His Wedding-Night Heir (4 page)

point would there be when he knows where you are?'

It was logical—it was reasonable—but it made the situation

no easier to accept.

She said, 'I can't just—meet him socially. Too much has

happened.'

'Then look on it as a business meeting,' Kit urged. 'They say

half the deals in the country are done in restaurants."

She bent her head. 'You really think he's going to offer any

concessions?'

'Why not? He didn't have to agree lo talk lo us. He could have

insisted on seeing you alone. That's a hopeful sign,

'Nick likes to manipulate people,' she said. 'And he always has

his own agenda.'

'Nevertheless,' he said stubbornly, 'it has to be worth a try.' He

paused, and his tone altered. "Cally— did you ever intend to

tell me you were married?'

She gave him a straight look. 'I didn't plan to be around long

enough for that to be necessary. Anyway, it’s not an episode

I'm proud of. I'm just thankful it will soon be over and done

with.'

'Why's he a sir?' asked Tracy.

'Because he's a baronet. He inherited the title from a distant

cousin.'

'With loads of land and money?' Tracy was clearly intrigued.

'That's dead romantic'

'Most of the land had been sold off,' Cally said wearily. 'And

he was already a millionaire several times over. So all he

really got was a rather rundown house.'

'Was it love at first sight?' Tracy persisted. 'When you met

him? I mean, you obviously fancied him enough to marry

him.'

'Actually,' Cally said in a clear, bright voice, 'it was just a

business arrangement. Only I decided rather late in the day

that I couldn't go through with it after all. And I'd rather not

talk about it any more either,' she added.

Except that she almost certainly wouldn't have a choice in the

matter, she told herself, grabbing a glass of champagne from a

passing tray and swallowing some of it down her dry throat.

Because she was faced at last with the confrontation she'd

have given anything to avoid.

She tried not to look—to see where Nick was in the busy

room, or if he was alone. Particularly that. She strove hard not

to wonder what he was thinking—or what he might have to

say to her later. Because there was bound to be some kind of

reckoning.

Even if he agreed that a quick and quiet divorce was the best

way out of their situation— and as far as Cally was concerned

there was no possible alternative— she was still unlikely to

escape totally unscathed.

I left him with a lot of explaining to do, she told herself tautly.

Made him look a fool. Something he's unlikely to forgive or

forget.

And now she would have to come up with an explanation for

her headlong flight from him.

Not the truth, of course. That was locked away deep within

her, and she would not go there. But something— anything—

that would carry a modicum of conviction.

She put down her glass and with a murmured excuse went out

of the room, down a flight of stone steps to the women's

cloakroom. She had it lo herself, which she was grateful for

because one glance in the mirror told her that she looked as if

she was running a temperature. Her eyes were feverishly

bright, and there was a hectic flush along her cheekbones, so

the last thing she wanted was for someone to ask if she was all

right— especially if Nick was around to hear it.

I need lo look cool, calm and collected, she told herself, as she

ran the cold tap over the pounding pulses in her wrists and

applied a damp tissue lo her temples. 1 have to keep the emo-

tional temperature low, no matter how difficult it may get

later, because I can't afford any sign of weakness.

And if they could only agree lo conduct the eventual divorce

in a rational, equable spirit that would be a bonus.

She supposed divorce was the solution. She couldn't imagine

Nick accepting the annulment that represented the true stale of

affairs between them. Not good for his all-powerful male

image, she thought wryly.

Although it would be her lack of sex appeal that would prob-

ably be blamed. What else could it be? Because, where

women were concerned, Nick Tempest didn't have to prove a

thing.

Whereas she-she had little to offer. She was still too thin, she

admitted, and under normal circumstances too pale. Her

features were generally nondescript, with that thick, glossy

fall of hair her only real claim to beauty. Although even that

was brown. The whole picture was dull and duller, underlined

by a blouse, skirt and jacket that didn't hold a scrap of allure

between them.

No change there, she thought, her mouth twisting.

The witnesses at their wedding must have imagined they were

watching a peacock mate with an ugly duckling.

But then Nick hadn't married her for her attractions, or her

charm. He'd had his own reasons... as she'd finally discovered,

she thought, tension lancing her as those hidden memories

stirred again.

Not that it mattered, she told herself vehemently. It was all

past and done with, and soon that would be a matter of law.

I want nothing from him, she thought, but my freedom. And

surely that isn't too much to ask? He should be glad t o be rid

of me at so little cost.

In these past strange months hi limbo, she'd learned that she

could earn sufficient to keep herself without luxuries. Once

she was no longer running away, she could actually seek some

training, prepare herself for a career. Life would open up in

front of her.

And, however long it took, and however painful the process,

she would learn to forget that for a few hours she'd been Nick

Tempest's convenient bride.

'So you're still here.' Tracy came into the cloakroom. 'Kit sent

me to find you. I think he was getting worried in ca se you'd

disappeared.'

'No.' Cally had managed lo tone down the worst of her flush

with powder. She produced her comb and started to smooth

her hair. ‘I’m still around.'

'Put some lippy on,' Tracy suggested.

'I haven't brought any.' It was a fib, but she hadn't used it

earlier, and there was no way she wanted to look as if s he'd

made any kind of effort. It was the kind of feminine detail that

Nick would notice, she thought, with a pang.

'Kit thinks we should go and have a quiet drink at the White

Hart.' Tracy went on. 'Plan our tactics, he says.' She gave

Cally a straight look. 'You don't think there's much point, do

you?'

Cally put her comb in her bag. She said quietly, 'I honestly

don't know. He could simply have refused to talk to us

'Well, he's your husband, so you should know,' said Tracy.

She added, 'And it's not really ' 'us'', at all. It's you— isn't it?'

And her eyes met Cally's with a question she was unable to

answer.

By the time they reached the restaurant Cally was on tenter-

hooks, totally gripped by tension. The preliminary discussion

in the pub hadn't got very far, because Kit was clearly upset

about her concealed marriage and was prepared to be

resentful, which she regretted.

She realised, to her shame, that she was hoping against hope

that Nick would yield to the Hartleys' blandishments.

You're supposed to be fighting for Gunners Terrace, she re-

proached herself silently. Balance that against an awkward

hour or so in your ex-husband's company, and get a grip.

But Nick was there before them, occupying a comer table—

the best in the house, naturally— and accompanied by a fair,

stocky man whom he introduced as Matthew Hendrick, the

project architect.

Cally was so determined not to sit next to Nick that she found

herself placed opposite him instead, which was hardly an

improvement, she thought, biting her lip with vexation.

While the menus were handed round, the bread brought and

the wine poured, she could feel Nick's eyes on her in a cool

assessment which she could not avoid and he did not even try

to conceal.

She could only hope he was thanking his stars for a lucky

escape, but her intuition warned her that she might be wrong.

She ate sparingly of the antipasti that formed the first course,

and only picked at the chicken in its rich wine sauce t hat fol-

lowed. She tried to fix her mind on the earnest discussion

going on, primarily between Kit and Matthew Hendrick, while

Nick watched and listened. This was all that should matter to

her, she reminded herself. The plight of the residents. The

need to save the project and continue it. She should be joining

in here, making her own reasoned contribution, as Tracy was

doing.

But she was too aware of the dark man opposite, with the

cool, contained face. Too conscious of the apprehensive

thoughts circling in her mind, giving her no peace.

She refused dessert and coffee, praying inwardly that the party

would start to break up and she'd finally be let off t he hook.

But it was a vain hope. ‘Goodnight, Miss Andrews—Mr

Matlock.' Nick had risen to his feet and was shaking hands.

'Matthew, I'll meet you on site tomorrow at nine a.m. My wife

and I are going to stay for a while, and enjoy our reunion.' His

smile didn't reach his eyes. 'We have a lot of catching up to

do—don't we, my sweet?'

Cally's lips parted to utter a startled protest, but she bit back

the words and sank back in her chair. That same intuit ion told

her that any resistance on her part would only make her look

foolish in the end. Far better not to fuss, she thought, but to let

him think she regarded spending time alone in his company

with complete indifference.

But how that was to be achieved she hadn't the faintest idea.

The others left, and she saw Kit looking frowningly back at

her. She was almost tempted to call out to him, ask hi m to

stay, but she knew that wouldn't be fair. She'd enjoyed work-

ing with Kit, but she would never have wanted more even if

she'd been free, and she would have told him goodbye without

regrets.

Besides, if Eastern Crest were interested enough in what he

had to say to hold a site meeting, she couldn't jeopardise that

by allowing him to annoy the chairman.

And Nick had made his wishes coolly and brutally clear.

They were going to talk.

As he resumed his seal, she said in a small, brittle voice, 'I feel

as if someone should read me ray rights."

'I already know mine,' he said shortly. 'I've had plenty of time

to consider them.' He signalled to the waiter to bring more

coffee.

'I don't want anything else,' she told him quickly.

'Then you can sit and chat to me while I have some. Doesn't

that paint a nice domestic picture?'

'Nick,' she said, deciding to jump straight in, 'do we really

have to do this? Can't we just accept that our marriage was a

seriously bad idea and call it quits? I—I'd honestly like to go

home.'

'An excellent idea,' he said affably. 'Why don't we do just

that? Unfortunately, at the moment home for me happens to

be the Majestic Hotel—a flagrant misnomer, if ever there was

one.' He gave her a small, cold smile. 'I wonder if I could get

them under the Trades Description act? However,' he went on,

'with uncanny prescience, they've given me the bridal suite, so

perhaps I should forgive their delusions of grandeur.' He

drank down his espresso. 'Shall we go?'

She could suddenly feel the hectic drumming of her pulses.

Hear the silent scream of No in her dry throat. She thought.

He doesn't mean that. He can't...

Aloud, she said shakily, 'I'm going nowhere with you. You

seem lo have overlooked the fact that I've left you.'

'Oh, no, darling,' he said with corrosive lightness. 'I remember

that incredibly well. Our wedding day, right? In fact, the ink

was barely dry on the register when you scarpered.'

She said stiffly, 'I suppose you deserve some kind of

explanation.'

'Yes,' he said, and his voice seemed to remove a layer of her

skin. ‘I bloody well do. And maybe an apology for making a

fool of me quite so publicly. That would be a beginning.'

She bit her lip. 'Yes, of course. I—I'm sorry about that.'

'But nothing else?' Nick divined grimly.

She thought. You were making a fool of me in private—or

does that not count?