Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | The Valentine Child

The Valentine Child
JACQUELINE BAIRD
Wedlocked! Would Valentine play Cupid? When Zoe's baby arrived on February 14, it seemed only natural to call him Valentine! But as far as Zoe was concerned, Valentine had been the only romance in her brief marriage to Justin Gifford.And since Justin had harshly declared that he never wanted to see her again, she hadn't had the chance to tell him that he had a son… . But then the unthinkable happened: Valentine became desperately ill and Zoe knew that she would do anything to save him - even if that meant seducing her own husband!"Jacqueline Baird burns up the pages" - Romantic Times



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u3b17cce0-f197-580b-978d-21026cb60255)
Excerpt (#u3c5382c3-44fa-565f-916c-444d59175b83)
About the Author (#u44606b9f-cbe9-57e6-9222-47e81e69f8b6)
Title Page (#ua5ab1478-c77d-56a6-9b76-8f477f77034c)
Chapter One (#u900009be-d622-5aac-8e2f-cd8dcf0c9158)
Chapter Two (#u8148682d-2f71-5649-9773-07585be602e1)
Chapter Three (#u7b24c671-a529-51a2-a0f6-27b15382c77f)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“This is Val, our son.”
Zoë saw no point in softening the blow. When had Justin ever considered her?

“I only have your word for that. What kind of an idiot do you take me for, Zoë? Discovered how wealthy I am now, is that it?”

She stared up at him through a mist of pain and rising anger that she did not attempt to hide.

“No, it’s not your money I need, it’s you.”
JACQUELINE BAIRD began writing as a hobby when her family objected to the smell of her oil painting, and immediately became hooked on the romantic genre. She loves traveling, and worked her way around the world, from Europe to the Americas and Australia, returning to marry her childhood sweetheart. She now lives in the northeast of England and has two grown-up sons. She enjoys playing badminton and spends most weekends with husband Jim, sailing their Gp. 14.

The Valentine Child
Jacqueline Baird



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

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_d0a17ff5-8005-5203-a62e-0261c106bc8c)
HIS lips were warm on the tender skin of her throat. Somewhere along the way Nigel had removed his T-shirt and she could feel the heat of his body through her fine silk blouse. She closed her eyes tight and told herself that she was enjoying his kisses. It was Nigel—her friend, her colleague and soon to be her lover.
They were sprawled across the sofa in Zoë’s London apartment, the only sound Nigel’s heavy breathing. She felt his fingers at the buttons of her blouse and tensed, then forced herself to relax. Hadn’t she planned this? She was twenty, and still a virgin! And now she was finally going to be a woman! So why did she feel sick?
The thought stopped her cold, and, shoving at Nigel’s chest, she said, ‘No, Nigel. Get off.’ The ensuing tussle was undignified and bordering on the ridiculous. Zoë struggled from beneath his sprawling body but her elbow caught him in the eye, and his yelp of pain was drowned out by the ringing of the doorbell, followed by loud and rapid knocking.
‘Saved by the bell!’ Zoë murmured, and dashed across the room. Whoever was calling after midnight was in danger of waking the whole house. Her apartment was one of six in a converted Victorian town house.
She flung open the door, about to demand what all the urgency was for, and stopped. Her mouth fell open and she brushed a small hand through the tumbled mass of her silver-blonde hair, sweeping it out of her eyes to get a better view. It couldn’t be…But it was… Justin Gifford.
For a second she saw the old Justin, as he had been before the fatal night of her eighteenth birthday. He was smiling tenderly down at her, his dark eyes filled with some emotion she could not guess at.
‘Justin.’ She said his name, and raised her hand as though to touch him, but he brushed past her and into the room. She closed the door and turned around. Obviously she had been mistaken about his tender glance, she thought dryly.
‘So that’s what stopped you.’ Nigel’s voice broke the tense silence. ‘You heard the bell.’
Zoë glanced at Nigel, who was sitting on the sofa, struggling to pull his shirt back on, and then back at Justin.
The comparison was inevitable. Nigel looked like a flushed, frustrated twenty-one-year-old—which he was. Whereas Justin, at thirty-five, and touching six feet tall, exuded an aura of sophisticated, arrogant masculinity that was undeniable. Certain of his place and power in the world as a top barrister with a glittering future, tipped to be one of the youngest judges ever appointed, he dominated those around him without even trying.
He was doing it now! Standing in the centre of the room, a long cashmere overcoat draped casually over his broad shoulders. Beneath it a black wool roll-neck sweater moulded the muscular contours of his broad chest, and black denim jeans did the same for his long legs. His night-black hair was, unusually for him, rumpled in disarray and the contempt in his eyes, as he recognised at a glance what had been going on, was unmistakable.
His gaze swept over her small, dishevelled form and the furious glitter in his deep brown eyes would have made a saint quake…
‘Does your lover live with you?’ he demanded harshly.
Zoë tensed, and wiped her damp palms nervously down her jean-clad thighs. She wriggled her bare toes in the deep-pile carpet and straightened her shoulders in a vain attempt to add inches to her diminutive stature. She tilted back her head and looked a long way up into angry eyes.
‘I don’t think that is any of your business, Justin. More to the point, what are you doing here at this hour?’ She was proud—her voice sounded firm when inside she was trembling. Nigel was not helping any by pulling his shirt down with one hand and knuckling his eye with the other, looking like a drowsy, sated male.
‘I’m making it my business, Zoë.’ Justin stepped towards her, his massive frame looming over her. She had nowhere to go; her back was at the door. ‘Is that the kind of pipsqueak you prefer?’ he demanded scathingly. ‘I can’t say I admire your taste. Get rid of him. Now.’
‘Nigel is my guest—she spluttered.
‘So he doesn’t live here?’ Justin cut in, and simply grabbed her arm and swung her behind him while roaring at Nigel, ‘You—whatever your name is—get out.’
Nigel got to his feet. ‘Wait just a minute. Who the hell do you think you are? Zoë and I—’
‘There is no Zoë, not for you. Now out, before I throw you out.’
Zoë had seen Justin angry before, but never like this. ‘You’d better go, Nigel,’ she said quietly. Justin’s hand around her wrist relaxed slightly at her surrender to his request…
‘It’s OK. Justin is my uncle’s partner; I’ll be all right,’ she assured him, and she was free. Involuntarily she rubbed her wrist as she stepped away from Justin’s towering presence, looking, if she did but know it, as if she was wringing her hands in agitation.
After a token objection Nigel left, and Zoë didn’t blame him. She had first met Justin Gifford as a sad and frightened fourteen-year-old who had just lost her actor parents in an air disaster in California. She had been swept from her boarding-school in Portland, Maine, to be deposited on her only relative, Uncle Bertie Brown, in England.
She remembered as if it were yesterday. Born and brought up in the States, with an American mother and an English father, she had arrived in what to her had been an alien country, to live in a huge old house, “Black Gables”, with an uncle she had never met before.
She had been curled up on the window-seat in the garden-room, quietly crying, when a deep voice had said softly, ‘Are you all right, little girl?’ She had looked up into the darkest brown eyes she had ever seen, set in the tanned, attractive face of Justin Gifford. Tall and built like a quarter-back, with the broken nose to prove it, he had swung her on to his lap and comforted her and she had been smitten with her first ever crush on a member of the opposite sex.
She glanced warily at him; he was positively bristling with rage and Justin in this mood was dangerous. The only other time she had seen him as mad had been the terrible night of her eighteenth birthday party. Justin had arrived at the party with a red-haired woman in tow-Janet Ord—and Zoë had been consumed by jealousy.
Ever since moving in with her uncle and first seeing Justin she had adored him, even though at twenty-eight he’d been twice her age. Justin had spent many a weekend at the house in Surrey and had always treated Zoë with the greatest kindness. They had talked, laughed and played tennis together.
Every year a valentine card had arrived at Black Gables for her with the simple message “Thinking of you, from your tall, dark, handsome friend”. The postmark had been from London and, as Justin was the only man she’d known in the city, she had hoarded the cards as tokens of his love. In her girlish heart she’d honestly believed that he loved her as she loved him.
Her birthday party had changed all that. Furious that he had brought a woman with him, Zoë had stayed up until four in the morning waiting for Justin to return from driving Janet home, and then had tried to seduce him.
A grim smile twisted her full lips at the memory. It hadn’t worked. Justin had taken one penetrating look at her, dressed in only a flimsy nightie, and had laughed out loud.
‘Run along to bed, little girl, before you get more than you bargained for,’ he had drawled with mocking amusement.
Instead she had thrown her arms around his neck and pressed her slender body against him, and demanded that he kiss her. She had known he wanted to…What followed was engraved in her mind forever.
‘Maybe I will at that,’ he had growled as his strong arms had closed around her. His dark head had swooped down, and he’d proceeded to ravage her mouth with hard, passionate kisses.
At first she’d exulted in his fierce passion but he’d made no concession to her youth or innocence and when his large, strong hands had swept all over her trembling body, and she’d felt the full force of his masculine aggression, she’d been suddenly terrified by the savagery she had unleashed and had cried for him to stop.
They had not been friends since. Zoë made a point of not being at Black Gables when she knew Justin was arriving for the weekend. It hadn’t been difficult—what with studying at art college and moving to her own apartment, she had rarely seen him over the past couple of years.
‘Fasten your blouse, for God’s sake!’ A deep, grating voice broke into her troubled reminiscences.
‘What…?’ She glanced down at herself, and felt a tell-tale tide of colour flood her pale face. ‘Oh!’ she gasped. Her blouse was open to the waist, revealing her firm, high breasts hardly covered by a wisp of white lace. Head bent, with trembling fingers she fastened her blouse. She might not have seen Justin for ages, but she was horrified to realise that he still had the power to make her blush like a lovesick schoolgirl.
Taking a deep breath, she bravely raised her head, her blue eyes clashing with furious brown ones. ‘Is it possible you have some explanation for bursting into my apartment in the middle of the night? Or perhaps you’ve been drinking?’ she prompted with all the hauteur she could muster.
In the blink of an eye a shutter seemed to fall over his hard face, masking all expression. ‘Sorry, Zoë, you’re right of course. You’re a grown woman; your private life is none of my business.’
‘Big of you to recognise that,’ she drawled sarcastically.
‘Cut the sarcasm and sit down. I have some bad news.’
‘News?’ And suddenly she was filled with a dreadful foreboding. She should have realised immediately that nothing short of a major catastrophe would have bought Justin to her apartment in the middle of the night.
She moved towards him; her small hand clasped his forearm. ‘What has happened?’ Her beautiful face paled; her eyes searched his rugged features. ‘Not…?’
‘There’s no easy way to say this. Bertie has had a massive heart attack and is in Intensive Care at the local hospital. I’ll take you to him.’
‘Will he be OK, Justin?’ Zoë asked the question for the hundredth time of the brooding figure sitting beside her on the banquette in the cold waiting-room of the hospital. He turned his dark head, compassion in his steady gaze. ‘Of course he will be, little one. Your uncle Bertie is a fighter.’ And, curving a long arm around her slender shoulders, he drew her into his side. ‘Snuggle up and try to rest, hmm?’ With his other hand he brushed the tumble of blonde hair from her brow. ‘I’ll look after you; after all, that’s what friends are for.’ He smiled softly, giving her shoulder a brief squeeze.
Comforted by his reassuring words and held against the warmth of his hard body, she forgot the humiliation, the embarrassment that had made her avoid him for the past two years. Instead she lifted her sapphire-blue eyes to his harshly handsome face and said, ‘Are we friends again?’ And they were.
Two weeks later, when Bertie was released from hospital a month before Christmas, Zoëe willingly gave up her apartment and returned with her uncle to Black Gables, quite happy to commute every day to her job as a graphic artist at Magnum Advertising in London if it meant spending her free time with her uncle.
Zoë positively danced into the breakfast-room. ‘Good morning, Uncle Bertie.’ She pressed a swift kiss on the parchment-like cheek of the old man sitting at the pine table. ‘You’re looking better today,’ she said, with a quick smile, though in reality she was worried about him. His once tall, raw-boned figure seemed to be shrinking by the day. His fine head of silver hair appeared lank and somehow lifeless. But she did not betray her worry as she asked, ‘Any post for me today?’
‘Yes, two, minx.’ He smiled fondly back at her. ‘And thank you.’ He waved a card, with a big red rabbit sitting in a heart on the front, in her face. ‘It was kind of you to think of me.’
Chuckling, she took the two envelopes he held out to her and, plonking down on the nearest chair, ripped them open. One was obviously from Bertie. ‘You’re not supposed to sign them, you know, Uncle,’ she admonished, and then went dreamy-eyed over the next valentine card: ‘Thinking of you, from your tall, dark, handsome friend.’
She just knew it was Justin and tonight she was going to tell him she had known all along. Finally she was confident enough in herself and her new-found adult relationship with him.
Over the past months he had been a tower of strength, visiting most weekends, and the rapport he shared with Uncle Bertie had naturally spread to include her again. They had shared the occasional dinner date; Justin had taken her to the theatre, and the ballet and, most important of all, at the end of their evenings out he had always kissed her goodnight, and always left Zoë aching for something more. But tonight Justin was taking her to the Law Society’s Valentine’s Ball at a top London hotel, and she just knew that tonight would be special.
‘Not going to work today, young lady?’ Uncle Bertie’s question broke into her happy reverie.
‘No, I have the day off, and I’m going to pamper myself shamelessly because Justin’s taking me to the ball.’
‘I see…’ His watery blue eyes crinkled at the corners.
‘Good. He’s a fine young man. You couldn’t do better.’
‘I know,’ she agreed, with a cheeky grin.
A dozen hours later Zoë heard Justin arrive as she blotted her lipstick for the final time. She seldom bothered much with make-up, having a fine clear skin, but tonight she had gone to town and she was delighted with the result.
Her eyes were huge, her brows and lashes subtly darkened, and a faint touch of colour on her eyelids served to enhance the sparkling blue of her eyes. She had used a light foundation that seemed to make her skin gleam almost translucently. And, daringly, she had coloured her wide, full-lipped mouth in a bright cerise lip-gloss that exactly matched her gown.
The dress was a romantic dream, she thought happily, floating out of her room and down the grand staircase to where Justin and her uncle waited. Designed in cerise satin, demure cap sleeves set off the plunging, heartshaped, fitted bodice that nipped her waist and ended in black embroidered points over her hips, then flared out into a wide skirt with an underskirt of frothy layers of black net.
The assistant in Harvey Nichols had assured her that the nineteenth-century romantic look was all the rage and, when she stopped halfway down the stairs to glance down at Justin, and saw the flare of admiration in his eyes, she knew she had made the right choice.
Justin—tall, dark and incredibly impressive in a conservative black dinner-suit—moved to the stairs and held out his hand to her. She felt like a princess as he led her down the last few steps.
‘You have grown into an amazingly beautiful woman, Zoë. You look absolutely stunning.’ His dark eyes gleamed with admiration and some other emotion that Zoë hoped was love.
‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said prettily.
A wry smile curved Justin’s firm mouth. ‘But I knew I should have asked. I’m no good at all at this romance thing.’ And, handing her a clear cellophane box, with a shrug of his broad shoulders he added, ‘For you. And before you say anything even I know a corsage of red roses will clash with your dress. Sorry…’
‘I love them, but you shouldn’t have; your valentine card has always been enough for me,’ she declared openly, her eyes sparkling with happiness. ‘Wait till I get my cape; the corsage will look great on it.’
Dashing back upstairs, she didn’t see Justin’s dark scowl or hear his muttered, ‘What card?’
‘Right, I’m ready.’ She returned, holding out her velvet cloak for Justin to place around her shoulders. She shivered with delicious anticipation when his strong fingers caressed her flesh as he fastened the cap and solemnly pinned the red roses on the velvet above her breast.
With Uncle Bertie’s good wishes, and his admonition to stay in town for the night ringing in her ears, Justin led her out to the car—a sleek black BMW—and slid in beside her.
Justin was the perfect partner; he insisted on dancing every dance with her, and the evening took on a magic all of its own. She could not help but observe the respect and esteem he attracted from his fellow professionals. She overheard in the powder-room that it was rumoured that he was definitely going to be on the next list of judges, and, on returning to the ballroom, she could not resist teasing him unmercifully.
‘Such exalted company. Why, m’lud, I fear you give me the vapours.’ She fluttered her thick lashes unashamedly.
‘I’d like to give you a lot more,’ he drawled mockingly, his brown eyes smiling down into hers. ‘You little tease.’
‘Who—moi? Your honour! No, your honour!’ She camped it up, pressing a hand to her heart.
‘You’re asking for trouble, little one,’ Justin opined, and swept her into his arms and on to the dance-floor.
‘If…or…when…’ he spaced the words out as they moved slowly and lazily around the floor to the haunting strains of ‘Unchained Melody’ ‘…I…am…made… a…judge…’ he curled her small hand in his and held it against his chest while his other hand stroked up her back to bury beneath the silken fall of her pale blonde hair and curve around her nape ‘…it won’t be “Unchained Melody” we dance to, my love.’
He tilted her face up to his and murmured against her ear, ‘I’ll sentence you to be chained to me for life.’ And then his mouth moved over hers in a kiss as light as the brush of a butterfly’s wing.
She clung to him, her eyes shining like stars; her breasts, hard against his chest, throbbed with burgeoning arousal while her heart drummed to an erratic beat. ‘If only,’ she breathed, licking her suddenly too dry lips.
His dark eyes followed the movement of her tongue. ‘Not if—when,’ he rasped, his arms tightening around her until even through the many layers of her gown Zoë could feel his hardening need, and she finally admitted to herself that nothing had changed—her schoolgirl crush had turned into a woman’s love for a man.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said urgently.
‘But it’s only eleven.’
‘The way I feel right now, I won’t live to midnight.’ Their eyes met and clung—no more teasing, no amusement, just a basic primeval need.
‘Yes,’ she agreed softly.
Back in Justin’s apartment, she barely noticed the décor; she had eyes only for Justin.
He stripped off her velvet evening cloak and dropped it to the floor, then, catching her hand, hurried her down a hall through a door and into a large room—his bedroom! She hesitated, eyeing the king-size bed warily. Was she ready for this? But the question was answered by Justin.
‘Zoë.’ He cupped her small face in his large hands and tilted her head back, his deep brown eyes darkened to almost black. ‘Don’t be afraid. You know I would never do anything to hurt you. But I feel as though I’ve waited aeons for you. I can’t wait any longer.’ His mouth brushed gently over hers. ‘I promised myself I would do this properly,’ he breathed against her lips.
She reached her slender arms around his neck, her heart melting with love, and felt anything but proper… She gazed up into his dark eyes, and was surprised to see a hint of uncertainty, a touching vulnerability in their black depths. ‘Do what?’ she encouraged with a dreamy smile.
His hands lowered, one to curve around her waist, the other to go to his jacket pocket. ‘Ask you to be my valentine tonight and always. Be my wife,’ he husked, and, putting a little space between them, he showed her the velvet ring-box.
Zoë, her eyes misted with tears of joy, took the box and opened it. A gasp of delight escaped her at the sight of the diamond and sapphire ring. ‘Put it on for me.’ She held it out with a hand that trembled.
Justin slipped the ring on the appropriate finger. ‘I take it that’s a yes?’ he queried huskily before he enfolded her once more in his arms; his dark head bent and he kissed her, long and tenderly.
She parted her lips at his urging; his tongue seductively traced the inside of her mouth and she was lost. She would be anything he wanted her to be.
‘Now, do I get to unwrap my valentine? You, my heart,’ he mouthed against her cheek as he spread small kisses all over her face, her eyelids, the slender arch of her throat, while his hands deftly found the zip of her dress.
It was no good; she could stand it no longer; she had to get away for a while. Her head was pounding, and if she had to listen to one more stilted condolence on the death of her uncle Bertie she would break down completely.
‘Are you all right, Zoë?’
She glanced up into concerned deep brown eyes and tried to smile. ‘I will be when this is over.’ A supporting arm closed around her tiny waist and she relaxed against the hard, muscled, masculine frame of her husband of two months—Justin. She still had to pinch herself sometimes to believe that she and Justin were actually man and wife.
‘Zoë.’ Justin’s voice snapped her back to the present.
She raised misty blue eyes to his. ‘I’m OK.’
‘You’re not,’ he contradicted her bluntly. His hand tightened fractionally on her waist. ‘Slope off to your secret seat, and I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed for a while’ His hand moved to her back and turned her to the door. His dark head bent, she felt the feather-light brush of his mouth against the top of her head and she was out in the large oak-panelled hall.
Justin knew her so well, she thought, slipping quickly through the door opposite and making straight for the window-seat. Curled up behind the curtain, she stared out of the window. The clear, bright light of a mid-May day glinted over the long lush green lawns and on down to the river, which wound like a sinuous silver snake along the bottom of the garden.
Too nice a day for a funeral! She sighed deeply, and a tear rolled slowly down the curve of her cheek. Uncle Bertie—dead…
She wiped away the moisture with the back of her hand. She couldn’t have any tears left. She had done her crying for her uncle over the past few months when it had become obvious that it was simply a matter of time before his ruined heart gave out. The funeral today was the last act for a man who had led an exemplary life. The guests across the hall numbered among some of the greatest names in the land, here to pay their respects.
Uncle Bertie had been an eminent judge destined for one of the highest positions in the English judiciary, until he had suffered his heart attack last November.
Zoë closed her eyes and lay back against the wall, her feet tucked beneath her. She was going to miss him, she knew. But—thank God!—she had Justin; she was not alone, and Uncle Bertie had been delighted when she’d married his protégé. So she at least had the solace of knowing that her uncle’s last weeks had been happy.
Smiling softly to herself, she glanced at her sparkling engagement ring and the pale gold band beside it. Then she breathed on the window, misting the glass, and, in a childish gesture, drew a heart with her forefinger and inserted the initials ZG and JG with a rather wobbly arrow, remembering the Valentine’s ball.
No girl had ever had a more tender, intoxicating initiation into womanhood. Justin was the perfect lover; slowly and carefully he had kissed and caressed, urged and cajoled her through the intricacies of love, and at the final moment had protected her from any untoward consequences.
The next morning, when he had taken her back to Black Gables, he had formally asked Uncle Bertie for her hand in marriage, informed her arrogantly that as his wife-to-be she no longer needed to work, and, of course, she had agreed. Then, a month later, on the arm of her uncle Bertie, she had walked down the aisle of the village church to wed Justin.
She sighed. Who would have thought that two months later Bertie would be dead? Then she heard the voice of Mrs Sara Blacket, the wife of one of the partners in Justin’s law firm, speaking.
‘It’s a magnificent house. Gifford has done very well for himself, even if he did have to marry the old man’s niece to get it.’
Why, the cheeky old bat! Zoë thought, and would have moved, but then she recognised another voice—that of Mary Master, the wife of a High Court judge.
‘Oh, I don’t think Justin married for any mercenary reason. They make a lovely couple, and it’s obvious she adores him.’
‘I don’t dispute the girl loves him, but my Harold told me he’d heard that Bertie Brown, when he realised he was dying, offered Justin his place as the head of chambers on condition that he married the niece. He wanted her settled before he died.’
‘I find that hard to believe. In any case, the other partners would have had some say in the matter,’ Mary Master argued.
‘Bertie was well liked, and which one of them would refuse a dying man’s last wish? As Harold said, the girl is exquisitely beautiful, tiny—like a rare Dresden china doll—but young and hardly a match for an aggressively virile male like Gifford.
‘His taste in the past was for large, bosomy ladies more his own age. Remember the Christmas dinner two years ago and Justin’s redhead partner? Harold told me they were taking bets on whether her boobs would stay covered through to the sweet course.’
‘Oh, really, Sara!’ Mary exclaimed. ‘That’s a bit much, and in any case Justin was not dating Zoë at the time. He was a free agent.’
Zoë cringed behind the curtain, her face flaming; she could not believe what the Blacket woman was saying. Didn’t want to.
‘Believe me or not, Mary, but I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall when the will is read. Bertie befriended Justin Gifford when he was a teenager and his father died—apparently they were old friends. I’ll bet Gifford gets at least half the old boy’s estate, if not more. Hardly fair on Zoë, his only living relative.’
‘Surely it’s not important? They are married—everything they have is divided equally anyway.’
Zoë heard Mary Master reply. The woman’s voice was fading—they were obviously leaving the room—but Zoë could not move; she was frozen in shock.
‘Exactly my point.’ Sara Blacket’s piercing voice echoed in the room as she closed the door. ‘Gifford is a very ambitious man and by doing what the old man wanted and marrying the American girl he has made doubly sure of getting control of virtually everything. I can’t see young Zoë being involved in finance at allshe’s the arty type.’
Zoë stared at the heart she had drawn on the glass; the mist was fading, the shape disappearing—a bad omen! Don’t be stupid! she told herself, and quickly raised her hand and rubbed the window clean. But she could not clean the doubt in her mind away so easily. Could it be true? Had Uncle Bertie insisted that Justin marry her? No, of course not, her common sense told her. Justin loved her, didn’t he?
She slid off the seat and stood up. She was overreacting. Sara Blacket was a nosy, overbearing old gossip whose husband, as the most senior in chambers, had wanted to be head himself. Justin had told her as much. Obviously it was pure sour grapes on Sara’s part.
‘Zoë? Zoë?’ Justin’s voice broke into her uncomfortable thoughts, and, smoothing the plain black jersey shift down over her hips, she moved towards the door. It was flung open and Justin walked in, his dark eyes full of concern.
‘Ah! There you are. I saw Mary and Sara leave. I take it you didn’t get the peace you were looking for,’ he said lightly, casually slipping an arm around her shoulders. ‘Judge Master is waiting in the study, darling. It’s time to say goodbye to the guests, and then the will will be read. Are you up to it or would your rather wait? There’s no hurry.’
‘Why? Because you know what’s in it?’ The curt words had left her mouth before she could stop them…
‘No. No, I don’t.’ Justin turned her around to face him, his arms encircling her waist, holding her loosely, his dark eyes scrutinising her pale face. ‘I was thinking of you; you look tired. It’s been a long day.’
Held in his arms, conscious of his warmth and the tender care in his expression, Zoë hated herself for doubting him for a minute, but she could not control her wayward tongue. She loved Justin, and she needed his reassurance.
‘You do love me, Justin?’ she asked softly, her eyes catching his, a pleading light in their sapphire depths.
‘Of course I do, silly girl; I married you, didn’t I?’ And his dark head lowered, blocking out the light as his mouth moved over hers in an achingly tender kiss.
She moved closer into his embrace and curved her slender arms around his neck; she felt his arms tighten and she opened her mouth, inviting the kiss to deepen. She sighed into his mouth, their breath mingling there, tongues entwining; she ran her fingers through his thick black hair, her heart pounding. Justin loved her; he was her husband, her love, her life.
Justin slightly parted his long legs, one strong hand curving down over her bottom and urging her between his muscular thighs. She curved into the hot, hard warmth of his body, her breasts flattened against his rihcage, her nipples tingling with the contact then hardening as his other hand swept up to cup possessively over one high, firm breast through the soft wool of her dress.
He broke the kiss long enough to nuzzle her throat, his mouth covering the madly beating pulse in her neck then trailing back to her softly parted lips; a low moan escaped her just as his mouth found hers once more.
As always she trembled, melting against him, her blood pounding through her veins, but suddenly he was easing her away. ‘Justin,’ she murmured.
‘Easy, Zoë. Now is not the time.’
She raised passion-hazed eyes to his rugged face; she recognised the dark blush of desire staining his taut features at the same time as she saw the familiar iron control reassert itself in the black depths of his eyes.
‘You’re right, as usual,’ she agreed, and was swept into a gentle hug, his large hand stroking the back of her head as he pressed her to his broad chest, easing the sexual tension surrounding them into something more manageable.
‘Come on, Zoë; the quicker we say goodbye to the guests, the sooner we can get this day over with.’
He was right, but sometimes, just sometimes, Zoë wished that he would get swept away by passion. But the great Justin Gifford, renowned for his cool, lethal voice, his absolute control of any jury, never, ever lost control.
Now, where had that unkind thought come from? Zoë mused as she saw the guests depart. Justin was British and restraint was an accepted characteristic of the people, and she should know! On first arriving here, a typical American teenager, she had found it difficult to adjust to the more formal way of life.
Half an hour later she followed Justin into the study and sat down beside him on the black hide sofa. Mrs Crumpet, the housekeeper, Jud, her husband—also the gardener—and John Smith, the chauffeur, plus the two daily women, stood around in a rather embarrassed silence as Judge Master sat down in the chair behind Uncle Bertie’s desk.
It soon became apparent that Bertie hadn’t changed his will in years. All the staff were left generous amounts of money and there were pensions for Mr and Mrs Crumpet and the chauffeur. His law books were to go to Justin and the remainder of the estate was left to Zoë, with the proviso that Justin be her guardian until she was twenty-five.
‘You—my guardian.’ She smiled at Justin. ‘It sounds slightly kinky as we’re already married.’
Judge Master laughed. ‘Bertie made this will when you were sixteen; he did think about changing it, but, as you and Justin married, there was no real point. It’s all in the family anyway.’
The staff left the room, and then Judge Master revealed the extent of the estate. It was not a great deal of money but, with the house, a very nice legacy. She felt Justin tense beside her, and she shot him a puzzled look, but he ignored her, his gaze fixed on Judge Master.
‘With the house included, if he didn’t make prior arrangements, the death duty will be quite considerable.’ Justin was all business, and Zoë felt oddly excluded as the two men talked literally over her head.
‘Yes, I did warn him,’ the judge responded.
‘But you know Bertie—he refused to admit he was dying right up until the end.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about the tax, though. Zoë is twenty-one in a month, when she will obtain control of her trust fund from her parents. I was talking to the lawyer in New York only a few days ago, and, with the reissue of an old film of her father’s about dinosaurs, apparently her trust fund is quite healthy.’
‘How healthy exactly?’ Justin asked quietly.
‘Double what Bertie left, so the tax should not be a problem. Mind you, I would advise you to sell this place; it’s far too big for this day and age. Maintenance alone was always a drain on Bertie’s funds.’
‘Do you mind, gentlemen? I am sitting here,’ Zoë intervened, and wanted to laugh as the two males in the room turned to look at her as though she were some apparition.
Judge Master was the first to recover. ‘Yes, of course. It has been a long day; Justin and I can discuss all this in a day or two, and I’d better be making tracks or Mary will not be pleased.’
Zoë smiled; she liked Judge Master and, after the conversation she had overheard earlier, she appreciated his wife, who had defended her against the infamous Sara Blacket.
Justin rose to his feet and walked across to the cabinet in the corner of the oak-panelled study. ‘You will join me in a drink, Judge? I need one.’ He picked up a bottle of whisky, opened it and poured a large shot into a crystal tumbler before adding, ‘How about you, Zoë?’
She looked across at her husband; his back was to her, his shoulders tense, and, as she watched, his dark head tilted back as he lifted the glass to his mouth and drank. It was unusual for Justin to drink spirits—an occasional glass of wine was more his style.
‘Zoë.’ Justin turned, glass in hand. ‘Do you want one?’ he asked again, his expression austere.
‘No. You and the judge carry on. I’ll go and find Mary.’
Ten minutes later, she stood in the entrance hall and thanked Judge Master for all his help, but her glance kept straying to Justin at her side as she said goodbye to the couple. She had the oddest feeling that although he was there he was not really with her.
The door closed behind Judge and Mary Master and she sighed in relief.
‘At last it’s all over,’ she murmured, her eyes seeking her husband’s. He had been a tower of strength all through the death, the funeral, everything. She could never have managed without him, and all she wanted now was to feel the comfort of his arms around her.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, a stark white shirt and the obligatory black tie, he looked all powerful, virile male, as though nothing could touch him or those he cared for. He was her rock, her comfort and her lover, and she had never needed him more than now. She stepped towards him.
‘I have some work to attend to, Zoë; I’ll see you at dinner.’
She shot him a pleading if puzzled glance and could have sworn that he was avoiding her eyes. ‘Yes, OK.’ But she doubted whether he heard her as she was talking to his back.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_b34b7cb8-c049-51a2-9cf3-b9c52bc13d5e)
ZOË knocked on the heavy oak door, turned the handle, opened it and entered the study. Justin was sitting behind the huge mahogany desk in what used to be Uncle Bertie’s chair, his broad shoulders hunched, his head buried in a mass of papers.
He had removed his jacket and tie, and his white shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves rolled back to reveal sinewy forearms sprinkled with a downy covering of dark hair. He looked stern and somehow remote. She moved silently across the room but he sensed her presence, his proud head lifting.
‘Yes?’ he said distantly.
‘It’s eight—dinner is ready.’ She shook her head in disgust at his vacant look, her long blonde hair floating around her shoulders in a silvery cloud as she moved to his side and leant against his broad shoulder. Placing one slender arm around his other shoulder, she added, ‘You work far too hard, Justin, and it has got to stop.’ She pressed a swift kiss on the top of his head. ‘Come and eat.’
‘I have to work hard if I expect to keep my beautiful wife in the manner to which she is accustomed,’ he retorted, his sensuous mouth curving in a brief smile, and, getting to his feet, he spanned her tiny waist with his strong hands and swung her high in the air, as one would a child. ‘And that’s my mission in life.’
She grinned down into his handsome face, thrilled by the compliment. ‘Not any more, you don’t, if what Judge Master said about my trust fund is correct,’ she teased.
Justin looked up at her, all trace of amusement deserting his hard features, and abruptly he lowered her to the ground. ‘Yes, of course. Apparently I’ve married a woman of means,’ he drawled, stepping back and rolling down the sleeves of his shirt. ‘The tax man will certainly see it that way,’ he added with dry sarcasm, hooking his jacket with one hand as he headed for the door, and flinging over his shoulder, ‘Let’s eat.’
She stared at his retreating back for a moment, hurt by the obvious sarcasm in his tone. Was it possible that Justin was disappointed not to have received more in the will? No, he couldn’t be. He was a comfortably wealthy man in his own right.
Later, sitting opposite each other across the small table in the breakfast-room, sharing a simple, almost silent evening meal of beef goulash and rice followed by icecream, the thought haunted her, and by the time they were sipping their coffee she could contain herself no longer.
‘Justin, are you upset by the will?’ She had to ask. Absolute honesty was essential to a good marriage—or so all the books said—and she wanted their marriage to be perfect.
His black head lifted, his eyes capturing hers across the table. ‘No, certainly not. But why do you ask?’ he demanded, the hard tone of his voice jarring on her sensitive nerves.
‘Earlier, in the study, you didn’t seem too amused when…’
His mouth compressed. ‘Today is hardly a day for amusement; we have just buried your uncle,’ he prompted, in a voice he usually used to destroy some unsuspecting witness.
‘Please, Justin, you don’t have to remind me. I just thought…Well, maybe you felt left out.’ How could she tell him of the conversation she had overheard? Her own doubts…?
‘No, I assure you,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘as far as the will is concerned, it was exactly as it should be. Bertie was my guide and mentor all through my career and before, and I am greatly honoured that he left me his law books.’
Zoë believed him; she knew his sentiment was genuine and she wanted to say so, but, as often happened though she was reluctant to admit it, her brilliantly clever husband left her tongue-tied. She only had to look into his deep brown eyes, or note the curve of his mouth as he spoke, and his effect on her was immediate. After two months of marriage her pulse still raced at the sight of him. Tonight a lock of black hair had fallen over his broad brow and unconsciously she reached across the table and brushed it back with her fingers.
Justin caught her hand in his and pressed a quick kiss to her palm, his glance flashing knowingly to her face. ‘You’ve had a long, hard day, Zoë. Leave the worrying to me and go to bed, hmm? I’ll join you later.’ He squeezed her hand before letting it go to resume drinking his coffee.
But the mention of bed reminded her of another problem she had. The house! Because of Uncle Bertie’s ill health when they had married there had been no honeymoon; Justin had simply moved in with them, here at Black Gables.
It was a massive old house, totally impractical and virtually impossible to heat. It contained fifteen bedrooms and several reception-rooms, plus a ballroom and a dozen attic rooms. In the extensive grounds were two cottages and a range of outbuildings, some with commercial use but long since left derelict.
Her uncle had insisted on having the master suite decorated for them, but unfortunately for Zoë it was built on the old-fashioned lines of two bedrooms joined by a dressing-room and bathroom. She would have much preferred to share a bed with her husband. Instead, she found that after making love Justin invariably went back to his own room…
‘About the house, Justin,’ she burst out. ‘Judge Master suggested we sell it and I’m inclined to agree.’
She was a thoroughly modern girl, having spent the first fourteen years of her life living at home in California and boarding-school in Maine. She had once before broached the subject of separate rooms to Justin, but he had fobbed her off with, ‘Best to leave things as they are. There’s no point in upsetting Bertie,’ and, as a new bride and still in some awe around her dynamic husband, she had let it go. But now…
‘I mean the separa—’
‘It’s your house—you can do what you like with it, but I had thought you felt something for the old place. Obviously I was wrong.’ He rose from the table, threw down his napkin, and turned to leave.
‘I simply meant it’s far too big for us, and you have to travel to London every day.’ She jumped up, hurrying after him. She did love Black Gables but she loved her husband more, and she could not bear him to be angry with her.
“Zoë.’ He spun round, his hands falling on her shoulders, gripping them tightly. ‘Shut up and go to bed; now is not the time to discuss these things. Neither of us is thinking straight.’ He looked down into her flushed, puzzled face and sighed, his gaze moving from her sapphire eyes to the long, soft fall of her silver-blonde hair, and finally settling on her wide, soft mouth.
‘Are we having our first fight?’ She tried to joke, but could not hide the tremor in her voice. The events of the day were finally getting to her, and her self-control was perilously close to breaking.
‘No, no, of course not, little one,’ he hastened to reassure her. ‘I’m a bit tense, that’s all. It’s been a sad and difficult few weeks for both of us.’ He lowered his head.
She trembled at the first brush of his lips and all rational thought deserted her, and when Justin carefully turned her around and pointed at the stairs she meekly walked up them.
Slipping out of her clothes, she walked into the dressing-room, and, replacing the black wool dress in the wardrobe continued to their shared bathroom, where she placed her undies in the wash-basket.
She pulled on a shower-cap and stepped into the double shower stall. Turning on the water and adjusting it to a pleasant temperature, she tilted back her head and closed her eyes, welcoming the soothing spray. It had been a long, sorrow-filled day and she was tense and tired. Justin was right as usual. Picking up the soap, she lazily lathered the fragrant cream into her naked body.
Her hands stilled on her small, firm breasts. How much nicer it would be if they were Justin’s hands. The sensual thought brought a brief smile to her small face. Justin sharing the shower—dream on! She smiled wryly.
Justin was a magnificent lover, as she had discovered on Valentine’s night, but she had also discovered in the weeks before her wedding that he possessed a monumental self-control, refusing to make love to her again until they were married, however much she had tried to tempt him.
Then, on her wedding night, he had, with skill and patience and a sensitivity she could only marvel at, turned her into a molten mass of pure sensation, leading her to an ecstatic explosion of the senses and emotions that she had never imagined in her wildest fantasies. Plus, he had repeated the miracle almost every night since.
But he was conservative with a small C. They only ever made love at night—in bed! The shower was certainly not Justin’s scene.
A frown marring her smooth brow, Zoë stepped out of the shower and wrapped a large, fluffy towel around her slender form. Why, tonight, did the thought of Justin’s restraint worry her? It never had before. Surely she wasn’t letting the bitchy Sara Blacket’s comments get to her? Justin loved her; he had said so, hadn’t he?
Much later she lay naked in her bed, trying to keep her eyes open, waiting for him. It had crossed her mind to go to his bed, but, as a relative novice at lovemaking, she somehow found the thought of taking the initiative with her formidable husband oddly intimidating.
Her eyes flew open as she heard Justin entering his room, then the sound of running water in the bathroom. She pulled herself up the bed, tucking the sheet around under her arms, and switched on the bedside light. She waited until the noise from the bathroom stopped, then called his name. She needed him tonight, even if only to hold her and reassure her that she was not alone. He was all the family she had left; he was her world…
‘What is it, Zoë?’ Justin demanded, walking into the room, a small towel riding low on his hips his only covering. ‘I thought you’d be asleep by now.’ He crossed to the bed, to look soberly down at her small frame outlined beneath the covers then up to the pure, pale oval of her lovely face.
Her heart turned over in her breast at the sight of him. His night-black hair, damp from the shower, was swept severely back from his broad forehead, throwing his rugged features into prominent relief. His deep brown eyes, the cast of his high cheekbones and his slightly olive-tinged complexion revealed his father’s Spanish ancestry, though he never spoke much about his family. She knew his parents were dead, and he had a stepsister who was living with some tribe of Indians in the rainforest on a four-year anthropology study.
‘I was waiting for you,’ she told him softly, stretching out a slender hand to touch his forearm, her sapphire eyes roaming over him in undisguised want.
His wide shoulders gleamed like gold satin; a thick mat of hair covered his broad chest, and arrowed down in a fine line past his navel to disappear beneath the towel. His long, muscular legs were planted slightly apart, a lighter dusting of hair shading them darker.
‘I thought you were never coming,’ she murmured, trailing her hand from his arm to thread her fingers through his curling chest hair.
Justin caught her wrist and, easing her hand back behind her head, lowered his big body down beside her and bent his dark head towards hers. ‘Oh, I think I will, and very quickly, my darling girl,’ he drawled with mocking amusement, but his eyes flashed for an instant with what, to Zoë, looked suspiciously like anger just before his lips brushed over hers in a kiss as light as thistledown.
‘I should go to my own bed and let you rest.’ He whispered the words against her mouth.
‘No. Please, Justin. Don’t leave me alone tonight. I need you.’
‘Do you? I wonder if you know what it means to actually need someone. You’re so hopelessly young,’ he said enigmatically, standing and slipping the damp towel from his hips. She was in no doubt that he would stayhe could not hide his state of arousal from her and did not try to as, with a deft flick of his wrist, he flung the covers back, revealing her naked form to his glittering eyes.
‘You were waiting for me,’ he husked, his heated gaze sweeping over her from where her long hair trailed across the pillow, lingering on her softly parted lips, then again on the pale, round orbs of her perfect breasts, then moving down to the tiny waist and softly flaring hips, and the soft blonde curls at the juncture of her thighs. ‘God, but you’re beautiful, Zoë. Perfection in miniature,’ he growled.
She could feel her whole body blush but she didn’t care; he was her husband. ‘Not so much of the miniature,’ she teased, and stretched out her arms to him in a female gesture as old as time.
He gave her one long look, his face wearing an oddly restrained expression in the shadowy light. Then he dropped to his knees by the side of the bed.
‘Justin?’ she queried tentatively. Then his hand circled her ankle and his black head bent and his lips brushed a trail of kisses from her ankle to her knee, then her thigh.
She trembled with exquisite emotion as his other hand stroked slowly up over her flat stomach and higher, to close over one firm breast. He rolled the aching tip between his long fingers with delicate eroticism, and she moaned her delight. She felt like some Eastern slave girl, spread on the bed for her master’s delectation, but surprisingly she didn’t care…
But soon the hedonistic pleasure was not enough. She wanted to kiss him, touch him, rouse him to the same all-consuming need that engulfed her.
She stretched her hand to his shoulder, her slender fingers clawing his hard flesh. ‘Please, Justin.’
But Justin knew exactly what he was doing to her, the burning fire he was igniting in her body, and refused to be rushed. With hands and mouth he kissed and caressed while withholding from her the ability to reciprocate, until she was whimpering, crying out her need…
Then and only then did he rise and, nudging her legs further apart, eased his length between them. As he supported his weight on his elbows either side of her head, his mouth sought hers again. The kiss was a passionate statement, his tongue moving in her mouth, echoing his masculine possession…
Her eyes flew open and she saw his rugged face, the skin flushed and taut across his cheekbones, his lips curled back in a feral grimace as he fought to stay in control. Then he moved deeper and deeper inside her, harder, faster, and her eyes closed again as every part of her clenched around him then exploded in a surging tide of shattering pleasure. She felt his great frame shudder and the fierce, pulsing heat of him filled her as he found his own release.
For a long time the only sound in the room was their erratic, rasping breath; neither was capable of speech, until eventually Justin rolled on to his back and curved an arm around her shoulders, tucking her into his side.
‘Justin, my love.’ She sighed, turning her head to press a soft kiss to his sweat-dampened chest.
‘Enough, Zoë. Lie still,’ he ordered raggedly.
They were the first words he had spoken in ages, she realised, but, lying satiated beside him, she didn’t mind. She loved her silent lover…Anyway, she made enough noise for both of them, she thought, slightly shocked at how Justin always managed to get her to beg for his possession. But then why shouldn’t he? He was an experienced, sophisticated lover, and he was only making sure that she was satisfied, she rationalised contentedly. But her contentment plunged five minutes later…
‘I’ll leave you to sleep now, darling,’ Justin murmured. Removing his arm from her shoulder, he swung his feet to the floor.
‘Stay,’ she drawled huskily.
But Justin stood up. Unselfconscious in his nudity, he turned to look down at where she lay in the rumpled bed. She gazed languidly up at him; her blue eyes, slumberous and dark with loving, met his. Then, as she watched, she saw his iron self-control reassert itself. His heavy lids dropped over his half-closed eyes as he moved slightly, avoiding her gaze.
‘Much as I’d like to, it isn’t sensible; I have to be up at six in the morning to be in London for eight. I would only disturb you, Zoë, and you need your rest.’ He was talking to somewhere over her left shoulder—as usual! The thought was frightening…
Zoë sat up in bed and reached out a detaining hand, placing it on his naked thigh. ‘I could come to London with you.’ His hand lifted hers from his thigh and she had the oddest notion that he resented her touch. ‘We
could move to your apartment n-now—’ she swallowed
the lump that formed in her throat “—now Uncle Bertie’s gone.’
Suddenly it seemed imperative to her that they discuss the future, and she didn’t know why. ‘We can put this house on the market—it’s far too big; it’s an anachronism in this day and age. Never mind one child—we would need a dozen even to begin to fill it—’
‘So that’s what this is all about?’ Justin cut in. “I thought we agreed—no babies for a year or two. You would not be trying to blackmail me into changing my mind by threatening to sell the house?’ he demanded hardly. ‘Because, if so, you can forget it.’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ she quickly denied. But as she searched his face he looked so cool and remote that once more Sara Blacket’s words echoed in her brain, filling her with a dawning fear that she did not want to recognise. Instead she continued, ‘I simply thought that the house could be a conference centre or a nursing home—something like that. It is very expensive to keep up; Judge Master said so himself.’ She knew she was babbling but she wanted to keep Justin with her.
He leant forward, brought her small hand to his lips and brushed her knuckles with a kiss. ‘You’re probably right and if you want to sell it I’ll arrange it, but it’s not something one can do in five minutes.’ And, pressing another kiss on the back of her hand, he added, ‘And let me worry about the expense, little one. You try and get some sleep.’
She should have been reassured, but somehow she wasn’t. Maybe it was the way he avoided her eyes, or perhaps the way he allowed her hand to fall from his, but she had the strangest notion that he was simply pacifying her as he would a troublesome child.
‘I will if you stay with me,’ she said slowly. She was testing him, and hated herself for it, but the events of the day had severely dented her confidence in her husband’s love and she needed some sign from him, freely given, to allay her doubts and fears.
‘I need my sleep even if you don’t. I’m a lot older than you, remember.’
‘Please, Justin, I need you tonight, simply to hold me. What with the funeral…’ She didn’t want to plead, but somehow it had become essential to her peace of mind and her trust in him that just this once he stayed all night. To her relief and delight he agreed.
‘Let me dispose of the protection.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll be back in a second.’
And he was. Zoë yawned widely and snuggled into the hard warmth of her cautious husband’s arms. ‘You’re not old,’ she whispered, a smile twitching her swollen lips. It was ridiculous—a more virile, powerful man than her husband would be hard to find, and yet somehow the fact that he should worry about his age made him seem touchingly vulnerable. It never bothered her.
Justin, true to his word, had the house valued by a prestigious estate agent with a view to selling the place. But to Zoë’s amazement Justin informed her, before they actually put it on the market, that she was to have her twenty-first birthday party at Black Gables. It was all arranged; the guests had already been invited.
Apparently Justin had done it at Bertie’s request. It had been his last wish that the party go ahead whether he was there to see it or not. Zoë was not absolutely convinced that it was the right thing to do only three weeks after her uncle’s death, but, as usual, she gave in to her dynamic husband’s wishes.
The next few weeks she passed in a kind of limbo, torn between grief for her uncle and her inability to get really close to her husband.
Justin was very busy as the new head of chambers, and she saw less and less of him. She tried to tell herself it was natural—he had more work to get through. But sometimes in the evening, after yet another solitary dinner, a devilish, tiny voice from the deeper reaches of her mind would rise up to taunt her with the thought that he had married her to please Bertie and get the firm. He had the firm and Bertie was no longer around to see if he neglected his wife. She found it more and more difficult to dismiss her suspicions, however much she tried.
Justin was no help. He rarely talked about his work but he did inform her that he would be staying in town on Monday evenings. He had taken over the job of boxing coach with a group of young offenders at an East End boys’ club. Very laudable—and she believed him even as she missed him. But her inability to dismiss completely the conversation she had overheard on the day of her uncle’s funeral was a constant source of unease.
She was a practical girl—with egotistical film-star parents she had had to be from a very young age. She knew she was being silly, letting Sara Blacket’s catty remarks get to her. Justin loved her. They were married for heaven’s sake!
But, however much she tried to convince herself, the doubt lingered. It didn’t help that Justin seemed to spend longer and longer in London. He was working far too hard, but nothing she said could make him change.
She was smiling as ‘she spun the wheel of her Mini Metro and headed up the drive to come to a halt, with a screech of brakes, outside the front door of the house. She had spent the day in London, and had had the rare pleasure of lunching with her husband at an exclusive restaurant before raiding Harvey Nichols. The baglying on the passenger seat contained the most exotic gown she had ever owned.
She picked up the carrier-bag and chuckled as she dashed out of the car and into the house. She could not wait to see Justin’s face when he saw her new dress. She wouldn’t give a cent for his iron control tomorrow night—her birthday party. The gown was guaranteed to knock him dead. But why did she need to? The question hovered on the fringes of her mind, undermining her confidence.
Not bad—not bad at all, she thought, posing naked in front of the mirrored wall of the bathroom, sucking in her stomach, her small breasts rising enticingly. Were they bigger than usual? she wondered idly. Probably Justin’s expert massage was to blame. She giggled and, with a happy smile illuminating her small face, spun round as the object of her thoughts strolled in.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ she said delightedly. She had not seen him since last night and her eyes drank in the sight of the large, splendid bulk of him, clad in a plain black towelling robe that stopped mid-thigh, the deep V of the front exposing his broad, hairy chest. Her heart jumped in her breast as, eyes shining, she walked towards him, ‘You must have got back when I was in the shower.’
‘Mmm,’ Justin grunted, his gaze sweeping slowly over her silver-blonde hair, the perfect oval face, the finely arched brows, the huge, thick-lashed eyes, the small, straight nose and the wide full-lipped, rosy mouth, curved in a warm smile of welcome. His gaze lingered on the lips, then moved almost as if against his will down to the high, full breasts, the tiny waist and flat stomach, the softly flaring hips, his eyes darkening to black in the process.
Zoë, seeing his reaction and thrilled by it, moved closer and slipped a hand under the lapel of his robe. ‘Thank you for the card and the roses. I love them,’ she husked, thinking of the magnificent bouquet of red roses that had been delivered to the house earlier.
‘My pleasure, birthday girl’ he drawled none too steadily.
She felt him tense as her fingernail scraped supposedly accidentally over a small, pebble-like male nipple. Perhaps she had been wrong about Justin; perhaps her fantasy of them in the shower was not so unlikely, she thought, excitement sizzling in her veins.
‘Shall I help you to shower?’ she asked throatily, glancing up at his tough face through the thick veil of her lashes in what she hoped was a seductive fashion.
His eyes flashed gold lightning as his arm swept around her waist and hauled her into his hard body, while his other hand caught her wandering one beneath his robe. ‘You little devil,’ he rasped, before covering her mouth with his own in a long, hard kiss.
When he finally released her she was dazed and breathless and aching. ‘Justin…’ She sighed his name. But, to her chagrin, he spun her round, patted her naked bottom, and almost pushed her out of the door.
‘Tempting though the offer is, it’s late. The guests will be arriving any minute. Get dressed and allow me to do the same.’
‘Spoilsport,’ she shouted back cheekily, regaining her equilibrium and shooting him a flirtatious glance over her shoulder.
Justin tossed back his black head and laughed out loud. ‘Hold the thought till later, darling, when I have time to do it justice, hmm?’
His parting words filled her with confidence as she stood in front of the cheval-glass, turning this way and that, a complacent grin lighting her face. So much for a Dresden doll, she thought triumphantly. Tonight no one would be in any doubt she was all woman.
The black dress was like nothing she had ever owned before—a sophisticated designer original with tiny, narrow straps supporting the pure silk bodice. She wore no bra because the back was non-existent except for a very broad, sequin-encrusted belt in gold, which nipped her tiny waist and pushed her firm breasts higher— almost empire-style—revealing the curve of the milky white orbs and a tantalising shadowy cleavage.
The skirt was straight to her ankles and figure-hugging, with a teasing fish tail at the back. Matching four-inchheel satin sandals on her feet gave her an illusion of height, as did the heavy sweep of her blonde hair piled up on the top of her head in a chignon, a few strands of hair pulled free to curl enticingly around her face and the back of her neck.
She did not need foundation, simply a good moisturiser and the lightest trace of blusher to add colour to her fine pale skin. She had paid more attention to her eyes, and, with the careful use of a coloured eyeshadow and the addition of a brownish-black mascara to her long lashes, she knew she had never looked better.
‘My God! What on earth are you wearing?’
Justin’s horrified cry broke into her reverie. She turned slowly around and spread her arms wide. ‘Don’t you like it?’ she asked as she pirouetted again, then stopped in front of him, grinning wickedly up into his stunned face.
He looked magnificent in a black dinner-suit, white silk shirt and black bow-tie—all elegant, sophisticated male—and for once Zoë thought she matched him. But, if the look in his dark eyes was anything to go by, maybe she was wrong. She saw the muscle in his strong throat move as he swallowed hard. ‘Justin?’ she queried.
‘Like it…? It’s indecent. You will give every man in the place a heart attack—me included.’ His dark gaze lingered on her shadowy cleavage. ‘Why not wear the romantic thing you wore on Valentine night?’ he suggested hoarsely.
‘Don’t be so staid,’ she teased, adding, ‘In any case, it’s too late to change now.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘Let’s go down; we can’t keep our guests waiting.’
‘Wait.’ He closed his large hand over hers and turned her towards him. ‘I have something for you.’ His eyes dipped to her breast and then returned to her face. One dark brow arched sardonically. ‘Though I didn’t have a neckline like that in mind when I bought it,’ he said drily, slipping his free hand into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a long jewel case. He held it out to her.
She opened the box and gasped. ‘It’s unbelievable,’ she cried, her eyes dazzled by the blaze from a magnificent diamond choker set with sapphires falling like tear-drops all around—a perfect match for her engagement ring.
‘Happy birthday, Zoë.’
She looked up into her husband’s dark, serious eyes, her own filling with moisture. How could she have ever doubted that he loved her? she thought wryly.
‘I love it, Justin, as I love you. You darling man.’ And, reaching up, she kissed the highest point she could reach—his chin. He pulled back almost as though he was embarrassed by her show of emotion. ‘ Please put it on for me,’ she said in a voice that was not quite steady as she lifted the necklace from its bed of velvet and held it out to him.
He took it, his smouldering gaze intent upon her small face, then, moving behind her, fastened the necklace around her slender neck. Turning her back to face him, he said with arrogant certainty, ‘I knew they would match your eyes.’
She put a hand to her throat. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, her heart bursting with love.
“There is more,’ he said softly, a tender grin quirking the corners of his sensuous mouth as he delved once more into his jacket pocket and withdrew a smaller case. ‘From Bertie.’
She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. ‘How?’ she whispered, taking the proffered box.
‘He sent for the jeweller two months ago and chose it himself. I promised I would give it to you at the appropriate time.’
She opened the box and lifted out a delicate gold watch of startling beauty. The time markings on the face were etched in diamonds and the surround was encrusted in diamonds and sapphires. ‘I wish he could have been here,’ she whispered, fastening the watch around her slender wrist and raising tear-drenched eyes to her husband.
‘He is in spirit, love.’ Justin pulled her into his arms and gave her a quick hug. ‘Dry your eyes and let’s go.’
Ten minutes later Zoë, once again in control of her emotions, followed her husband into the formal drawingroom. ‘I feel guilty allowing you to arrange all this for me—the party, the caterers.’ She glanced at the watch on her wrist; any moment now the guests would be arriving. ‘The guests.’ And she stopped, her mouth falling open. She had forgotten to tell Justin…
‘Justin, I—er—I hope you don’t mind but—’ She
glanced at him leaning negligently against the French marble fireplace, the epitome of the sophisticated male animal, and hesitated.
‘But what?’ He arched one dark brow enquiringly.
‘You know when I worked at Magnum Advertising? Well, I have kept in touch with some of the staff—an
occasional lunch in town—and—’ she took a deep
breath ‘—a few of them are hiring a minibus and coming to the party,’ she finished in a rush.
‘Why not? Your uncle insisted on inviting everyone from the doorman at chambers to the Lord Chief Justice—a few more won’t matter.’ In two lithe strides he was beside her. ‘Stop worrying. It is your partyenjoy it.’
She took a deep breath to steady her fluttering nerves. ‘I’ll try.’
‘But for God’s sake don’t breathe like that in that apology for a gown!’ he exclaimed irritably, and would have said more, if the thunderous expression on his dark face was anything to go by. But at that moment the doorbell chimed…

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c9d0f69d-1bbf-5de2-8c0f-28c1d619c8e2)
AS ZOË stood in the huge old panelled hall with Justin at her side, his proprietorial arm around her waist, her doubts of the past few weeks vanished. She had never been happier as they greeted the constant flow of guests.
She welcomed Judge Master and his wife Mary with a kiss on their cheeks, while Justin looked indulgently on. She was not quite as enthusiastic with Sara Blacket and her husband, but soon she was having difficulty keeping track of who every one was.
Then, to her surprise, a tall, rangy stranger appeared, looking for all the world like a cowboy. She hesitated for a second, then let out a startled cry of joy. It had been seven years but there was no mistaking Wayne Sutton, the Texan. He had been a friend of her parents for years and she remembered him as being particularly kind to her when she was a child in California.
‘Wayne, I can’t believe it…’ She grinned up into his deeply tanned, handsome face. ‘How did you get here?’
‘I walked on water of course,’ he teased with masculine arrogance.
It would not have surprised her if he had. From being a rising young executive when her parents were alive he was now the head of one of the major studios in Hollywood, yet he couldn’t have been much over forty.
‘Let me look at you,’ Wayne drawled provocatively and, casually pulling her out of her husband’s arms, he held her hands wide and gave her a long, lingering scrutiny. ‘You’re more beautiful than your mother ever was. How about becoming a film star—?’
‘Hands off!’ Justin cut in, hauling her back to his side. ‘The lady is spoken for, Wayne.’ The two men held each other’s gaze, sizing each other up rather like two stags at bay.
Zoë’s puzzled eyes shot from one to the other. ‘You know each other?’
‘Wayne and I spoke on the telephone last week,’ Justin said curtly. ‘And he is here tonight in his capacity as the executor of your trust fund. Nothing more.’
‘No business tonight, Wayne.’ She deliberately spoke to the Texan, not at all happy with Justin’s tone of voice. She reached up and kissed Wayne’s cheek. ‘I should scold you,’ she teased. ‘To think that you’ve spoken to my husband and yet not once have you got in touch with me!’ She pouted, flirting outrageously.
‘Hey, honey, that’s not true. Surely you got my Valentine’s cards? Damn it! I paid the agency in London enough for the service. I knew you would miss not getting one from your dad, so I kind of took his place.’
Her smile faltered. All these years it had been Wayne and not Justin…‘Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, Wayne; I appreciated the gesture; I just forgot.’ She felt the colour rise in her face and quickly changed the subject. ‘But come on; you’re here to enjoy yourself— bar’s second door on the left and there’s champagne everywhere.’ She indicated the hovering waiters balancing trays loaded with glasses of champagne.
‘Whatever you say, gorgeous.’ Wayne winked. ‘Now, let me find the bourbon.’ And he walked off towards the bar.
Justin’s skin darkened with colour. ‘There was no need to kiss the man.’
‘Why, I do believe you’re jealous!’ Zoë teased. She was stupidly hurt to discover after all these years that the cards had not come from Justin, but she was determined not to show it.
‘It’s that damned dress,’ Justin bent down to murmur in her ear. ‘Every time you reach up, I have palpitations in case you pop out the top.’
She glanced up, her eyes clashing with his. His show of possession was flattering, and she laughed out loud, her humour restored. To the people watching, the stern barrister’s responding laughter came as something of a shock.
For the rest of the introductions Zoë relaxed easily in her husband’s hold, until she felt Justin tense, his fingers tightening imperceptibly on her waist. She shot him a sidelong glance; his rugged features were set in an impassive mask. She looked back to the couple in front of her. She knew the man, Bob Oliver, a junior partner in the law firm; her glance shifted to his red-headed companion, and immediately she knew the reason for Justin’s sudden tension. Janet Ord had been his companion at Zoë’s eighteenth birthday…
‘Bob and Janet, how nice to see you again; it must be three years.’ She tried to lighten the atmosphere. She was Justin’s wife and she wanted to show him that she was adult enough to realise that it was only to be expected that eventually she would bump into one of his old girlfriends. The law, and those who pursued it in England, comprised quite an insular community.
‘Good to see you, Bob—Janet.’
She heard Justin’s voice, cool and clipped, and wondered at the unmistakable frostiness in his tone. But at that moment the busload of friends from Magnum Advertising arrived, and she forgot all about Justin’s peculiar reticence with his junior partner and Janet. A few hours later she was to remember and wonder how she could have been such a fool…
She looked around the crowded room, her blue eyes shining like stars. The party was going brilliantly; the caterers had done a superb job on the buffet and the large formal dining-room was subjected to a constant stream of guests. In the small ballroom, opened for the first time in years for the occasion, an enthusiastic quintet played a good mixture of popular and rock music.
‘Quite a triumph,’ Justin murmured, turning her into his arms and grinning down at her. ‘Though I should be angry with you. You never mentioned the pipsqueak Nigel was one of your guests.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jacqueline-baird/the-valentine-child/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.