Long-Distance Marriage. Sharon Kendrick
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which had been instilled in her by her upbringing—by watching her poverty-ridden and feckless parents fritter away whatever money did actually come into the house. Alessandra had vivid memories of wearing charity-shop clothes and shoes while her parents had thrown yet another uproarious party.
‘Alessandra—’ Andrew cut into her thoughts once more. ‘For heaven’s sake, go and buy a dress on the company.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’ He laughed. ‘All right, then—as your boss I’m ordering you to! Look on it as part of your bonus for getting us this new client.’
‘And if we don’t win the account?’ asked Alessandra, ever practical.
‘Oh, we will, we will,’ said Andrew confidently. ‘We’re bound to, with you there!’
Alessandra took the lift up to the penthouse apartment and yawned. Her jaw ached from smiling and her feet were killing her. She’d stood at the counter of Henry’s Bar—standing at the counter was the place to be seen—and had dutifully drunk vintage champagne with the prospective American clients, who had listened to her ideas with enthusiasm.
‘We love your quirky British style,’ the older one, named Billy, had told her earnestly.
‘It sells,’ his colleague, whose eyes had been riveted to her cleavage all evening, had added. Alessandra had decided that, if they did win the account, she would not wear anything low-cut like this again; she couldn’t stand men leering at her like that. The irony was that she’d bought the dress because she had been sure that Cameron would love it. It was beautifully cut and he absolutely adored seeing her wear black.
But, in the changing room at the shop, she had been in such a hurry, so intent with swirling round and checking the back and the length and the shape of the garment, that she had allowed the sales girl’s opinion to sway her. And had ended up with, she realised, a spectacular dress, but one which exposed far more of her skin than usual. It drew attention to the heavy lushness of her breasts, the stark colour making her skin seem almost translucently creamy.
A fact which had obviously not been missed by the younger of the two Americans.
Alessandra had been reluctantly persuaded by Andrew to join them for an early supper after their drink, and so the four of them had moved on to the Savoy—and eaten a too rich combination of caviare, followed by lobster Thermidor, accompanied by still more champagne. Alessandra had felt full, tired and jaded, and she had eventually excused herself at nine-thirty by announcing that one very jet-lagged husband would be arriving from the States shortly, and she wanted to be at home to meet him. She’d felt her pulses stirring at the thought of seeing Cameron again soon.
‘Of course, of course,’ said Billy, beaming at her. ‘It’s been a great pleasure meeting you, Mrs—’
‘It’s Miss,’ corrected Alessandra quickly. ‘I’m still Alessandra Walker. I decided to keep my maiden name when I married.’
‘Really?’ queried the leerer, his eyes still hypnotised by the creamy swell of her breasts.
‘Yes,’ said Alessandra, standing up quickly, thinking that if she didn’t get away from his creepy stare she might say or do something rude which might jeopardise the account! ‘I’m well-known in the advertising world by that name, and so it seemed a pity to lose it.’
‘And it’s the modern way,’ agreed Billy, smiling. ‘In Canada, where two of my daughters live, it’s quite common to do so. Just so long as your husband doesn’t mind!’
Well, she wouldn’t exactly go so far as to say that. Cameron hadn’t objected when she’d told him she wasn’t planning to take his name, he’d just given her that coolly quizzical stare of his and then nodded without comment.
Andrew slipped her coat around her shoulders and gave them a little squeeze, which Alessandra guessed was his way of telling her that the evening had been a success, and Billy stood up, seeming eager to compensate for his partner’s blatantly obvious preoccupation with her body.
‘What kind of business was your husband doing in the States?’ he asked conversationally as he shook her hand.
Alessandra smiled. ‘It’s not really his business, more a kind of sideline. He has a factory here, in the north of England, and others in western Europe, but he dabbles in property for fun.’
‘For fun?’ expostulated Andrew. ‘I’d hardly call owning numerous apartments and a hotel on the East Side of Manhattan “fun”—or heaven help us all if he decides to get serious!’
Even Leerer’s interest had strayed from her bosom now, and Billy looked as eager as a dog who had scented a bone. ‘Really? Would I happen to know your husband, ma’am?’
Alessandra shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. He’s quite well-known in England—’
‘Understatement of the year,’ interrupted Andrew drily. ‘His name is Cameron Calder.’
He might as well have said ‘the President of the United States’, Alessandra giggled to herself now as she pushed the key into the lock of the flat. For the two businessmen surely couldn’t have been more impressed! She’d had no idea that her husband was so well-known in New York for his entrepreneurial skills.
But then, how would she have known? Cameron had never once taken her to New York with him, and he certainly wasn’t the kind of man to boast. A man like Cameron didn’t need to boast, she thought longingly, a little sigh automatically escaping her lips as it hit her just how much she had missed him.
She closed the door of the flat behind her and yawned widely, dropping her wrap carelessly onto the back of the low sofa. She would change out of this clinging black number, run herself a deep, perfumed bath and then lie—literally, she thought with hungry amusement—in wait for her gorgeous husband.
It took a moment or two for her to register that there was a light shining from the direction of the bedroom. Surely she hadn’t been so careless as to have left it on this morning? Though she had been in a tearing hurry. She’d overslept after a troubled night of disturbed dreams, in which Cameron’s face kept appearing tantalisingly before her.
For a moment she froze as she heard a sound coming from the bedroom, but the fear fled immediately, for she recognised that much loved step at once. She pushed back her dark hair, which had been all mussed up by the wind, to see the tall, shadowy figure of her husband appear framed in the doorway, set against the soft glow of the lamp behind him. In the semidarkness, even more than usual, his body appeared all hard-packed muscle and power.
He snapped on the main-light switch and the room was flooded with a harsh glare. Alessandra’s welcoming smile died on her lips. Because she looked up into Cameron’s harsh, unwelcoming face and suddenly, inexplicably, she really was frightened.
CAMERON studied Alessandra for a moment and something about the forbidding coldness in his eyes—an expression Alessandra had never seen there before—made her skin prickle with tiny goose-bumps. So that, instead of falling ecstatically into each other’s arms as they would normally have done, they stood surveying each other silently against the great expanse of the room. But there was no tenderness in his face and none of the softness which was usually there when he looked at her.
‘Hello, Alessandra,’ said Cameron eventually, but he didn’t move from where he was standing.
And pride kept her where she was. ‘Hello, Cameron,’ she said, and it came out far more coolly than she’d intended—but why shouldn’t it have done? There had been some odd, strained quality to his voice. ‘I—wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’
‘So I see.’ His mouth curved disdainfully as he took in the low-cut black dress which emphasised the creamy thrust of her breasts and skimmed down