A Whirlwind Marriage

Marianne continued. “I’m your wife.”

“Dead right you’re my wife,” Zeke grated slowly. “So why don’t you start acting like it?”

“You arrogant—”

“You’re my wife, I’m your husband, so what’s got into you all of a sudden?”

Before she could answer, he had taken her mouth in a kiss that immediately ignited a response deep in the core of her. He only had to touch her and she melted for him. But she
had
to resist him, she had to make him understand….

HELEN BROOKS
lives in Northamptonshire, England, and is married with three children. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife and mother, her spare time is at a premium, but her hobbies include reading, swimming, gardening and walking her two energetic, inquisitive and very endearing young dogs. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty, and sent the result off to Harlequin Mills & Boon.

Look out for
The Irresistible Tycoon
by Helen Brooks (#2256)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Z
EKE
B
UCHANAN
glanced at his wife as he rose from the breakfast table, but although Marianne was aware of his gaze she didn’t raise her head from her contemplation of the contents of her coffee cup, not even when he stopped just behind her and rested his hands on her slender shoulders as he said, ‘You haven’t forgotten the Mortons are coming at seven?’

No, she hadn’t forgotten the Mortons. She steeled herself to show no reaction, either in her body or her voice, when she replied coolly, ‘No, of course not. Everything’s in order.’

‘Good.’ There was a moment’s hesitation, and then he bent and placed a swift kiss on the top of her blond head. ‘I probably won’t be home much before seven myself. I’m flying up to Stoke this morning to look at an old factory site I’m interested in, but I should be back by mid-afternoon if you need me.’

If I need you? Of course I need you, but that’s a concept that’s alien to you, isn’t it? She didn’t trust the bitterness not to show if she spoke, so she merely nodded without turning her head to look at him.

‘Goodbye, Marianne.’

His voice was cold now, and she replied in like vein when she said, ‘Goodbye, Zeke.’

And then the breakfast room door had shut behind him and she was alone. She sat absolutely still for a full minute, willing herself not to give way to the tears that were always threatening these days, and then she rose very slowly
and walked across to the huge, south-facing window which took up most of one wall.

The vista beyond the glass was a breathtaking aerial view of half of London, or so it seemed. The penthouse, at the top of a high-rise block of luxury flats, had been tailormade for Zeke long before he had met her, more than two years ago. It was the last word in opulent living, from the massive drawing room regally decorated in blue and gold to the sumptuous master bedroom and its decadent
en suite
bathroom, which was black and silver and mirrored from floor to ceiling. And Marianne hated it. She loathed it.

She knew one of Zeke’s old girlfriends—a very successful and glamorous redhead by the exotic name of Liliana de Giraud, who was
the
interior designer to the rich and famous—had designed the penthouse, and once she had discovered that some twelve months ago her dislike of the brazen bachelor pad had turned to revulsion.

She had lost count of how many times she had asked Zeke to come with her to look at different properties—some apartments, some houses—but always he had fobbed her off with ‘tomorrow’. But tomorrow had never come.

She relaxed against the window for a moment, her forehead pressed against the cold glass, and then she straightened abruptly, drawing her shoulders back military-style and lifting her small chin determinedly.

None of that! she told herself silently. You’re not going to give in to the urge to run and hide. They were going through a bad patch, but that didn’t mean she had to fold under the pressure. She would come through this; she would. She had coped with the shock of her mother’s sudden death four years ago—she would cope with this. But, oh… She bit her lip hard. What she would give to talk to her mother now, just to be able to tell someone all of it.
She felt she would go mad sometimes, cut off from the world in this ivory tower Zeke had created.

And then, as though in answer to the silent desperate plea, the telephone rang. Marianne let it ring until the answer-machine cut in. The only people who rang these days were Zeke, one or other of their social circle, or business acquaintances, and she didn’t feel like talking to any of those.

‘Hi, Marianne. Long time no talkie! This is Pat—Patricia—in case you haven’t guessed, and as I’m up in town for a day or two I thought I’d—’

Pat’s voice was cut off as Marianne lifted the receiver and said breathlessly, ‘Pat? Oh, Pat. It’s so lovely to hear your voice.’

‘Is it? You only had to pick up the phone any day to hear it, Annie,’ Pat said with a chuckle to soften the admonishment.

Marianne blinked and then found herself smiling. The same old straightforward Pat. It was her friend’s habit of plain speaking that had got under Zeke’s skin even before he had met Pat, and the two had never hit it off. Pat was right, though; she should have contacted her before this, Marianne told herself silently. But with all that was happening between Zeke and herself she had felt—ridiculously, perhaps—that it would be a betrayal of her husband. She didn’t feel like that any more. Not since last night.

‘You’re in town?’ Marianne said now. ‘Can we meet up for lunch or something?’

‘Great. Do you want me to come round to the apartment?’ Pat asked briskly.

Marianne glanced round the suffocatingly exquisite interior and shut her eyes tightly for a second before she said, ‘No, we’ll eat out. My treat. There’s a great little
French place a few blocks away: Rochelle’s, in St Martin’s Street. I’ll meet you there at twelve if that’s okay?’

‘Terrific. See you then. And, Annie—?’

‘Yes?’ she asked carefully.

‘Are you all right?’

Marianne took a deep breath and said quietly, ‘No, no I’m not all right, Pat.’

‘Didn’t think you were. Twelve, then.’ And in characteristic fashion the phone went dead.

Oh, Pat. Marianne replaced the receiver and stood staring at the telephone for some moments as a great flood of relief and expectation swept through her. She hadn’t realised just how much she needed Pat’s down-to-earth common sense and no-frills approach to life until this very second, but now she couldn’t wait to see her.

She glanced at the small gold wristwatch Zeke had given her for her twenty-first birthday, a few months after she had married him. Eight o’clock. Four hours to go. But suddenly the day which had stretched endlessly in front of her just minutes before had been transformed.

A long, hot soak in the bath. Marianne nodded to the thought, and, leaving the breakfast table just as it was, walked through to one of the two guest bedrooms which both had their own
en suites
.

She rarely used the master bedroom’s
en suite
—even though it boasted an Olympian Jacuzzi bath—unless Zeke was around, and then she only did it to avoid yet another row. She couldn’t quite explain it, but the flamboyant, lavish black-and-silver bathroom always seemed to emphasise everything that was wrong in their marriage and just how far they had grown apart in two years.

She was still in her silk nightie and négligé, and now she discarded the flimsy wisps of material on the floor as she ran herself a bath liberally doused with expensive oils.

Once in the warm, silky water she lay back with a soft sigh, and for the first time in months allowed her mind to drift back to how it had been when she had first told Pat about Zeke. In spite of the direness of her present situation a small smile played round her mouth as she recalled Pat’s words.

‘And all this has happened in the eight weeks I’ve been in Canada?’ Pat’s voice had been distinctly miffed. ‘But nothing
ever
happens in Bridgeton, Annie.’

‘What can I say?’ She’d been smiling as she’d taken in her friend’s woebegone face. ‘He came, he saw, he conquered. Zeke’s like that.’

‘And he’s rich
and
good-looking?’ It had been almost a wail. ‘Tell me he’s got a brother,
please
.’

‘Oh, Pat.’ She had been openly laughing, but as she’d stared into the pretty face of her best friend—the girl she’d grown up with and who lived just a few hundred yards away—she’d admitted to a secret feeling of amazement herself.

That Zeke Buchanan, millionaire property developer and entrepreneur extraordinaire, should have fallen in love with her
was
something fairy tales were made of. And it had all happened so quickly.

She’d glanced down at the enormous cluster of diamonds on the third finger of her left hand and felt the same giddy rush of excitement as when Zeke had placed it there seven days before.

A whirlwind romance. Everyone,
everyone
was talking about it—the whole village had been agog that a girl from their little backwater should have caught a big fish from the capital. But she had. He loved her and she loved him, more than life itself.

She’d raised misty eyes to Pat’s fascinated face as her friend had said, ‘I want to hear every little morsel, all
right? From the first time you laid eyes on him until he put that great whopper of a ring on your finger.
Everything
, mind! There was little old me thinking
I
was having a good time in Canada when instead it was all happening at home! I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. That’ll teach me to go camping in the mountains for weeks on end—the most I saw was a moose and the rear end of a bear.’

‘But you did have a good time?’

‘I thought I had.’ Pat’s face had been comical. ‘But compared to you… So, come on, spill the beans.’

‘There isn’t really much to tell.’ They had been standing on the doorstep of her father’s rambling old house, and she had drawn Pat into the hall before leading the way through to the large country kitchen at the back of the aged property. There she had said, ‘Zeke came to have a look at that land on the outskirts of the village, Farnon’s Farm, that’s been designated for housing and a new school and so on. He was driving through the main street—in his Ferrari,’ she’d added as she turned round from putting the kettle on and dimpled at Pat, who’d given an envious groan, ‘when he saw me leaving the village shop.’

‘And?’

Marianne had turned back to fix the coffee tray and Pat had grabbed hold of her arms as she’d said, ‘Leave the flipping coffee, for goodness’ sake, Annie, and
tell
me!’ determinedly pushing her down in one of the straight-backed chairs placed neatly round the huge old kitchen table.

‘And he stopped and introduced himself and we chatted for a while, and then he asked me out to dinner that night,’ Marianne had said matter-of-factly, clasping her hands together in her lap. ‘And then we just started seeing each other.’

And she had been transported into another realm, an
other dimension, a place where even the most ordinary, mundane aspects of living took on a thrilling quality because Zeke loved her.

‘You jammy, jammy thing.’ Pat had exhaled very slowly. ‘But I have to say if anyone deserves a decent break it’s you, Annie. There’s not many girls with your intelligence and looks that would have given up the chance of university and spreading their wings to keep house for their father, not to mention taking on the job as general dogsbody at the surgery.’

‘It’s not like that. I enjoy what I do,’ Marianne had responded quickly as she’d stood up to make the coffee.

‘Hmph!’ The exclamation had said it all.

The two girls had been bosom friends from when they could toddle, and the fact that they were both only children and their birthdays were just days apart had meant they had tackled all the important childhood milestones together.

Nursery school, big school, youth club—the two of them had braved each one hand in hand, and Pat, more than anyone else in the world, knew how hard it had been when Marianne’s beloved mother had died horribly suddenly of a brain haemorrhage just as Marianne had been set to leave for university two years before.

Josh Kirby, Marianne’s father, had been devastated, and she had had to bear the added weight of seeing her normally cool and composed doctor father go to pieces on top of her own consuming grief.

Marianne’s mother had been receptionist, secretary and—as Pat had pointed out—general dogsbody in Josh’s small but busy surgery, which was situated in the front of their house, and Marianne had known what she had to do within days of her mother’s passing.

She had put all thoughts of university on hold and made
things as normal and easy as she could for her grief-stricken father, stepping quietly and efficiently into her mother’s shoes both domestically and in the surgery. And she had had her reward over the next twenty-four months as she’d watched her father’s pain and anguish diminish and he’d slowly come to terms with his loss.

Marianne hadn’t regretted her decision to stay, not for a minute—a second—but it had been hard sometimes when she’d heard Pat and other members of their set talking about all they’d done and seen when they came home for the holidays, whilst she’d been stuck in Bridgeton where the most exciting thing that happened was Ned Riley getting drunk on a Friday night and dancing his way home.

But then Zeke had happened. Zeke Buchanan, with his jet-black hair and smoky grey eyes that had had the power to melt her with just one glance.

Marianne shivered suddenly, reaching forward and turning on the hot tap although the water wasn’t really cool—the chill came from within rather than from without. Once the water was steaming, and as hot as she could stand it, she relaxed again, and almost immediately she was back in Bridgeton in that long hot summer of two years before.

‘I hope he knows how lucky he is, your Zeke.’ Pat had smiled at her and she’d smiled back. ‘You’re one in a million, and I don’t just mean your looks either. You’re nice inside, Annie, where it really counts.’

‘You couldn’t be just a tiny bit prejudiced, could you?’

She remembered she’d laughed softly before she’d said, passing Pat a mug of steaming coffee, ‘And you will be my bridesmaid?’

‘Just try and stop me.’ Pat had wrinkled her small snub nose appreciatively as she’d drawn in the heady aroma of rich coffee beans. ‘Have you set a date yet?’

She’d taken a deep breath. She hadn’t been sure of how Pat would react to the news. ‘The second Saturday in October.’

‘Next year, you mean.’

‘This year.’

‘This year?’
Pat had jerked up straighter, shooting coffee all over her white top, chosen specifically to show off her deep Canadian tan. ‘But that’s only—’

‘Six weeks away. Yes, I know.’ She had forced a smile. Everyone,
everyone
had behaved as though she was planning to do something immoral rather than marry the man she loved. ‘Zeke doesn’t want to wait and neither do I. He can afford to pay to have everything brought swiftly together. He’s booked the reception at this wonderful London hotel, and the cars and the flowers and everything. And the church in the village is free, so…’