the glass. ‘Or I might develop a guilt complex.’
‘Blame both sets of parents,’ he said succinctly. ‘They were the ones coming up with endless lists of people who simply had to be invited.’
‘They usually are,’ Kate agreed. ‘And I must admit I’d have hated it myself.’
‘You mean you didn’t have the bridal gown, the fleet of cars, and the cast of thousands—when you’re actually in the business?’
She smiled constrainedly. ‘Ah, but I wasn’t then. And we did exactly what you recommended for Andrew and Davina. A registry office early in the morning, with two witnesses.’
‘Followed by unmitigated bliss?’
‘I would never claim that.’ Kate frowned. ‘I wouldn’t even want it. It sounds deadly dull.’
‘So you and Mr Dunstan enjoy the occasional clash?’
She shrugged. ‘Naturally. We’re both individuals in a relationship which pre-supposes a fair degree of togetherness, and all kinds of adjustments .’ She paused. ‘And it isn’t Mr Dunstan. That’s my name. My husband’s called Lassiter.’
His brows lifted. ‘You mean you’re married to Ryan Lassiter—the writer?’
Kate smiled. ‘I do indeed. Are you one of his fans?’
‘Actually, yes.’ Peter Henderson seemed momentarily nonplussed. ‘I started life as a City broker myself, so I read Justified Risk as soon as it came out I thought it was amazing—that combination of big business and total chill. And the second book was just as good, which doesn’t always happen.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ Kate said lightly. ‘Fortunately a great many people share your opinion.’
‘Is he working on a third book?’
She shook her head. ‘On a fourth. The third’s already in the pipeline for publication this autumn.’
‘I can’t wait. And while he’s pounding the keyboard you do this?’ Peter Henderson reached across and picked up one of her business cards which had slipped out of the file. ‘And all under your own name too,’ he added softly.
Kate shrugged again. ‘We might have fallen on our faces. It seemed a good idea to keep our individual enterprises totally separate.’
‘But now you’re flying high, surely?’
‘Let’s say we’re holding our own in difficult trading times.’ Kate closed her file. ‘Please keep the card, in case you have a celebration of your own to plan one of these days.’ She sent him a mischievous look. ‘Maybe even a wedding reception.’
‘God forbid.’ He shuddered.
‘You’re against marriage?’
‘Not for other people,’ he returned. The blue eyes dwelt on her thoughtfully. ‘Although I’d have to make exceptions there too.’
Their glances locked—challenged—and to Kate’s shock she was the first to look away.
What’s the matter with me? she thought, swallowing. I’m an adult woman. I’ve been chatted up before, plenty of times. Why should this be any different?
With what she recognised was a deliberate effort, she retrieved her black briefcase from the floor beside her, snapped open its locks, and put away the file with an air of finality.
As she got to her feet, she gave Peter Henderson a brief, noncommittal smile.
‘Well, thanks for the drink. Now I must really get on.’
‘Must you?’ He pushed back his own chair, and rose. ‘I was hoping, once you were free of your business cares, that we might have dinner together.’ He paused. ‘I’ve decided to stay on here tonight after all.’
‘And I’ve decided to make the earliest possible start back to London.’ Kate’s tone was more curt than she’d intended.
‘Running away, Miss Dunstan?’ Peter Henderson’s smile was engaging and unabashed. He glanced down at the card he was holding. ‘Or may I call you Kate?’
‘If you wish.’ Her own glance was pointedly at her watch. ‘Although I can’t see why you should wish to. Unless you do decide to throw a party one of these days, we’re unlikely to meet again. Even if Andrew and Davina get together again, I doubt they’ll hire our services a second time.’
Peter Henderson smiled at her. ‘I remain an optimist,’ he said. ‘In all sorts of ways.’
He paused. ‘And believe me—Mrs Lassiter—’ he stressed the name almost mockingly ‘—if and when I decide to party, you will be the first to know.’
Kate felt suddenly as if her own parting smile had been painted on, as wide and foolish as a clown’s.
She said quietly, ‘Goodbye, Mr Henderson,’ and walked away, out of the hotel lounge, without looking back.
She made her way straight to the powder room, glad to find it deserted. She closed the door behind her, and leaned on it for a moment, angrily aware that her breathing was flurried. Hoping too that her exit had been as dignified and final as she’d intended.
But I couldn’t guarantee it, she thought, pulling a face. And he was probably well aware of it, damn him.
She walked to the row of basins, smoothed back her already immaculate hair, added another unnecessary coating of colour to her mouth, then washed her hands—a symbolic gesture which forced a reluctant laugh from her.
Admit it, Kate, she adjured her bright-eyed reflection, half guilty, half amused. Just for a moment there, you were actually tempted.
After all, Ryan isn’t expecting you back until tomorrow. And it was only an invitation to dinner. Who would know if you’d accepted—and where would have been the harm anyway? Your marriage is rock-solid—isn’t it?
For a moment, she was very still, conjuring up Ryan’s image in her mind, until he seemed to be standing beside her, tall, loose-limbed, nose and chin assertively marked in a thin face that would always be attractive rather than handsome.
So real, she realised wonderingly, that she could almost smell the slightly harsh, totally male scent of the cologne he used. So sexy, in a cool, understated way, that her whole body clenched in sudden, unexpected excitement.
His long legs and narrow hips were encased in faded denim, his collarless shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and the sleeves rolled back over muscular forearms. Working gear—and a far cry from the dark City suits he’d worn when they first met. But the changes in Ryan went far deeper than mere surface appearance. And if she was honest, this had been one of the aspects of his new life which had troubled her most.
As usual, one strand of his silky mid-brown hair was straying untidily across his forehead. But, less usually, the hazel eyes were narrowed almost questioningly, and the mobile mouth wasn’t slanted with its usual amusement.
She was being watched, she thought slowly, by a cool, sexy stranger. With the accent on the cool.
Or she was simply transferring her guilt She rallied herself with a slight shrug, acknowledging Ryan’s reaction if he ever discovered she’d been tempted, even for a second, to accept Peter Henderson’s invitation.
She closed her eyes, dismissing the image, wiping the whole incident. It had been a brief glitch on the smooth tenor of her life, not to be considered again.
Aloud, she said, ‘It’s time I went home.’
She used the public telephone in the foyer to call their flat. The answering machine was on, indicating that Ryan was working.
She said lightly, ‘Hi, darling. The wedding’s off, and I’ll be back as soon as I can make it. Why don’t we eat out tonight—my treat? See if you can get a table at Chez Berthe.’
She called at Reception on her way out to tell them she was leaving, and check that the cancellation hadn’t brought any unexpected hitches.
‘Everything’s fine,’ the girl assured her. ‘It’s just such a shame. None of us can remember it ever happening before.’
‘I hope it doesn’t set a trend,’ Kate said drily as she turned away.
‘Oh, one minute, Miss Dunstan.’ The receptionist halted her. ‘I almost forgot.’ Her expression was suddenly conspiratorial—almost sly. ‘This was left for you.’
She handed over an envelope, inscribed ‘Ms Kate Dunstan’ in bold handwriting.
‘Thanks,’ Kate said coolly, and thrust it into her bag, silently cursing the other woman’s overt curiosity. It was important to leave the place on a business footing, she thought, pinning on a smile that was pleasant but formal.
‘I can’t foresee any further problems,’ she said briskly, ‘but if something does crop up you can contact me at the office or on my mobile.’
She waited until she was in her car before she opened the envelope. It was Peter Henderson’s business card, but he’d scrawled his private number across the back of it.
And underneath he’d written, ‘I told you I was an optimist.’
Kate’s mouth tightened. She was sorely tempted to tear the card up and dump it in a waste bin, except there wasn’t one handy. She’d get rid of it later, she decided, slotting the card into the back of her wallet. After she’d added him to the client file list in the office computer, of course, she amended. That would neutralise him. Reduce him to a business contact. Innocent, and potentially useful. End of story.
Traffic was miraculously light, and she didn’t hang about, finding herself at home almost before she’d dared hope, parking next to Ryan’s Mercedes in the underground car park which served the development where their flat was sited.
It was the top floor of what had once been a large warehouse, overlooking the river. In addition to a superb living area, which also contained the galley kitchen, a bathroom, and the room which Ryan used as his office, there was a wide gallery up a flight of wooden steps housing their bedroom, and a private bathroom. The floors were pale, sanded wood, the ceilings were high and vaulted, and every window had wonderful views.
Each time she opened the front door, Kate felt a thrill of ownership buzz through her veins. It was light years away from the flat they’d had when they first married, she thought. That had been the basement of a Victorian house, where the floors creaked, the windows stuck, and the plumbing was eccentric. They’d spent the first year furnishing it, prowling round second-hand shops and markets to find exactly the pieces they wanted. But the eclectic mixture they’d assembled wouldn’t have fitted in here, and they’d sold most of it on to the couple who’d bought the basement from them as well.
Here, furnishings had been kept to a minimum, and clutter banished altogether. Kate had concentrated on shades of cream and ivory, with an occasional bold splash of Mediterranean colour. And it worked. A glossy magazine had suggested using the flat in a series on ‘Working at Home’, but rather to Kate’s disappointment Ryan had refused to take part, saying simply he couldn’t afford the disruption to his routine.
Now, she used her key quietly, because Ryan would still be working, and it was important not to disturb him. He liked peace when he was writing, although he was reasonably tolerant of interruptions, especially when they came with a cup of coffee.
I’ll give him half an hour, and then take him some, Kate thought, dropping her briefcase on to a sofa.
And she paused, as it occurred to her that things were altogether too quiet, too peaceful. She listened intently, but only silence came surging back to her.
She cleared her throat. ‘Ryan—are you there?’ And, for the first time, was aware of a faint echo in all that vaulted emptiness.
She thought, in bewilderment, but he must be here. He’s always here. And besides, he didn’t take the car.
Across the room, she could see the answering machine’s red light winking at her. When she played back the tape, she found just her own message, unheard.
She checked the bedroom, and both bathrooms, then looked in Ryan’s office to see if he’d left her a note, but there was nothing. His desk was clear.
Of course, she thought. He wasn’t expecting me until tomorrow.
She felt absurdly deflated. She’d rushed back here like a mad thing to be with him, and he was somewhere else. What was more, there was no table booked at Chez Berthe, or anywhere for that matter.
She sighed. She’d have to do something with pasta. Tuna, she thought, and anchovies, and there was some garlic bread in the freezer. She might as well make a start on it, because Ryan wouldn’t be long—not if he hadn’t taken the Merc.
On the other hand, she realised, as she glanced restively around her, the flat was preternaturally tidy—unused even, as if no one had been there all day.
Oh, stop it, she adjured herself. You’re just disappointed. You don’t have to be paranoid as well.
She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. She’d make herself a cup of coffee instead, and then begin the evening meal. Surprise him when he returned.
As she turned off the tap, she saw the two crystal flutes upturned in the drainer.
Her brows lifted. Champagne? she thought. But Ryan hardly ever drank champagne. He was a claret man. They’d spent their eventual honeymoon touring the Médoc.
She set the kettle to boil, then obeying an impulse she hardly understood, flicked open the waste bin. An empty bottle of Krug was right there, mute evidence that Ryan had indeed been drinking champagne, and not on his own either.
For a moment, Kate stood staring down at it, then she dropped the lid and turned away.
Well, what of it? she thought, with a mental shrug. Clearly he had something to celebrate. Perhaps Quentin, his agent, had called round with news of the film option on the last book.
She still could hardly believe how spectacular Ryan’s new career had proved. She’d thought he was firmly implanted in the City. Had been frankly horrified when he’d announced his decision to leave broking, and write his first novel. Kate, whose partnership with Louie had been in its early, tentative stages, had tried to reason with him, pointing out the risks he was taking, but he’d been quite determined.
‘I don’t like my life,’ he’d said. ‘I look at the people around me, and I can see myself becoming like them. I don’t want that. This is my chance to break free, and I’m taking it.’
He’d added more gently, ‘You don’t have to worry, Kate. I’ve got money put away to cushion us initially. I won’t let you starve.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of myself,’ she’d protested. ‘If you jack your job in, there’s no way back. And becoming a writer is such a—leap in the dark. How do you know you can do it?’
‘I’ll never know, unless I try.’
‘I suppose not.’ She’d sighed. ‘Well, do it, if you must. After all, we’ve always got Special Occasions to fall back on.’
There was a silence, then he’d said quietly, ‘So we have. I was almost forgetting.’
But, in the event, it hadn’t been needed. Ryan’s script had been read and auctioned by Quentin Roscoe for a sum which had made Kate blink.
‘You’re a genius.’ She’d flung her arms round Ryan, kissing him rapturously. ‘Nothing can stop us now.’
Although it hadn’t all been plain sailing, she was bound to admit. She still remembered the day Ryan had told her about the author tour which had been arranged in the States for the launch of Justified Risk.
‘Every major city,’ he told her jubilantly. ‘Book signings, TV and radio interviews. And, while I’m working, you’re going to be taken shopping and sight-seeing.’
‘I am?’ Kate’s smile faded. She bit her lip. ‘Darling, I can’t go with you.’
‘What are you talking about? Of course you’re coming. It’s all arranged.’
‘Then it’ll have to be un-arranged,’ Kate returned crisply. ‘After all, I wasn’t even consulted about this.’
‘I wasn’t included in the planning stage either,’ Ryan said with a touch of grimness. ‘These are the kind of hoops I’m expected to jump through, and be grateful. It’s certainly the kind of opportunity you don’t refuse.’
‘Of course not, and I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.’ Even to her own ears, her voice held a slightly brittle note. ‘But I’m far too busy at work to take that amount of time off.’
‘Louie would understand—if you explained.’
‘There’s nothing to explain.’ Kate lifted her chin. ‘Like you, I have a career, Ryan—and a life. I’m not just an—appendage to be trailed round in your wake.’
‘No indeed,’ he said, too courteously. ‘You’re my wife, and I’m looking for a little support here.’
‘So, I just drop everything and run?’ Kate shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Ryan, but that isn’t how it works.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps if I’d had more notice . . . ’
‘I’ve only just heard myself.’ He paused ‘Kate, I need you with me—please.’
‘It’s impossible,’ she said stubbornly. She saw the utter bleakness in his face as he turned from her, and added hastily, ‘Next time, maybe . . . ’
‘Of course,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘There’s always a next time.’
Only there hadn’t been. Ryan had carried out a number of promotional tours since, but she’d been included in none of them, although she could have accompanied him with Louie’s goodwill.
‘You’re a fool,’ her partner had commented when Kate had told her what had happened. ‘If Ryan belonged to me, I wouldn’t let him roam off alone.’
‘He’s not alone,‘ Kate had protested. ‘He has people with him—a publicist, for one.’
‘Male or female?’ Louie had sent her a beady look.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then I’d get to know. I’m only a single woman, but it seems to me like the kind of information a caring wife should have at her fingertips.’ Louie had adjusted her scarlet-rimmed spectacles. She was taller than Kate, and built on more Junoesque lines, with a mop of dark curly hair.
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ Kate had said impatiently. ‘I trust Ryan implicitly.’
Nevertheless, when Ryan got back she’d heard herself asking, ‘How did you get on with the publicist?’
‘Grant?’ Ryan had shaken his head. ‘Nice lad, but I think I was his first author. We carried each other.’
‘Oh,’ Kate had said, despising herself for feeling relieved.
The kettle whistled imperiously, bringing Kate back to the present with a start.
Not exactly the kind of trip down Memory Lane that I wanted, she reflected wryly as she made her coffee.
And it must have been sparked off by her encounter with Peter Henderson. His questions had re-opened several cans of worms which she’d thought closed for ever, and that was vaguely disturbing.
So, she hadn’t wanted Ryan to jettison his City career. She could hardly be blamed for that. But no one was more delighted than herself when the gamble paid off.
We’re both doing what we want. We have a wonderful life, and a strong marriage, she told herself as she made her way back to the living area. Things really couldn’t be better.
There was a small stack of mail beside the telephone, junk and bills by the look of it, she thought, wrinkling her nose as she flicked through the envelopes. There was only one she couldn’t categorise quite so simply. An expensive cream laid envelope, typewritten, and addressed quite starkly to ‘Kate Lassiter’, with a central London postmark.
Kate slit open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper it contained.
She unfolded the letter, reaching casually for her coffee cup as she did so.
There was no address, and no greeting. Just two lines in heavy black script. Seven words which leapt off the page at her with a force that left her stunned.
Your husband loves another woman.
A Friend.
CHAPTER TWO
KATE felt totally numb. There was an odd roaring in her ears, while from a distance she heard the tinkle of crockery, and flinched from the scalding splash of liquid on her feet and legs.
She thought detachedly, I’ve dropped my coffee. I ought to get a cloth and clear it up before it stains the floor. I ought . . .
But she couldn’t move. All she could do was read those seven words over and over again, until they danced in front of her eyes, reassembling themselves in strange meaningless patterns.
She felt her fingers curl round the paper, crushing it, reducing it to a tight ball which she threw, violently, as far as her strength allowed.
For a moment she stood, almost absently wiping her hands down the sides of her coffee-stained skirt, then, with a little choking cry, she bolted up to the bathroom where she was briefly and unpleasantly sick.
When the world had stopped revolving, she stripped off her clothes and showered, using water almost hotter than she could bear, as if scouring herself of some physical contamination.
Then she towelled herself dry, and re-dressed in leggings and a tunic.
She seemed to be looking at a ghost, she thought, as she combed her damp hair into shape. A white-faced spectre with shocked, enormous eyes.
Downstairs, she fetched a dustpan and cleaning materials, and set about cleaning up the spilled coffee, almost relishing the physical effort required to scrub at the stained floorboards. The cream rug was marked too, she noticed, frowning, and that would have to go to a specialist cleaning firm.
She stopped right there, with a tiny gasp. Her marriage was in ruins, and she was worrying about a bloody rug?
She knelt staring into space, aware of a deep inner trembling. Knowing that it was composed equally of anger and fear.
Heard her voice, hoarse and shaken, say, ‘It’s not true. It can’t be true, or I’d have known. I’d have sensed something, surely. It’s just a piece of random filth. Someone who hates us. Who’s jealous of our happiness.’
The conclusion made her flesh crawl, but it was infinitely preferable to any other possibility, she realised, grimacing painfully.
She got to her feet, and took the china fragments into the kitchen for disposal. The champagne bottle in the wastebin jarred her. Before she could stop herself, she was standing by the sink, lifting the flutes to the sunlight, studying them minutely for any tell-tale signs of lipstick.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she derided herself. Don’t let someone’s malice turn you paranoid.
She put the glasses away, emptied the wastebin, and cleaned it meticulously. Then she deliberately made herself another cup of coffee, and carried it through to the living area, seating herself on one of the cream and maize striped sofas.
Normally, the panorama of the river fascinated her, the boats, the buildings which crowded the banks, the play of light on the water. Now, she gazed at it unseeingly, her mind running in aching circles, as she drank her coffee. It burned all the way down, but the inner chill remained.
She thought, I don’t want this to have happened. I want everything back the way it was before . . .
In some ways, she wished she hadn’t come home. That she’d accepted Peter Henderson’s offer and stayed for dinner in Gloucestershire.
But that would have made no difference. The letter would still have been there, awaiting her eventual return.
She needed to find some way to deal with the situation. Work out some plan of action. Yet she felt totally at a loss.
She could always go for straight confrontation, she acknowledged, frowning. Just hand Ryan the letter and watch his reaction.
She put down the empty cup, and retrieved the crumpled ball of paper from its corner, endeavouring to smooth out the creases.
I can’t pretend to treat it lightly—make a joke of it, she thought. As soon as he sees what I did to it, he’ll know it mattered—that it upset me. I can’t let him know that. Not until I’m sure. One way or the other.
She stopped abruptly, with a small gasp, aware of how far and how fast she had come from her original total disbelief.
She found herself remembering an article she’d read in a magazine at the hairdressers. Titled ‘His Cheating Heart’, it had detailed some of the ways to check if a man was being unfaithful. And one of the chief danger signs, she recalled, her heart lurching sickly, had been long, unexplained absences.
She said aloud, huskily, almost desperately, ‘Ryan—where the hell are you?’
No, she thought, setting her jaw. She would not let herself think like this. Five years of love and trust could not be destroyed by a single act of malice. She wouldn’t allow it.
So she wouldn’t mention the letter at all, she told herself, drawing a deep breath. In fact, she would make believe she had never seen it. That it didn’t exist. She would make no wild accusations. Drop no veiled hints. She would act completely naturally, she thought fiercely. But—she would also be on her guard.
She tore the letter in half, then into quarters, before reducing it to strips, and thence into a mound of minute fragments which she piled onto a saucer and burned.
She flushed the ashes down the sink, and wished the words could be erased from her mind with equal ease.
She chose a bottle of Ryan’s favourite Bordeaux from the rack, and opened it. A nice, wifely gesture to welcome him home, she thought, biting her lip. Except there was no positive guarantee that he would be home . . .
If he didn’t return, of course, that would be a whole new ball game. But she would deal with that only when she had to.
She sat curled up on the sofa, sipping her wine, and watching television, aware of the light fading from the sky above the river. But the words and images on the screen passed her by, as if she were blind and deaf. Her mind was occupied only by her own heavy thoughts.
It was with a sense of shock that she discovered that it was now completely dark, and realised how long she must have been sitting there. She uncoiled herself stiffly, forcing herself to move around the big room, switching on lamps, and drawing the voluminous drapes across the windows. Closing out the night, and the thousands of lights which twinkled at her like small prying eyes. Reinforcing the fact that she was still, unaccountably, alone.
She thought, with anguish, He’s not coming back. And how am I going to bear it . . . ?
The sudden sharp rattle of a key in the door made her wheel round, her heart pounding.
She said with a gasp ‘Ryan? Oh, Ryan, it’s you.’
‘You were expecting someone else?’ He spoke lightly, but the glance he directed at her across the intervening space was searching. He shut the door behind him, and put down his briefcase.
‘Of course not, but I was getting worried. I didn’t know where you were.’
‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t know you’d be around to worry.’ His brows lifted questioningly. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
He was wearing, she noticed, his favourite pale grey trousers, topped by a white shirt, a silk tie in sombre jewel colours, and his black cashmere jacket. Not his usual casual weekend gear at all.
She swallowed. ‘Oh, the bride got cold feet and cancelled. A Special Occasions first. All that lovely food, and the prettiest marquee in England, and no takers.’ She realised she was beginning to babble, and bit her lip.
‘Ah, well,’ Ryan said lightly. ‘It’s probably a blessing in disguise. One less mistake to chalk up to experience. One less digit to add to the divorce statistics.’
She stared at him, suddenly and totally arrested. ‘That’s a very cynical viewpoint.’
‘I thought I was just being realistic.’ He paused. ‘Did it cause you a lot of problems?’
‘Enough.’ Kate shrugged. ‘But it also gave me the weekend back.’ She hesitated in her turn. ‘I did phone and leave a message. You must have been out all day.’
‘Pretty well,’ he nodded, discarding his jacket and tie and tossing them on to one of the sofas.
Kate watched him release the top buttons of his shirt with a swift, primitive yearning. How long was it since they’d last made love? It must be all of three weeks, she realised with an inward grimace. Just before she’d been taken ill with that twenty-four-hour tummy bug, when she thought back.
But I’ve been out a lot on business, she reminded herself defensively, and Ryan often works late into the evening, so that I’m asleep when he comes to bed.
But not tonight, she promised herself. Tonight, she would take infinite care to stay awake.
She smiled at him. ‘Would you like a glass of wine? I—I didn’t know what to do about food. . . ?’ She turned it into a question.
Ryan shook his head. ‘I’ve eaten, thanks. But some wine would be good.’
She poured carefully, and handed him a glass. ‘You look very smart.’ She kept her tone casual. ‘Have you been with Quentin?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I had some research to do.’
‘Oh.’ Kate refilled her own glass and sat down. ‘I thought you did that on the Internet.’
‘Not all of it.’ He didn’t come to sit beside her, but prowled restlessly round the room. He paused by the phone. ‘Have there been any other messages?’
‘Apparently not.’ Kate sipped her wine. ‘Were you expecting anything in particular?’
‘Not really,’ he returned. ‘There was some mail for you, by the way. Did you find it?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oh, yes, thank you.’
He continued his pacing, then halted abruptly, his brows flicking together in a frown. ‘What happened to the floor? And the rug?’
‘That was me being clumsy.’ She managed to laugh. ‘I had a fight with a cup of coffee and lost. Does it look too obvious and awful? I’ll get the rug cleaned, and there’s some special stuff for the woodwork.’
‘No, leave it,’ Ryan said, his mouth twisting. ‘I rather like the fact that we’ve actually put our mark on the place at last. I’d begun to think we were going to pass through without one blemish.’
‘Pass through?’ Kate echoed. ‘That’s an odd thing to say.’
He shrugged. ‘Just a figure of speech.’
‘And it’s not “the place”,’ she went on, with a touch of fierceness, feeling uneasy, wanting, obscurely, to challenge him. ‘It’s a home. Our home.’
He laughed. ‘Is it, my darling? I thought it was some kind of statement.’
‘Can’t it be both? Is it wrong for our environment to express who we are—our aspirations and achievements? ’ She could hear her voice rising.
‘That,’ he said, ‘might depend on the aspirations and achievements. Although no one, seeing all this, could possibly doubt what a success we both are.’ He lifted his glass in a mocking toast, swallowing the rest of his wine. ‘Quod erat demonstrandum.’
My God, she thought. We’re almost quarrelling, and that’s the last thing I want.
She put down her glass and went to him, sliding her arms round his waist, inhaling luxuriously the familiar male scent of his skin.
‘Well, I love our success.’ She spoke with mock-defiance, smiling up at him. ‘And our happiness even more. And, as a bonus, we get to spend tomorrow together.’ She traced the open neck of his shirt with her forefingers. ‘Sunday, sweet Sunday, all by ourselves.’ She lowered her voice temptingly. ‘We can get up as late as we want. Walk in the park, or stay in with the papers. Find somewhere new to have dinner. Just like we used to.’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, my love, not tomorrow. I’m going down to Whitmead to have lunch with the family.’
‘Oh?’ Kate stiffened instantly. ‘May I know when this was arranged?’
His voice was equable. ‘My mother telephoned during the week.’
‘You didn’t mention it before.’
He gave her a meditative look. ‘I didn’t think you’d be particularly interested.’
He didn’t add ‘After the last time’. He didn’t have to, Kate thought, wincing. The implication was right there.
She made her tone placatory. ‘Darling, I didn’t mean the stupid things I said on the way home. I—lost my temper. We both did.’ She shook her head. ‘I wish your mother could just understand that if and when we start a family it will be our own personal decision, taken when we’re good and ready. And without any prompting.’
‘It was just a casual remark, Kate. She didn’t mean to interfere. Or start World War Three.’ He paused. ‘After all, when we first got married, a baby was very much on the cards. And we made no secret of it.’
‘Yes, but everything changed when you gave up your city job,’ Kate protested. ‘I had to work while you established yourself as a writer. You know that.’
‘I’m established now,’ he said mildly.
‘And so am I,’ Kate reminded him. ‘Which makes it more difficult now to find an appropriate time. Something that will fit in with our career demands. Surely your mother must see that.’ She hesitated. ‘And you remember what Jon and Carla Patterson were telling us about the nanny situation the other night. They’ve had one disaster after another.’
‘So it seems.’ His voice was noncommittal.
‘Therefore it isn’t something we can rush into,’ she went on. ‘And your mother has got your sister’s children to fuss over, after all,’ she added with a touch of defensiveness.
‘Undoubtedly,’ he agreed. ‘But I can’t promise she won’t drop any more hints.’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘I’m afraid we’re just not a very reticent family.’
‘Maybe not.’ She pinned on a smile. ‘So, does all this mean that I’m excluded from tomorrow’s invitation? ’
‘On the contrary,’ he said quietly. ‘Everyone would be delighted to see you, but I assumed you’d be tied up at the office once you got back from Gloucestershire, and made your excuses.’
‘You’re quite right of course,’ she agreed colourlessly. She detached herself from him, and turned away. ‘I have got a load of paperwork to complete. So, next time, perhaps.’
‘That might be best.’
Did she imagine it, or did he actually sound relieved?
My God, she thought, biting her lip. Am I really such a bitch?
She swung back towards him, smiling brightly. ‘Shall we have some more wine?’
‘I’d better not.’ He sounded regretful. ‘I need to keep a clear head.’
‘You’re not going to work tonight, surely?’ Kate made no attempt to hide her disappointment.
‘I have some editing to do. It won’t take long.’
Kate knelt on the sofa, reaching forward to take his hand. ‘Couldn’t it wait until the morning?’ Her voice was husky, almost wistful. ‘I—I’ve missed you.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve got to make an early start to Whitmead. I need to get it done now.’ He disengaged his hand, then ran a finger down the curve of her cheek. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘Is that a promise?’ Kate drawled the words, looking up at him through her lashes.
‘Behave.’ He bent and dropped a swift kiss on top of her head. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He collected his briefcase and went into the office, closing the door behind him.
Kate stayed where she was for a moment, staring blankly in front of her, then she collected the wine glasses and took them into the kitchen to rinse them out. She could see her reflection in the window above the sink, pale-skinned, taut-mouthed, and wide-eyed.
She thought, with a sense of shock, I look—frightened.
And yet there had been nothing to be scared of—had there?
Admittedly, it hadn’t been the ideal reunion under the circumstances. Ryan’s reaction to her unexpected return hadn’t been the one she’d hoped for. But then he was always preoccupied when the book he was working on reached a certain stage. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have given it another thought.
But life was no longer ordinary. The anonymous letter had changed all that . . Those seven words had removed the certainties, and replaced them with doubts. And with the fear she saw in her own eyes.
He’d been doing research, he’d said. But what kind of research would he dress up for? And the meal he’d mentioned—had he eaten it alone?
Why didn’t I ask him? Kate thought, twining a strand of hair round her finger in a gesture left over from childhood. Why didn’t I find out exactly where he’d been? Got him to name the restaurant even?
Was it, maybe, because I didn’t want to hear the answers? Because I was afraid to pursue them?
She shivered, and turned away from the strained face confronting her in the glass.
Ryan might not have been overwhelmed to see her, but they were hardly newly-weds, for heaven’s sake. It didn’t make him guilty of anything. And there was no real reason for him to change his plans either. They were both adults with their own lives.
And she could well do without a family Sunday at Whitmead, she told herself, pulling a face. The perfect roast, the home-grown vegetables, the seriously alcoholic trifle all ordained beforehand, and produced without a hitch, even when extra guests turned up, as they often did. The afternoon spent playing croquet or French cricket, or taking the dogs for a walk, to build up an appetite for the equally sumptuous tea. The noisy games of cards or Trivial Pursuit during the evening. It was all like a cliché of English country life.
Oh, come on, she chided herself. That really is bitchy. You really don’t want to go in case Sally and Ben are there with the children, and comparisons are drawn. Be honest about it. You don’t want another row with Ryan on the drive back.
And she shouldn’t be derogatory about Ryan’s parents, even in thought, she added ruefully. Because she liked them both—even if Mrs Lassiter’s warmth, charm and unbounded energy did make her feel slightly inadequate at times.
She simply wasn’t used to the overt family affection, the candour about personal issues, the lively arguments, and the casual but whole-hearted hospitality.
Her own upbringing, she thought, had been so very different.
With a silent sigh, Kate wandered back into the living area, and stood for a moment, staring at the closed door to Ryan’s office. There was nothing in the world to stop her crossing the space that divided them, of course.
She could open that door, go into that room, and ask how much longer he was going to be. She’d done it before, after all. And on more than one occasion she’d left her clothes on the floor first.
But even as her mouth curved in a reminiscent smile she knew she would not be doing so this evening.
When she’d gone to Ryan earlier, put her arm around him, he’d held her in return. But there’d been no passion in his response. No kindling intimacy in his touch. Once, he would have drawn her close against his body, found her mouth with his, his hands rediscovering all the sweet, sensuous routes to their mutual desire.
She had never before offered herself, and been rejected.
Although it hadn’t been a real rejection, she assured herself quickly. After all, he’d said ‘Later’, hadn’t he?
But, although this was later, she knew she wasn’t going to risk it. She would let him set the parameters tonight.
She went up to the bedroom. In her lingerie drawer, she found the nightgown she’d bought the previous month on an impulse, but not yet worn. She unwrapped the layers of tissue and looked at it with satisfaction.
It was ivory satin, and classically simple, the bodice deeply slashed beneath shoestring straps, the skirt cut cleverly to cling.
Seductive, she thought, without being obvious. And there would never be a better time to try its effect
She changed into it, brushed her hair loose over her shoulders, and added a breath of Patou’s Joy to her throat, wrists and breasts.
Then, leaving one shaded lamp burning, she lay down on top of the bed to wait for him.
And we’ll just see if he makes that early start for Whitmead, she thought, smiling to herself. Or if he’ll have to ring his parents, and tell them he can’t be there after all. Such a shame.
It was the kind of situation that usually she’d revel in, but somehow she found it impossible to relax—to think herself into the appropriate frame of mind.
She was planning to ravish her own husband. She wanted him to find her warm and willing, not nerve-racked and clammy-skinned. She needed to feel anticipation, not uncertainty.
She found she kept turning her head restively towards the stairs, every sense alert for a sound, or sign of movement. But there was nothing. Ryan had said he wouldn’t be long, but the time seemed endless.
She remembered the deep breathing learned at her Yoga classes at college, and its calming effect. She let herself sink into the mattress, counting silently to herself as she inhaled, held the drawn breath then slowly released it.
Gradually, she felt her inner tension ease, but at the same time her eyelids began to grow heavy.
Sleep, she thought drowsily. I mustn’t go to sleep. I have to wait—wait for Ryan. . .
It was the cold that woke her eventually. She sat up with a shiver, one glance at the bed beside her telling her that she was still alone. The numbers on the clock radio informed her it was the early hours of the morning.
She slid off the bed, put on her robe and went downstairs.
Ryan was lying, fast asleep, on one of the sofas. Nearby the television still hummed gently, its screen blank.
Kate turned off the power, before bending over her husband, shaking his shoulder gently.
‘Ryan,’ she whispered. ‘Darling, you can’t stay here. Come to bed—please.’
He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but he didn’t stir, not even when she shook him again, harder.
She waited for a moment, then trailed slowly and defeatedly back to the gallery.
Even under the covers, the king-size bed felt frigid and unwelcoming.
She thought, So, he fell asleep in front of the television. It happens. It’s no big deal.
And suddenly found that she wanted, very badly, to cry. Because it was a very big deal indeed.
CHAPTER THREE
KATE opened unwilling eyes to discover broad daylight. She sat up slowly, propping herself on an elbow, while she pushed her hair back from her face with her other hand, and looked around her, dazed from a restless night punctuated by brief, disturbing dreams.
The first thing she registered was that the pillow beside her was rumpled, and the quilt had been thrown back, indicating that Ryan had spent at least part of the night with her.
Well, she thought, that was something—even if he hadn’t bothered to wake her.
She swung her feet to the floor, and padded across to the bathroom. Ryan’s damp towel was hanging on the rail, and a pleasant aroma of cologne, toothpaste and soap pervaded the moist air. But he had gone.
As she turned away, disappointed, a faint but persuasive scent of coffee invaded her consciousness, and she followed it down to the kitchen.
Ryan was standing at the worktop, buttering a slice of toast. He was wearing faded chinos with a plain white shirt. An elderly sweatshirt was draped round his shoulders, and his hair was still damp from the shower.
Kate leaned against the door jamb and watched him, allowing, with a shrug of her shoulder, one of the straps of her nightgown to slide down.
She said, softly, ‘Hi, there.’
‘Hi, yourself.’ His smile was easy, widening as his eyes surveyed her. ‘You look positively delectable, Mrs Lassiter. I don’t think I’ve seen that particular nightdress before.’
‘You were meant to notice it last night.’ Kate smiled back at him, pleasurably aware that her nipples were hardening under his scrutiny, and clearly outlined under the cling of the satin for his delectation.
‘Sorry about that.’ He didn’t sound particularly repentant. Nor did he come across to her as she expected. ‘I worked longer than I intended, and then I got interested in something on television. You know how it is.’
She said, gently reproachful, ‘You could have woken me—when you came upstairs.’
‘You were sleeping like a baby. I didn’t have the heart.’ He took a pitcher of fresh orange juice from the refrigerator, and poured her a glass. ‘Your morning tonic, madam.’
‘I can think of a far better pick-me-up than that.’ Kate spoke huskily, meeting his glance, knowing that he liked seeing her like this, flushed and tousled from sleep. She adjusted the strap of her nightgown, letting her hands linger momentarily on her breasts. ‘Why don’t we have—breakfast in bed?’
‘I told you why last night.’ He sounded faintly amused. ‘As soon as I’ve drunk my coffee, I’m off to Whitmead.’
‘You’ve been invited to lunch.’ She heard a pettish note in her voice, and tried to sound more beguiling. ‘It surely won’t take all morning for you to drive there.’
‘Dad wants me to help him with some fencing.’
‘Oh.’ Kate straightened. ‘And that naturally takes precedence over your wife?’
‘It does today.’ He set the glass of orange juice down on the worktop. ‘You seem to have forgotten that you weren’t even going to be here.’
He paused. ‘Tell me, Kate, if the wedding had gone ahead, and I’d asked you particularly to come with me today, would that have taken precedence over the usual mopping-up operations?’
‘That’s not fair,’ she protested. ‘A wedding—or any kind of party—is entirely different. I set it up beforehand, and supervised the clearing-up afterwards. I don’t have a choice in this. It’s work.’
He shrugged. ‘On the other hand, it could simply be a question of priorities. And today mine have been decided for me.’
He pushed the slice of toast to one side, untouched, and walked to the door. On the way past, he turned to her, his hands reaching for her wrists, pinioning her suddenly against the wall.
Kate gasped, half in indignation, half in excitement, as she twisted against his imprisoning grasp in an unavailing attempt to free herself.
Ryan’s hazel eyes were unsmiling but intent as they looked into hers, watching her pupils dilate in anticipation, in the beginnings of an arousal she was powerless to control.
He leaned forward and kissed her slowly, almost insolently, his teeth grazing her lip, his tongue gliding against hers like heated silk.
Her response was immediate. Her mouth moved against his, sweetly, greedily. She lifted the hands which clasped hers, and placed them on her breasts.
She thought, exultantly, He’s mine.
His leg parted her thighs, pressing the satin of her gown against the moist satin of her body in a deliberate, tantalising friction which forced a tormented moan from her throat.
She wanted him so fiercely that it hurt. She needed to feel him sheathed inside her—to be taken, there and then, against the wall, or on the floor. She wanted to see his cool, ironic control shattered in tiny pieces. To possess him, to know that he was as driven and desperate as she was herself.
Even when he stepped back, his breathing hurried and harsh, she thought she’d won.
She hooked her fingers under the straps of her gown, and pulled them down, letting the folds of satin slide down her body, and cascade around her bare feet. She waited, her nakedness a challenge, her body heated and ready for his invasion.
And saw him smile at her.
‘Goodbye, darling,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t ever think I wasn’t tempted.’
He turned, and walked away from her towards the main door.
For a second, she was too shocked to move or speak. Then sheer outrage rescued her.
‘Bastard,’ she hurled after him, chokingly. ‘Don’t you dare walk out on me.’
But Ryan’s only response was to blow her one mocking kiss as he left.
Kate closed down her computer, and switched off the power, sitting for a moment and staring at the blank screen. She could only hope that what she’d stored over the past hour made some kind of sense, but she guaranteed nothing.
For once, her mind had not been on the job in hand.
Instead, she’d found herself going over and over again the events of the past twenty-four hours, as if she were trapped on some weary treadmill.
And the inescapable and unpalatable fact facing her was that, leaving aside whether or not Ryan was actually having an affair, her own relationship with him seemed to have reached some kind of watershed.
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Sara Craven
Your husband loves another woman. The note was signed "A Friend," but no friend would ever do that to another woman. Could it be true? Was Kate Lassiter's marriage falling apart? She still loved her husband, Ryan, still thrilled at his touch, but how long was it since they'd last made love? On the surface they had it all: successful careers, a lovely home and the perfect marriage.But if Ryan had committed the ultimate betrayal, then revenge was no answer. Kate wanted her husband back and she was prepared to fight to keep him. Because while her marriage was under suspicion there was no way she could tell Ryan she was expecting his baby!
Cover (#u0c630963-7e89-5951-bb43-fea270be5c5c)She found the suite without difficulty. There was a notice attached to the door handle, stating “Please do not disturb.” (#u02be5052-53bb-5e33-8aef-44a4d048ec5c)About the Author (#ubb783caf-fb10-5f04-90f4-556a370b1c81)Title Page (#ub2d2aac6-676b-5217-b10b-834cc60953c8)CHAPTER ONE (#ubfe71535-8334-56b2-b2dc-5684b476ed5e)CHAPTER TWO (#u2b1bb530-0e3b-594a-b024-3991066c675d)CHAPTER THREE (#u77320e59-3e65-58c6-8d5c-bb0c4de4fef8)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)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
She found the suite without difficulty. There was a notice attached to the door handle, stating “Please do not disturb.”
I bet, thought Kate, bitterness clenching her throat. She flung the door wide and marched in.
Ryan had risen to his feet and was looking at her, head thrown slightly back, his eyes hooded. He said quietly, “Hello, Kate.”
She had planned it all on the walk here. She was going to be dignified—civilized. She was not going to break down, or make a scene. But at the sight of him—his self-possession when she was falling apart—something exploded in her head. Her voice when it emerged was on the edge of a scream.
“Don’t you dare say ‘Hello’ to me. Don’t you dare. I’m pregnant, do you hear me? Pregnant.”
SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon, England, and grew up surrounded by books, in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.
Sara Craven has recently become the latest (and last ever) winner of the British quiz show Mastermind.
Marriage Under Suspicion
Sara Craven
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
THIS, Kate decided, as she crossed the deserted hotel lounge, had quite definitely been the morning from hell.
She sank into a chair by the window, easing off her elegant black court shoes under the shelter of the table, and discreetly massaging the ball of one aching foot against the calf of her other leg.
Outside on the sunlit lawn, the pretty pink and white striped marquee, with its distinctive octagonal shape, was being swiftly and efficiently dismantled.
Kate, recalling how many hours and telephone calls had been required to track it down, surveyed the operation with genuine regret.
Elsewhere in the hotel, all preparation on the carefully chosen menu for two hundred and fifty people had ceased; the champagne was being returned to the cellar, together with the claret and the chablis; and phones were buzzing as disappointed guests were told their presence would not be required after all.
Kate sighed soundlessly, and opened the file in front of her, running a finger down a hastily assembled check list. Setting up a wedding was a long and complicated business. Cancelling it on the day itself was almost as complex, and probably twice as hectic.
Damn Davina Brent, she thought irritably, scanning through the invoices from her sub-contractors. Why couldn’t she have decided a month—a week—even yesterday—that she didn’t want to go through with it?
Quite apart from the drama and upset of the last few hours, she would also have saved her distraught family some massive but unavoidable bills.
It was the first time since Kate and Louie, her friend from college days, had started Special Occasions that a bride had actually cried off on her wedding morning. In fact, in the three years that they’d been functioning, they’d had remarkably few hiccups, organising other people’s parties, receptions and special events.
And certainly there’d been no prior hint that the beautiful Davina was likely to throw such a spectacular last-minute wobbly. During the preliminary discussions that Kate had had with her, and her unfortunate husband-not-to-be, and, indeed, ever since, she’d seemed very much in love.
But then, thought Kate with an inward shrug, how could you tell what went on in other peoples’ lives—or heads?
For a moment, she was very still, aware of an odd shiver tingling down her spine. A goose walking over my grave, she thought. Or an angel passing over.
And jumped, as a glass was placed on the table in front of her. A martini, if she was any judge, and served just as she liked it, very dry, very cold, and with a twist of lemon. Only, she hadn’t ordered it.
‘There must be some mistake,’ she began, turning in her chair to face the waiter. Instead she found herself looking up into the unsmiling face of Peter Henderson, the erstwhile best man, now casually clad in jeans and sweater.
‘No mistake at all.’ His voice was terse. ‘You look as if you need a drink. I know I do.’ He indicated the whisky glass he was holding.
‘Thanks for the thought.’ Kate accorded him a brief, formal smile. ‘But I make a rule—no alcohol while I’m working.’
He grimaced. ‘I thought, under the circumstances, you’d be off duty by now.’
Kate gestured at the open file. ‘There are still a few loose ends to tie up.’
‘May I join you, or will I be getting in the way?’
‘Of course not. Sit down—please.’ Kate searched around under the table with a stockinged foot for her discarded shoes.
‘Allow me.’ Peter Henderson went down on one knee, and deftly replaced the errant footwear before seating himself in an adjoining chair.
‘Thank you.’ Kate was aware of a faint, vexed flush warming her face.
‘No problem.’ He surveyed her, his expression openly appreciative of the dark blonde hair, drawn sleekly back from her face, and the slender figure set off by her elegant raspberry-pink suit, and black silk shirt. He reached across the table, touching his glass to hers.
‘What shall we drink to?’ he asked lightly. ‘Love and happiness?’
‘Under the circumstances, that could be something of a minefield,’ Kate said drily. ‘Let’s stick to something brief and uncomplicated like “Cheers.’” She paused. ‘How is your brother?’
His mouth tightened. ‘Not good. Shattered, in fact.’
‘I can believe it.’ Kate hesitated again. ‘I—I’m so sorry.’
He gave a slight shrug. ‘Maybe it’s all for the best. If one has genuine misgivings, a clean break now could be preferable to a messy divorce later, when children could be involved, and real damage done.’
‘I suppose so,’ Kate agreed slowly. ‘But they seemed so genuinely well-suited. Did he have any idea she was having second thoughts?’
‘I imagine any problems would be simply attributed to bridal nerves.’ He looked at the narrow gleam of platinum on her wedding finger. ‘A pitfall you apparently managed to avoid.’
She said lightly, ‘Goodness, it’s so long ago, I can hardly remember.’
‘Not that long, surely, unless you were a child bride.’
‘Oh, please.’ Kate sent him an ironic look, aware that she’d flushed again. ‘It was actually five years.’
‘A lifetime.’ He sounded amused. ‘Any regrets?’
‘None at all,’ Kate returned sedately. ‘We’re very happy. Extremely so,’ she added, wondering why she’d needed the extra emphasis.
‘Any children?’
She was aware, once again, of his blue eyes assessing her trim figure.
‘Not yet. We’re both busy establishing our careers.’ She picked up the waiting martini, and sipped it after all, relishing its forceful chill against her dry throat. ‘In Ryan’s case a change of career,’ she added.
‘Something you don’t approve of?’
‘On the contrary.’ Kate stiffened. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘The fact that you took a drink before you mentioned it.’
She laughed. ‘You made a wrong connection, I’m afraid. The actual fact is that martinis are my weakness in life.’
‘The only one?’
‘I try to limit them,,’ she said drily.
‘Would calling me Peter be regarded as a weakness? ’
She was suddenly conscious of a marginal shift in her body language—that she’d relaxed—turned towards him. She straightened, giving him a cool look. ‘An error of judgement, possibly.’
She picked up her file, shuffling some papers. ‘And not very businesslike,’ she added crisply.
‘But your business isn’t with me. Like you, I’m just trying to pick up the pieces.’
‘In that case, shouldn’t you be with your brother instead of me?’
‘Andrew’s with our parents. They’re taking him home with them for a few days.’ He frowned at his glass. ‘I don’t know if that’s a good thing, or a bad. My mother’s inclined to be rather emotional, and she’s never been a fan of Davina’s anyway. It might make any rapprochement a bit difficult.’
Kate’s brows lifted. ‘You really think that could happen—in spite of everything?’
‘Perhaps—if they’re left to come round without too much interference on either side.‘ He sighed. ’In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if they just sloped off to a registry office one day, and simply got married in front of a pair of witnesses off the street. Neither of them wanted this kind of shindig in the first place. I wonder if it was the pressure of it all that finally goaded Davina into flight?’
‘I do hope not.’ Kate swallowed the rest of her martini and put down the glass. ‘Or I might develop a guilt complex.’
‘Blame both sets of parents,’ he said succinctly. ‘They were the ones coming up with endless lists of people who simply had to be invited.’
‘They usually are,’ Kate agreed. ‘And I must admit I’d have hated it myself.’
‘You mean you didn’t have the bridal gown, the fleet of cars, and the cast of thousands—when you’re actually in the business?’
She smiled constrainedly. ‘Ah, but I wasn’t then. And we did exactly what you recommended for Andrew and Davina. A registry office early in the morning, with two witnesses.’
‘Followed by unmitigated bliss?’
‘I would never claim that.’ Kate frowned. ‘I wouldn’t even want it. It sounds deadly dull.’
‘So you and Mr Dunstan enjoy the occasional clash?’
She shrugged. ‘Naturally. We’re both individuals in a relationship which pre-supposes a fair degree of togetherness, and all kinds of adjustments .’ She paused. ‘And it isn’t Mr Dunstan. That’s my name. My husband’s called Lassiter.’
His brows lifted. ‘You mean you’re married to Ryan Lassiter—the writer?’
Kate smiled. ‘I do indeed. Are you one of his fans?’
‘Actually, yes.’ Peter Henderson seemed momentarily nonplussed. ‘I started life as a City broker myself, so I read Justified Risk as soon as it came out I thought it was amazing—that combination of big business and total chill. And the second book was just as good, which doesn’t always happen.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ Kate said lightly. ‘Fortunately a great many people share your opinion.’
‘Is he working on a third book?’
She shook her head. ‘On a fourth. The third’s already in the pipeline for publication this autumn.’
‘I can’t wait. And while he’s pounding the keyboard you do this?’ Peter Henderson reached across and picked up one of her business cards which had slipped out of the file. ‘And all under your own name too,’ he added softly.
Kate shrugged again. ‘We might have fallen on our faces. It seemed a good idea to keep our individual enterprises totally separate.’
‘But now you’re flying high, surely?’
‘Let’s say we’re holding our own in difficult trading times.’ Kate closed her file. ‘Please keep the card, in case you have a celebration of your own to plan one of these days.’ She sent him a mischievous look. ‘Maybe even a wedding reception.’
‘God forbid.’ He shuddered.
‘You’re against marriage?’
‘Not for other people,’ he returned. The blue eyes dwelt on her thoughtfully. ‘Although I’d have to make exceptions there too.’
Their glances locked—challenged—and to Kate’s shock she was the first to look away.
What’s the matter with me? she thought, swallowing. I’m an adult woman. I’ve been chatted up before, plenty of times. Why should this be any different?
With what she recognised was a deliberate effort, she retrieved her black briefcase from the floor beside her, snapped open its locks, and put away the file with an air of finality.
As she got to her feet, she gave Peter Henderson a brief, noncommittal smile.
‘Well, thanks for the drink. Now I must really get on.’
‘Must you?’ He pushed back his own chair, and rose. ‘I was hoping, once you were free of your business cares, that we might have dinner together.’ He paused. ‘I’ve decided to stay on here tonight after all.’
‘And I’ve decided to make the earliest possible start back to London.’ Kate’s tone was more curt than she’d intended.
‘Running away, Miss Dunstan?’ Peter Henderson’s smile was engaging and unabashed. He glanced down at the card he was holding. ‘Or may I call you Kate?’
‘If you wish.’ Her own glance was pointedly at her watch. ‘Although I can’t see why you should wish to. Unless you do decide to throw a party one of these days, we’re unlikely to meet again. Even if Andrew and Davina get together again, I doubt they’ll hire our services a second time.’
Peter Henderson smiled at her. ‘I remain an optimist,’ he said. ‘In all sorts of ways.’
He paused. ‘And believe me—Mrs Lassiter—’ he stressed the name almost mockingly ‘—if and when I decide to party, you will be the first to know.’
Kate felt suddenly as if her own parting smile had been painted on, as wide and foolish as a clown’s.
She said quietly, ‘Goodbye, Mr Henderson,’ and walked away, out of the hotel lounge, without looking back.
She made her way straight to the powder room, glad to find it deserted. She closed the door behind her, and leaned on it for a moment, angrily aware that her breathing was flurried. Hoping too that her exit had been as dignified and final as she’d intended.
But I couldn’t guarantee it, she thought, pulling a face. And he was probably well aware of it, damn him.
She walked to the row of basins, smoothed back her already immaculate hair, added another unnecessary coating of colour to her mouth, then washed her hands—a symbolic gesture which forced a reluctant laugh from her.
Admit it, Kate, she adjured her bright-eyed reflection, half guilty, half amused. Just for a moment there, you were actually tempted.
After all, Ryan isn’t expecting you back until tomorrow. And it was only an invitation to dinner. Who would know if you’d accepted—and where would have been the harm anyway? Your marriage is rock-solid—isn’t it?
For a moment, she was very still, conjuring up Ryan’s image in her mind, until he seemed to be standing beside her, tall, loose-limbed, nose and chin assertively marked in a thin face that would always be attractive rather than handsome.
So real, she realised wonderingly, that she could almost smell the slightly harsh, totally male scent of the cologne he used. So sexy, in a cool, understated way, that her whole body clenched in sudden, unexpected excitement.
His long legs and narrow hips were encased in faded denim, his collarless shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and the sleeves rolled back over muscular forearms. Working gear—and a far cry from the dark City suits he’d worn when they first met. But the changes in Ryan went far deeper than mere surface appearance. And if she was honest, this had been one of the aspects of his new life which had troubled her most.
As usual, one strand of his silky mid-brown hair was straying untidily across his forehead. But, less usually, the hazel eyes were narrowed almost questioningly, and the mobile mouth wasn’t slanted with its usual amusement.
She was being watched, she thought slowly, by a cool, sexy stranger. With the accent on the cool.
Or she was simply transferring her guilt She rallied herself with a slight shrug, acknowledging Ryan’s reaction if he ever discovered she’d been tempted, even for a second, to accept Peter Henderson’s invitation.
She closed her eyes, dismissing the image, wiping the whole incident. It had been a brief glitch on the smooth tenor of her life, not to be considered again.
Aloud, she said, ‘It’s time I went home.’
She used the public telephone in the foyer to call their flat. The answering machine was on, indicating that Ryan was working.
She said lightly, ‘Hi, darling. The wedding’s off, and I’ll be back as soon as I can make it. Why don’t we eat out tonight—my treat? See if you can get a table at Chez Berthe.’
She called at Reception on her way out to tell them she was leaving, and check that the cancellation hadn’t brought any unexpected hitches.
‘Everything’s fine,’ the girl assured her. ‘It’s just such a shame. None of us can remember it ever happening before.’
‘I hope it doesn’t set a trend,’ Kate said drily as she turned away.
‘Oh, one minute, Miss Dunstan.’ The receptionist halted her. ‘I almost forgot.’ Her expression was suddenly conspiratorial—almost sly. ‘This was left for you.’
She handed over an envelope, inscribed ‘Ms Kate Dunstan’ in bold handwriting.
‘Thanks,’ Kate said coolly, and thrust it into her bag, silently cursing the other woman’s overt curiosity. It was important to leave the place on a business footing, she thought, pinning on a smile that was pleasant but formal.
‘I can’t foresee any further problems,’ she said briskly, ‘but if something does crop up you can contact me at the office or on my mobile.’
She waited until she was in her car before she opened the envelope. It was Peter Henderson’s business card, but he’d scrawled his private number across the back of it.
And underneath he’d written, ‘I told you I was an optimist.’
Kate’s mouth tightened. She was sorely tempted to tear the card up and dump it in a waste bin, except there wasn’t one handy. She’d get rid of it later, she decided, slotting the card into the back of her wallet. After she’d added him to the client file list in the office computer, of course, she amended. That would neutralise him. Reduce him to a business contact. Innocent, and potentially useful. End of story.
Traffic was miraculously light, and she didn’t hang about, finding herself at home almost before she’d dared hope, parking next to Ryan’s Mercedes in the underground car park which served the development where their flat was sited.
It was the top floor of what had once been a large warehouse, overlooking the river. In addition to a superb living area, which also contained the galley kitchen, a bathroom, and the room which Ryan used as his office, there was a wide gallery up a flight of wooden steps housing their bedroom, and a private bathroom. The floors were pale, sanded wood, the ceilings were high and vaulted, and every window had wonderful views.
Each time she opened the front door, Kate felt a thrill of ownership buzz through her veins. It was light years away from the flat they’d had when they first married, she thought. That had been the basement of a Victorian house, where the floors creaked, the windows stuck, and the plumbing was eccentric. They’d spent the first year furnishing it, prowling round second-hand shops and markets to find exactly the pieces they wanted. But the eclectic mixture they’d assembled wouldn’t have fitted in here, and they’d sold most of it on to the couple who’d bought the basement from them as well.
Here, furnishings had been kept to a minimum, and clutter banished altogether. Kate had concentrated on shades of cream and ivory, with an occasional bold splash of Mediterranean colour. And it worked. A glossy magazine had suggested using the flat in a series on ‘Working at Home’, but rather to Kate’s disappointment Ryan had refused to take part, saying simply he couldn’t afford the disruption to his routine.
Now, she used her key quietly, because Ryan would still be working, and it was important not to disturb him. He liked peace when he was writing, although he was reasonably tolerant of interruptions, especially when they came with a cup of coffee.
I’ll give him half an hour, and then take him some, Kate thought, dropping her briefcase on to a sofa.
And she paused, as it occurred to her that things were altogether too quiet, too peaceful. She listened intently, but only silence came surging back to her.
She cleared her throat. ‘Ryan—are you there?’ And, for the first time, was aware of a faint echo in all that vaulted emptiness.
She thought, in bewilderment, but he must be here. He’s always here. And besides, he didn’t take the car.
Across the room, she could see the answering machine’s red light winking at her. When she played back the tape, she found just her own message, unheard.
She checked the bedroom, and both bathrooms, then looked in Ryan’s office to see if he’d left her a note, but there was nothing. His desk was clear.
Of course, she thought. He wasn’t expecting me until tomorrow.
She felt absurdly deflated. She’d rushed back here like a mad thing to be with him, and he was somewhere else. What was more, there was no table booked at Chez Berthe, or anywhere for that matter.
She sighed. She’d have to do something with pasta. Tuna, she thought, and anchovies, and there was some garlic bread in the freezer. She might as well make a start on it, because Ryan wouldn’t be long—not if he hadn’t taken the Merc.
On the other hand, she realised, as she glanced restively around her, the flat was preternaturally tidy—unused even, as if no one had been there all day.
Oh, stop it, she adjured herself. You’re just disappointed. You don’t have to be paranoid as well.
She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. She’d make herself a cup of coffee instead, and then begin the evening meal. Surprise him when he returned.
As she turned off the tap, she saw the two crystal flutes upturned in the drainer.
Her brows lifted. Champagne? she thought. But Ryan hardly ever drank champagne. He was a claret man. They’d spent their eventual honeymoon touring the Médoc.
She set the kettle to boil, then obeying an impulse she hardly understood, flicked open the waste bin. An empty bottle of Krug was right there, mute evidence that Ryan had indeed been drinking champagne, and not on his own either.
For a moment, Kate stood staring down at it, then she dropped the lid and turned away.
Well, what of it? she thought, with a mental shrug. Clearly he had something to celebrate. Perhaps Quentin, his agent, had called round with news of the film option on the last book.
She still could hardly believe how spectacular Ryan’s new career had proved. She’d thought he was firmly implanted in the City. Had been frankly horrified when he’d announced his decision to leave broking, and write his first novel. Kate, whose partnership with Louie had been in its early, tentative stages, had tried to reason with him, pointing out the risks he was taking, but he’d been quite determined.
‘I don’t like my life,’ he’d said. ‘I look at the people around me, and I can see myself becoming like them. I don’t want that. This is my chance to break free, and I’m taking it.’
He’d added more gently, ‘You don’t have to worry, Kate. I’ve got money put away to cushion us initially. I won’t let you starve.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of myself,’ she’d protested. ‘If you jack your job in, there’s no way back. And becoming a writer is such a—leap in the dark. How do you know you can do it?’
‘I’ll never know, unless I try.’
‘I suppose not.’ She’d sighed. ‘Well, do it, if you must. After all, we’ve always got Special Occasions to fall back on.’
There was a silence, then he’d said quietly, ‘So we have. I was almost forgetting.’
But, in the event, it hadn’t been needed. Ryan’s script had been read and auctioned by Quentin Roscoe for a sum which had made Kate blink.
‘You’re a genius.’ She’d flung her arms round Ryan, kissing him rapturously. ‘Nothing can stop us now.’
Although it hadn’t all been plain sailing, she was bound to admit. She still remembered the day Ryan had told her about the author tour which had been arranged in the States for the launch of Justified Risk.
‘Every major city,’ he told her jubilantly. ‘Book signings, TV and radio interviews. And, while I’m working, you’re going to be taken shopping and sight-seeing.’
‘I am?’ Kate’s smile faded. She bit her lip. ‘Darling, I can’t go with you.’
‘What are you talking about? Of course you’re coming. It’s all arranged.’
‘Then it’ll have to be un-arranged,’ Kate returned crisply. ‘After all, I wasn’t even consulted about this.’
‘I wasn’t included in the planning stage either,’ Ryan said with a touch of grimness. ‘These are the kind of hoops I’m expected to jump through, and be grateful. It’s certainly the kind of opportunity you don’t refuse.’
‘Of course not, and I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.’ Even to her own ears, her voice held a slightly brittle note. ‘But I’m far too busy at work to take that amount of time off.’
‘Louie would understand—if you explained.’
‘There’s nothing to explain.’ Kate lifted her chin. ‘Like you, I have a career, Ryan—and a life. I’m not just an—appendage to be trailed round in your wake.’
‘No indeed,’ he said, too courteously. ‘You’re my wife, and I’m looking for a little support here.’
‘So, I just drop everything and run?’ Kate shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Ryan, but that isn’t how it works.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps if I’d had more notice . . . ’
‘I’ve only just heard myself.’ He paused ‘Kate, I need you with me—please.’
‘It’s impossible,’ she said stubbornly. She saw the utter bleakness in his face as he turned from her, and added hastily, ‘Next time, maybe . . . ’
‘Of course,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘There’s always a next time.’
Only there hadn’t been. Ryan had carried out a number of promotional tours since, but she’d been included in none of them, although she could have accompanied him with Louie’s goodwill.
‘You’re a fool,’ her partner had commented when Kate had told her what had happened. ‘If Ryan belonged to me, I wouldn’t let him roam off alone.’
‘He’s not alone,‘ Kate had protested. ‘He has people with him—a publicist, for one.’
‘Male or female?’ Louie had sent her a beady look.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then I’d get to know. I’m only a single woman, but it seems to me like the kind of information a caring wife should have at her fingertips.’ Louie had adjusted her scarlet-rimmed spectacles. She was taller than Kate, and built on more Junoesque lines, with a mop of dark curly hair.
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ Kate had said impatiently. ‘I trust Ryan implicitly.’
Nevertheless, when Ryan got back she’d heard herself asking, ‘How did you get on with the publicist?’
‘Grant?’ Ryan had shaken his head. ‘Nice lad, but I think I was his first author. We carried each other.’
‘Oh,’ Kate had said, despising herself for feeling relieved.
The kettle whistled imperiously, bringing Kate back to the present with a start.
Not exactly the kind of trip down Memory Lane that I wanted, she reflected wryly as she made her coffee.
And it must have been sparked off by her encounter with Peter Henderson. His questions had re-opened several cans of worms which she’d thought closed for ever, and that was vaguely disturbing.
So, she hadn’t wanted Ryan to jettison his City career. She could hardly be blamed for that. But no one was more delighted than herself when the gamble paid off.
We’re both doing what we want. We have a wonderful life, and a strong marriage, she told herself as she made her way back to the living area. Things really couldn’t be better.
There was a small stack of mail beside the telephone, junk and bills by the look of it, she thought, wrinkling her nose as she flicked through the envelopes. There was only one she couldn’t categorise quite so simply. An expensive cream laid envelope, typewritten, and addressed quite starkly to ‘Kate Lassiter’, with a central London postmark.
Kate slit open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper it contained.
She unfolded the letter, reaching casually for her coffee cup as she did so.
There was no address, and no greeting. Just two lines in heavy black script. Seven words which leapt off the page at her with a force that left her stunned.
Your husband loves another woman.
A Friend.
CHAPTER TWO
KATE felt totally numb. There was an odd roaring in her ears, while from a distance she heard the tinkle of crockery, and flinched from the scalding splash of liquid on her feet and legs.
She thought detachedly, I’ve dropped my coffee. I ought to get a cloth and clear it up before it stains the floor. I ought . . .
But she couldn’t move. All she could do was read those seven words over and over again, until they danced in front of her eyes, reassembling themselves in strange meaningless patterns.
She felt her fingers curl round the paper, crushing it, reducing it to a tight ball which she threw, violently, as far as her strength allowed.
For a moment she stood, almost absently wiping her hands down the sides of her coffee-stained skirt, then, with a little choking cry, she bolted up to the bathroom where she was briefly and unpleasantly sick.
When the world had stopped revolving, she stripped off her clothes and showered, using water almost hotter than she could bear, as if scouring herself of some physical contamination.
Then she towelled herself dry, and re-dressed in leggings and a tunic.
She seemed to be looking at a ghost, she thought, as she combed her damp hair into shape. A white-faced spectre with shocked, enormous eyes.
Downstairs, she fetched a dustpan and cleaning materials, and set about cleaning up the spilled coffee, almost relishing the physical effort required to scrub at the stained floorboards. The cream rug was marked too, she noticed, frowning, and that would have to go to a specialist cleaning firm.
She stopped right there, with a tiny gasp. Her marriage was in ruins, and she was worrying about a bloody rug?
She knelt staring into space, aware of a deep inner trembling. Knowing that it was composed equally of anger and fear.
Heard her voice, hoarse and shaken, say, ‘It’s not true. It can’t be true, or I’d have known. I’d have sensed something, surely. It’s just a piece of random filth. Someone who hates us. Who’s jealous of our happiness.’
The conclusion made her flesh crawl, but it was infinitely preferable to any other possibility, she realised, grimacing painfully.
She got to her feet, and took the china fragments into the kitchen for disposal. The champagne bottle in the wastebin jarred her. Before she could stop herself, she was standing by the sink, lifting the flutes to the sunlight, studying them minutely for any tell-tale signs of lipstick.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she derided herself. Don’t let someone’s malice turn you paranoid.
She put the glasses away, emptied the wastebin, and cleaned it meticulously. Then she deliberately made herself another cup of coffee, and carried it through to the living area, seating herself on one of the cream and maize striped sofas.
Normally, the panorama of the river fascinated her, the boats, the buildings which crowded the banks, the play of light on the water. Now, she gazed at it unseeingly, her mind running in aching circles, as she drank her coffee. It burned all the way down, but the inner chill remained.
She thought, I don’t want this to have happened. I want everything back the way it was before . . .
In some ways, she wished she hadn’t come home. That she’d accepted Peter Henderson’s offer and stayed for dinner in Gloucestershire.
But that would have made no difference. The letter would still have been there, awaiting her eventual return.
She needed to find some way to deal with the situation. Work out some plan of action. Yet she felt totally at a loss.
She could always go for straight confrontation, she acknowledged, frowning. Just hand Ryan the letter and watch his reaction.
She put down the empty cup, and retrieved the crumpled ball of paper from its corner, endeavouring to smooth out the creases.
I can’t pretend to treat it lightly—make a joke of it, she thought. As soon as he sees what I did to it, he’ll know it mattered—that it upset me. I can’t let him know that. Not until I’m sure. One way or the other.
She stopped abruptly, with a small gasp, aware of how far and how fast she had come from her original total disbelief.
She found herself remembering an article she’d read in a magazine at the hairdressers. Titled ‘His Cheating Heart’, it had detailed some of the ways to check if a man was being unfaithful. And one of the chief danger signs, she recalled, her heart lurching sickly, had been long, unexplained absences.
She said aloud, huskily, almost desperately, ‘Ryan—where the hell are you?’
No, she thought, setting her jaw. She would not let herself think like this. Five years of love and trust could not be destroyed by a single act of malice. She wouldn’t allow it.
So she wouldn’t mention the letter at all, she told herself, drawing a deep breath. In fact, she would make believe she had never seen it. That it didn’t exist. She would make no wild accusations. Drop no veiled hints. She would act completely naturally, she thought fiercely. But—she would also be on her guard.
She tore the letter in half, then into quarters, before reducing it to strips, and thence into a mound of minute fragments which she piled onto a saucer and burned.
She flushed the ashes down the sink, and wished the words could be erased from her mind with equal ease.
She chose a bottle of Ryan’s favourite Bordeaux from the rack, and opened it. A nice, wifely gesture to welcome him home, she thought, biting her lip. Except there was no positive guarantee that he would be home . . .
If he didn’t return, of course, that would be a whole new ball game. But she would deal with that only when she had to.
She sat curled up on the sofa, sipping her wine, and watching television, aware of the light fading from the sky above the river. But the words and images on the screen passed her by, as if she were blind and deaf. Her mind was occupied only by her own heavy thoughts.
It was with a sense of shock that she discovered that it was now completely dark, and realised how long she must have been sitting there. She uncoiled herself stiffly, forcing herself to move around the big room, switching on lamps, and drawing the voluminous drapes across the windows. Closing out the night, and the thousands of lights which twinkled at her like small prying eyes. Reinforcing the fact that she was still, unaccountably, alone.
She thought, with anguish, He’s not coming back. And how am I going to bear it . . . ?
The sudden sharp rattle of a key in the door made her wheel round, her heart pounding.
She said with a gasp ‘Ryan? Oh, Ryan, it’s you.’
‘You were expecting someone else?’ He spoke lightly, but the glance he directed at her across the intervening space was searching. He shut the door behind him, and put down his briefcase.
‘Of course not, but I was getting worried. I didn’t know where you were.’
‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t know you’d be around to worry.’ His brows lifted questioningly. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
He was wearing, she noticed, his favourite pale grey trousers, topped by a white shirt, a silk tie in sombre jewel colours, and his black cashmere jacket. Not his usual casual weekend gear at all.
She swallowed. ‘Oh, the bride got cold feet and cancelled. A Special Occasions first. All that lovely food, and the prettiest marquee in England, and no takers.’ She realised she was beginning to babble, and bit her lip.
‘Ah, well,’ Ryan said lightly. ‘It’s probably a blessing in disguise. One less mistake to chalk up to experience. One less digit to add to the divorce statistics.’
She stared at him, suddenly and totally arrested. ‘That’s a very cynical viewpoint.’
‘I thought I was just being realistic.’ He paused. ‘Did it cause you a lot of problems?’
‘Enough.’ Kate shrugged. ‘But it also gave me the weekend back.’ She hesitated in her turn. ‘I did phone and leave a message. You must have been out all day.’
‘Pretty well,’ he nodded, discarding his jacket and tie and tossing them on to one of the sofas.
Kate watched him release the top buttons of his shirt with a swift, primitive yearning. How long was it since they’d last made love? It must be all of three weeks, she realised with an inward grimace. Just before she’d been taken ill with that twenty-four-hour tummy bug, when she thought back.
But I’ve been out a lot on business, she reminded herself defensively, and Ryan often works late into the evening, so that I’m asleep when he comes to bed.
But not tonight, she promised herself. Tonight, she would take infinite care to stay awake.
She smiled at him. ‘Would you like a glass of wine? I—I didn’t know what to do about food. . . ?’ She turned it into a question.
Ryan shook his head. ‘I’ve eaten, thanks. But some wine would be good.’
She poured carefully, and handed him a glass. ‘You look very smart.’ She kept her tone casual. ‘Have you been with Quentin?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I had some research to do.’
‘Oh.’ Kate refilled her own glass and sat down. ‘I thought you did that on the Internet.’
‘Not all of it.’ He didn’t come to sit beside her, but prowled restlessly round the room. He paused by the phone. ‘Have there been any other messages?’
‘Apparently not.’ Kate sipped her wine. ‘Were you expecting anything in particular?’
‘Not really,’ he returned. ‘There was some mail for you, by the way. Did you find it?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oh, yes, thank you.’
He continued his pacing, then halted abruptly, his brows flicking together in a frown. ‘What happened to the floor? And the rug?’
‘That was me being clumsy.’ She managed to laugh. ‘I had a fight with a cup of coffee and lost. Does it look too obvious and awful? I’ll get the rug cleaned, and there’s some special stuff for the woodwork.’
‘No, leave it,’ Ryan said, his mouth twisting. ‘I rather like the fact that we’ve actually put our mark on the place at last. I’d begun to think we were going to pass through without one blemish.’
‘Pass through?’ Kate echoed. ‘That’s an odd thing to say.’
He shrugged. ‘Just a figure of speech.’
‘And it’s not “the place”,’ she went on, with a touch of fierceness, feeling uneasy, wanting, obscurely, to challenge him. ‘It’s a home. Our home.’
He laughed. ‘Is it, my darling? I thought it was some kind of statement.’
‘Can’t it be both? Is it wrong for our environment to express who we are—our aspirations and achievements? ’ She could hear her voice rising.
‘That,’ he said, ‘might depend on the aspirations and achievements. Although no one, seeing all this, could possibly doubt what a success we both are.’ He lifted his glass in a mocking toast, swallowing the rest of his wine. ‘Quod erat demonstrandum.’
My God, she thought. We’re almost quarrelling, and that’s the last thing I want.
She put down her glass and went to him, sliding her arms round his waist, inhaling luxuriously the familiar male scent of his skin.
‘Well, I love our success.’ She spoke with mock-defiance, smiling up at him. ‘And our happiness even more. And, as a bonus, we get to spend tomorrow together.’ She traced the open neck of his shirt with her forefingers. ‘Sunday, sweet Sunday, all by ourselves.’ She lowered her voice temptingly. ‘We can get up as late as we want. Walk in the park, or stay in with the papers. Find somewhere new to have dinner. Just like we used to.’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, my love, not tomorrow. I’m going down to Whitmead to have lunch with the family.’
‘Oh?’ Kate stiffened instantly. ‘May I know when this was arranged?’
His voice was equable. ‘My mother telephoned during the week.’
‘You didn’t mention it before.’
He gave her a meditative look. ‘I didn’t think you’d be particularly interested.’
He didn’t add ‘After the last time’. He didn’t have to, Kate thought, wincing. The implication was right there.
She made her tone placatory. ‘Darling, I didn’t mean the stupid things I said on the way home. I—lost my temper. We both did.’ She shook her head. ‘I wish your mother could just understand that if and when we start a family it will be our own personal decision, taken when we’re good and ready. And without any prompting.’
‘It was just a casual remark, Kate. She didn’t mean to interfere. Or start World War Three.’ He paused. ‘After all, when we first got married, a baby was very much on the cards. And we made no secret of it.’
‘Yes, but everything changed when you gave up your city job,’ Kate protested. ‘I had to work while you established yourself as a writer. You know that.’
‘I’m established now,’ he said mildly.
‘And so am I,’ Kate reminded him. ‘Which makes it more difficult now to find an appropriate time. Something that will fit in with our career demands. Surely your mother must see that.’ She hesitated. ‘And you remember what Jon and Carla Patterson were telling us about the nanny situation the other night. They’ve had one disaster after another.’
‘So it seems.’ His voice was noncommittal.
‘Therefore it isn’t something we can rush into,’ she went on. ‘And your mother has got your sister’s children to fuss over, after all,’ she added with a touch of defensiveness.
‘Undoubtedly,’ he agreed. ‘But I can’t promise she won’t drop any more hints.’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘I’m afraid we’re just not a very reticent family.’
‘Maybe not.’ She pinned on a smile. ‘So, does all this mean that I’m excluded from tomorrow’s invitation? ’
‘On the contrary,’ he said quietly. ‘Everyone would be delighted to see you, but I assumed you’d be tied up at the office once you got back from Gloucestershire, and made your excuses.’
‘You’re quite right of course,’ she agreed colourlessly. She detached herself from him, and turned away. ‘I have got a load of paperwork to complete. So, next time, perhaps.’
‘That might be best.’
Did she imagine it, or did he actually sound relieved?
My God, she thought, biting her lip. Am I really such a bitch?
She swung back towards him, smiling brightly. ‘Shall we have some more wine?’
‘I’d better not.’ He sounded regretful. ‘I need to keep a clear head.’
‘You’re not going to work tonight, surely?’ Kate made no attempt to hide her disappointment.
‘I have some editing to do. It won’t take long.’
Kate knelt on the sofa, reaching forward to take his hand. ‘Couldn’t it wait until the morning?’ Her voice was husky, almost wistful. ‘I—I’ve missed you.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve got to make an early start to Whitmead. I need to get it done now.’ He disengaged his hand, then ran a finger down the curve of her cheek. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘Is that a promise?’ Kate drawled the words, looking up at him through her lashes.
‘Behave.’ He bent and dropped a swift kiss on top of her head. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He collected his briefcase and went into the office, closing the door behind him.
Kate stayed where she was for a moment, staring blankly in front of her, then she collected the wine glasses and took them into the kitchen to rinse them out. She could see her reflection in the window above the sink, pale-skinned, taut-mouthed, and wide-eyed.
She thought, with a sense of shock, I look—frightened.
And yet there had been nothing to be scared of—had there?
Admittedly, it hadn’t been the ideal reunion under the circumstances. Ryan’s reaction to her unexpected return hadn’t been the one she’d hoped for. But then he was always preoccupied when the book he was working on reached a certain stage. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have given it another thought.
But life was no longer ordinary. The anonymous letter had changed all that . . Those seven words had removed the certainties, and replaced them with doubts. And with the fear she saw in her own eyes.
He’d been doing research, he’d said. But what kind of research would he dress up for? And the meal he’d mentioned—had he eaten it alone?
Why didn’t I ask him? Kate thought, twining a strand of hair round her finger in a gesture left over from childhood. Why didn’t I find out exactly where he’d been? Got him to name the restaurant even?
Was it, maybe, because I didn’t want to hear the answers? Because I was afraid to pursue them?
She shivered, and turned away from the strained face confronting her in the glass.
Ryan might not have been overwhelmed to see her, but they were hardly newly-weds, for heaven’s sake. It didn’t make him guilty of anything. And there was no real reason for him to change his plans either. They were both adults with their own lives.
And she could well do without a family Sunday at Whitmead, she told herself, pulling a face. The perfect roast, the home-grown vegetables, the seriously alcoholic trifle all ordained beforehand, and produced without a hitch, even when extra guests turned up, as they often did. The afternoon spent playing croquet or French cricket, or taking the dogs for a walk, to build up an appetite for the equally sumptuous tea. The noisy games of cards or Trivial Pursuit during the evening. It was all like a cliché of English country life.
Oh, come on, she chided herself. That really is bitchy. You really don’t want to go in case Sally and Ben are there with the children, and comparisons are drawn. Be honest about it. You don’t want another row with Ryan on the drive back.
And she shouldn’t be derogatory about Ryan’s parents, even in thought, she added ruefully. Because she liked them both—even if Mrs Lassiter’s warmth, charm and unbounded energy did make her feel slightly inadequate at times.
She simply wasn’t used to the overt family affection, the candour about personal issues, the lively arguments, and the casual but whole-hearted hospitality.
Her own upbringing, she thought, had been so very different.
With a silent sigh, Kate wandered back into the living area, and stood for a moment, staring at the closed door to Ryan’s office. There was nothing in the world to stop her crossing the space that divided them, of course.
She could open that door, go into that room, and ask how much longer he was going to be. She’d done it before, after all. And on more than one occasion she’d left her clothes on the floor first.
But even as her mouth curved in a reminiscent smile she knew she would not be doing so this evening.
When she’d gone to Ryan earlier, put her arm around him, he’d held her in return. But there’d been no passion in his response. No kindling intimacy in his touch. Once, he would have drawn her close against his body, found her mouth with his, his hands rediscovering all the sweet, sensuous routes to their mutual desire.
She had never before offered herself, and been rejected.
Although it hadn’t been a real rejection, she assured herself quickly. After all, he’d said ‘Later’, hadn’t he?
But, although this was later, she knew she wasn’t going to risk it. She would let him set the parameters tonight.
She went up to the bedroom. In her lingerie drawer, she found the nightgown she’d bought the previous month on an impulse, but not yet worn. She unwrapped the layers of tissue and looked at it with satisfaction.
It was ivory satin, and classically simple, the bodice deeply slashed beneath shoestring straps, the skirt cut cleverly to cling.
Seductive, she thought, without being obvious. And there would never be a better time to try its effect
She changed into it, brushed her hair loose over her shoulders, and added a breath of Patou’s Joy to her throat, wrists and breasts.
Then, leaving one shaded lamp burning, she lay down on top of the bed to wait for him.
And we’ll just see if he makes that early start for Whitmead, she thought, smiling to herself. Or if he’ll have to ring his parents, and tell them he can’t be there after all. Such a shame.
It was the kind of situation that usually she’d revel in, but somehow she found it impossible to relax—to think herself into the appropriate frame of mind.
She was planning to ravish her own husband. She wanted him to find her warm and willing, not nerve-racked and clammy-skinned. She needed to feel anticipation, not uncertainty.
She found she kept turning her head restively towards the stairs, every sense alert for a sound, or sign of movement. But there was nothing. Ryan had said he wouldn’t be long, but the time seemed endless.
She remembered the deep breathing learned at her Yoga classes at college, and its calming effect. She let herself sink into the mattress, counting silently to herself as she inhaled, held the drawn breath then slowly released it.
Gradually, she felt her inner tension ease, but at the same time her eyelids began to grow heavy.
Sleep, she thought drowsily. I mustn’t go to sleep. I have to wait—wait for Ryan. . .
It was the cold that woke her eventually. She sat up with a shiver, one glance at the bed beside her telling her that she was still alone. The numbers on the clock radio informed her it was the early hours of the morning.
She slid off the bed, put on her robe and went downstairs.
Ryan was lying, fast asleep, on one of the sofas. Nearby the television still hummed gently, its screen blank.
Kate turned off the power, before bending over her husband, shaking his shoulder gently.
‘Ryan,’ she whispered. ‘Darling, you can’t stay here. Come to bed—please.’
He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but he didn’t stir, not even when she shook him again, harder.
She waited for a moment, then trailed slowly and defeatedly back to the gallery.
Even under the covers, the king-size bed felt frigid and unwelcoming.
She thought, So, he fell asleep in front of the television. It happens. It’s no big deal.
And suddenly found that she wanted, very badly, to cry. Because it was a very big deal indeed.
CHAPTER THREE
KATE opened unwilling eyes to discover broad daylight. She sat up slowly, propping herself on an elbow, while she pushed her hair back from her face with her other hand, and looked around her, dazed from a restless night punctuated by brief, disturbing dreams.
The first thing she registered was that the pillow beside her was rumpled, and the quilt had been thrown back, indicating that Ryan had spent at least part of the night with her.
Well, she thought, that was something—even if he hadn’t bothered to wake her.
She swung her feet to the floor, and padded across to the bathroom. Ryan’s damp towel was hanging on the rail, and a pleasant aroma of cologne, toothpaste and soap pervaded the moist air. But he had gone.
As she turned away, disappointed, a faint but persuasive scent of coffee invaded her consciousness, and she followed it down to the kitchen.
Ryan was standing at the worktop, buttering a slice of toast. He was wearing faded chinos with a plain white shirt. An elderly sweatshirt was draped round his shoulders, and his hair was still damp from the shower.
Kate leaned against the door jamb and watched him, allowing, with a shrug of her shoulder, one of the straps of her nightgown to slide down.
She said, softly, ‘Hi, there.’
‘Hi, yourself.’ His smile was easy, widening as his eyes surveyed her. ‘You look positively delectable, Mrs Lassiter. I don’t think I’ve seen that particular nightdress before.’
‘You were meant to notice it last night.’ Kate smiled back at him, pleasurably aware that her nipples were hardening under his scrutiny, and clearly outlined under the cling of the satin for his delectation.
‘Sorry about that.’ He didn’t sound particularly repentant. Nor did he come across to her as she expected. ‘I worked longer than I intended, and then I got interested in something on television. You know how it is.’
She said, gently reproachful, ‘You could have woken me—when you came upstairs.’
‘You were sleeping like a baby. I didn’t have the heart.’ He took a pitcher of fresh orange juice from the refrigerator, and poured her a glass. ‘Your morning tonic, madam.’
‘I can think of a far better pick-me-up than that.’ Kate spoke huskily, meeting his glance, knowing that he liked seeing her like this, flushed and tousled from sleep. She adjusted the strap of her nightgown, letting her hands linger momentarily on her breasts. ‘Why don’t we have—breakfast in bed?’
‘I told you why last night.’ He sounded faintly amused. ‘As soon as I’ve drunk my coffee, I’m off to Whitmead.’
‘You’ve been invited to lunch.’ She heard a pettish note in her voice, and tried to sound more beguiling. ‘It surely won’t take all morning for you to drive there.’
‘Dad wants me to help him with some fencing.’
‘Oh.’ Kate straightened. ‘And that naturally takes precedence over your wife?’
‘It does today.’ He set the glass of orange juice down on the worktop. ‘You seem to have forgotten that you weren’t even going to be here.’
He paused. ‘Tell me, Kate, if the wedding had gone ahead, and I’d asked you particularly to come with me today, would that have taken precedence over the usual mopping-up operations?’
‘That’s not fair,’ she protested. ‘A wedding—or any kind of party—is entirely different. I set it up beforehand, and supervised the clearing-up afterwards. I don’t have a choice in this. It’s work.’
He shrugged. ‘On the other hand, it could simply be a question of priorities. And today mine have been decided for me.’
He pushed the slice of toast to one side, untouched, and walked to the door. On the way past, he turned to her, his hands reaching for her wrists, pinioning her suddenly against the wall.
Kate gasped, half in indignation, half in excitement, as she twisted against his imprisoning grasp in an unavailing attempt to free herself.
Ryan’s hazel eyes were unsmiling but intent as they looked into hers, watching her pupils dilate in anticipation, in the beginnings of an arousal she was powerless to control.
He leaned forward and kissed her slowly, almost insolently, his teeth grazing her lip, his tongue gliding against hers like heated silk.
Her response was immediate. Her mouth moved against his, sweetly, greedily. She lifted the hands which clasped hers, and placed them on her breasts.
She thought, exultantly, He’s mine.
His leg parted her thighs, pressing the satin of her gown against the moist satin of her body in a deliberate, tantalising friction which forced a tormented moan from her throat.
She wanted him so fiercely that it hurt. She needed to feel him sheathed inside her—to be taken, there and then, against the wall, or on the floor. She wanted to see his cool, ironic control shattered in tiny pieces. To possess him, to know that he was as driven and desperate as she was herself.
Even when he stepped back, his breathing hurried and harsh, she thought she’d won.
She hooked her fingers under the straps of her gown, and pulled them down, letting the folds of satin slide down her body, and cascade around her bare feet. She waited, her nakedness a challenge, her body heated and ready for his invasion.
And saw him smile at her.
‘Goodbye, darling,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t ever think I wasn’t tempted.’
He turned, and walked away from her towards the main door.
For a second, she was too shocked to move or speak. Then sheer outrage rescued her.
‘Bastard,’ she hurled after him, chokingly. ‘Don’t you dare walk out on me.’
But Ryan’s only response was to blow her one mocking kiss as he left.
Kate closed down her computer, and switched off the power, sitting for a moment and staring at the blank screen. She could only hope that what she’d stored over the past hour made some kind of sense, but she guaranteed nothing.
For once, her mind had not been on the job in hand.
Instead, she’d found herself going over and over again the events of the past twenty-four hours, as if she were trapped on some weary treadmill.
And the inescapable and unpalatable fact facing her was that, leaving aside whether or not Ryan was actually having an affair, her own relationship with him seemed to have reached some kind of watershed.
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Сара Крейвен
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Your husband loves another woman. The note was signed «A Friend,» but no friend would ever do that to another woman. Could it be true? Was Kate Lassiter′s marriage falling apart? She still loved her husband, Ryan, still thrilled at his touch, but how long was it since they′d last made love? On the surface they had it all: successful careers, a lovely home and the perfect marriage.But if Ryan had committed the ultimate betrayal, then revenge was no answer. Kate wanted her husband back and she was prepared to fight to keep him. Because while her marriage was under suspicion there was no way she could tell Ryan she was expecting his baby!