A Husband's Revenge. Lee Wilkinson
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room to change.’
As soon as the door closed behind him, Clare got out of bed and made for the sumptuous bathroom. Whether it was due to the food or to the prolonged sleep, she was pleased to find that the worst of the weakness had gone and she felt much better.
After cleaning her teeth and taking a quick shower, she donned a terrycloth robe while she looked for some fresh undies and something to wear.
A look at the clothes hanging in the walk-in wardrobe suggested that her tastes were quiet and classical rather than flamboyant. For which she was truly thankful.
Trying to rid herself of the feeling that she was rifling another woman’s things, she took out a grey and white patterned dress, a white jacket and a pair of high-heeled sandals. Rather to her surprise, everything fitted her perfectly.
When she was dressed she brushed the tangles from her shoulder-length hair. Seeming to be naturally curly, it settled in a soft, dark cloud around her face.
Wrinkling her nose in the mirror at the bruise on her temple, she looked for some tinted foundation to mask it. There was a range of light cosmetics in a pretty, daisy-strewn bag—cream, cleansing lotion and lip-gloss. No sign of any foundation or mascara. Perhaps with dark brows and lashes and a clear skin she didn’t use any?
In a side pocket of the bag she came across a narrow flat packet, and froze. Each pill was packed separately and marked with a day of the week.
But that didn’t necessarily mean she was like her mother, she told herself firmly. After all, she was a married woman—even if she didn’t feel like one...
Hiding her nervousness, her uncertainty, beneath a veneer of calm, she squared her shoulders and went to find Jos.
Everything was quiet and in perfect order. Too perfect. It struck her that the penthouse, with its impersonal opulence, was more like a luxury film-set than a home.
Without her knowing why, the thought made her sad.
In the living room, the long glass panels had been slid aside and he was standing on the terrace looking out across the green leafiness of Central Park. He’d changed into a lightweight suit, the jacket of which was slung over one shoulder and held by a crooked finger.
Clare could have sworn she had made no sound on the thick pale carpet, but, as though some sixth sense was at work, he turned to face her.
Though she didn’t know him, he was no longer a stranger. Outwardly, at least, he was achingly familiar, and she could have picked him out unerringly from a thousand other tall, dark men.
His hair, brushed straight back from a high forehead, formed a widow’s peak, his skin was tanned and his eyes were a clear, brilliant green between thick lashes. He looked tough and intelligent and heart-stoppingly handsome, with the kind of animal magnetism that would have made even an ugly man completely irresistible.
At her approach he held out his hand.
As if under a spell, she put hers into it.
He used the hand he was holding to draw her close, and, smiling into her eyes, bent his head.
Her nostrils were filled with the faint, masculine scent of his aftershave, and, feeling his warm breath on her cheek, she trembled inside while, eyes closed, lips parted, she waited transfixed for his kiss.
But the kiss never came.
When she lifted heavy lids he had drawn back. He was still smiling, but his smile was mocking, derisive.
She didn’t need that smile to tell her he was amused by her reaction. Feeling as though she had been slapped in the face, she snatched her hand free and turned away.
Why was he playing with her like this? To remind her that he could? To put her at a disadvantage? For his own entertainment? Or a combination of all three?
Chilled and alarmed, she began dimly to realise something of the power he had over her.
But until her memory returned, and she knew exactly how things stood between them, all she could do was stay calm and resist his potent attraction.
He put on his jacket and, a hand at her waist, accompanied her across the hall and into the lift. Though she was tall and wearing high heels, standing by her side he still seemed to tower over her.
Glancing down at her set profile, he remarked blandly, ‘You’re looking rather...militant. Something to do with a need for self-preservation?’
She studied his face with calm deliberation, then said, just as blandly, ‘And you’re looking rather conceited. Something to do with a mistaken belief in your own powers of attraction?’
To her surprise he laughed, and said appreciatively, ‘You’re starting to sound less like some forlorn waif and more like yourself.’
A moment later the lift slid to a halt and they emerged into the glittering foyer, now thronging with people.
His hand beneath her elbow, he escorted her through the main doors and out onto Fifth Avenue. That famous street was teeming with life and vitality, and had, Clare thought, an air of being en fête.
The early evening was hot and sunny, and the park was full of people. Bright summer dresses and colourful umbrellas blossomed everywhere; candy wrappers and soft drink cans littered the paths, radios blared, babies bawled, children played and perspiring joggers jogged.
It was a scene full of noise and gaiety, and Clare loved it.
Jos tucked her hand through his arm and, as he matched his pace to her slower one, they strolled in silence.
After a while, her thoughts busy, she remarked, ‘You mentioned we met when you came over to England on a business trip. How did we get to know each other?’
Face guarded, green eyes suddenly wary, Jos answered, ‘I’d approached Ashleigh Kent with the intention of buying a house...’
She frowned. Why would he want a house in rural England when he lived in New York?
‘You were the representative they sent to show me around.’
A chill feathering over her skin, Clare stopped walking and stood stock-still. As a dim crystal ball, her mind produced a faint, intangible impression of a bare hall, open to the rafters, with dark galleries running round three sides, and a man standing looking up to a pair of high, narrow windows which threw lozenges of light onto the dusty stone flags three floors below.
Head bent, slim fingers pressed to her temples, she tried to seize the elusive memory that hovered almost within her grasp.
Just when she thought she had it, it vanished like a spectre. Suddenly convinced it held some terrible significance, she gave a low moan and began to tremble violently.
Jos took her shoulders. ‘Clare, what is it? What have you remembered?’
‘Nothing. I...I thought I had, but then it was gone.’
CHAPTER THREE
SHE was shaking so much that she could scarcely stand. Steering her to the nearest vacant bench, he pushed her onto it and stood over her. After a while the trembling stopped. Gathering herself, she looked up at him and said steadily, ‘I’m all right now. We can go on.’
‘I think not. You’ve done enough walking for today. Wait here a moment.’
He went a hundred yards or so to an intersection, where the path they were on was crossed by a wider one. Raising his hand, he snapped his fingers.
As he came back to offer his arm she heard the clatter of a horse’s hooves, and by the time they’d reached the intersection a polished black carriage with a top-hatted driver was waiting. It had a festive, holiday air—the well-groomed horse wore yellow rosettes and the driver’s whip was adorned with a matching bow of ribbon.
Jos helped her step up and then sat beside her. The driver clicked his tongue at the horse and they were