An Unbroken Marriage. PENNY JORDAN
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seductively to the feminine curve of her hips and the slender length of her legs.
The dress needed no adornment, and the only jewellery India wore was a thick twisted rope of gold hugging her throat.
She did not possess any gold sandals, but had an elegant pair of black suede evening shoes which she had bought in Paris, and which were so high that they mde her tower above most of the men she knew; perhaps it was a power complex, she thought wryly, this refusal to acknowledge male pride and resort, as so many of her tall sisters did, to wearing flat or low-heeled shoes.
Over the dress she intended to wear her black velvet evening cloak, and she was just reaching for it when she heard the doorbell ring. Smothering the butterflies swarming in her stomach, she checked her appearance in the mirror, a little taken aback by the reflection staring at her.
For some reason the gold fabric seemed to intensify the dark richness of her hair and the creamy perfection of her skin. Although she was very slim, her breasts were marginally fuller than the girl’s for whom the gown had originally been designed, and the strapless bodice seemed to draw provocative attention to their firm upthrust.
It was too late to change now, she told herself, reaching for her cloak and evening bag, and switching off the bedroom light.
In the lounge she left a table light burning, a solitary pool of colour reflecting downwards from the cream shade on to the richness of her prized rug.
She opened the door, composing her features into her ‘professional’ mask.
Her first thought was that Simon Herries seemed larger than she remembered; then she realised that the proximity of her small hall meant that she was far closer to him, and actually forced to look up at him as he stepped inside.
That made India frown. She had been on the point of stepping out of the flat as he moved forward and the two paces were enough to bring them close enough for her to be able to smell the fresh, sharp scent of his aftershave. It enveloped her in a spicy, entirely masculine scent, and she wondered briefly if he was equally as aware of her Arpège, a thought which she quickly dismissed as unimportant and stupid.
‘Do you think it’s wise to leave that on?’ He was looking over India’s shoulder, into the lounge where she had left the lamp burning, and beneath her make-up India felt her face colour with mingled resentment and anger. Another step and he would be inside the lounge; penetrating her private sanctuary, violating her privacy. She moved instinctively, impeding his progress, her voice curt and clipped as she said coolly,
‘I always leave it on.’
‘Why? To deter thieves? Because you’re frightened of the dark?’
His eyes swung from her collection of attractive, but with the exception of her rug, relatively inexpensive furniture, to her cool, remote face, and he drawled mockingly, ‘Hardly. So why…?’
‘Perhaps because it’s welcoming to come home to.’
‘Ah, yes!’ Something gleamed in his eyes; something alien and almost frightening. ‘Of course,’ he said softly, ‘you would know all about the… benefits of being welcoming.’
If there was a double meaning to the words, it escaped India.
‘Has it ever occurred to you that it might not be safe?’
Before she could stop him, Simon Herries had walked past her to the lamp, swiftly switching it off, but not, she noticed, before those all-seeing dark grey eyes had glanced swiftly and assessingly over the room and its contents.
‘Very nice,’ he commented as they left. ‘You’re a very fortunate young woman, India Lawson. Your own business—a successful business at that—youth; looks.’ They were out on the street and beneath lashes far darker and thicker than any mere man had a right to possess his eyes assessed her contours cloaked in the black velvet.
What was she supposed to do, India fumed; fawn ingratiatingly? But Simon Herries hadn’t finished.
‘A devoted admirer… even if he is someone else’s husband… He must be very fond of you to have set you up with the salon. Prime site in Mayfair—it can’t have come cheap.’
They were standing on the kerb in front of the immaculate Ferrari, Simon Herries had reached towards the passenger door and was opening it for India to get in, but she stood her ground, sparks kindling in her eyes,
‘For your information, no one “set me up with the salon”, as you put it. All I have has been achieved through my own hard work!’
‘And Melford Taylor hasn’t helped you in the slightest, is that what you’re trying to say?’ He was sneering outright now, and for two pins India would have walked off and left him standing, but two things stopped her. One was her own pride; if she ran now it was tantamount to admitting that his accusations had some basis; and the other was that she could not run anywhere, because Simon Herries’ lean, hard fingers were gripping her wrist like a manacle; his superior weight forcing her into the passenger seat of the car. Her wrist was released and the door was closed. India rubbed it covertly, staring stonily out of the passenger window as she felt the cold rush of air as the driver’s door opened and she felt the car depress as Simon Herries slid alongside her.
‘Sulking?’ he commented ten minutes later when India was still staring furiously ahead of her. ‘It won’t alter the truth.’
‘The truth!’ India turned to face him, her mouth taut with anger. ‘I doubt if a man like you could recognise it!’
‘Men like me are the only ones who do recognise it,’ came the pithy reply, ‘simply because they’ve had so much experience of the opposite. Your sex never cease to amaze me with their ability to contort “truth” to suit their own requirements; their own careers. Believe me, I know.’
‘I’m sure you do!’
In the darkness of the car India could feel him staring at her, her eyes drawn involuntarily to his hands on the wheel, holding it with cool easy confidence; the way he would hold a woman, and she shivered with some prescient knowledge she could scarcely comprehend. What on earth was the matter with her?
The traffic was thinning out. India glanced at the dashboard clock, amazed to see that they had been travelling for well over half an hour. She frowned, searching the dark for a familiar landscape, and demanded abruptly, ‘Is it far?’
‘Is what far?’ came the cool reply.
Fear gnawed edgily at India’s already overstretched nerves.
‘Don’t play games with me!’ she snapped. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Is it far to Melisande’s flat?’
‘Not particularly.’
No further information was forthcoming, and India was forced to contain her growing anger in a fuming silence; either that or be drawn into further bickering. Abominable man! she thought crossly. She could almost believe that he had been deliberately trying to goad her into losing her temper. She shot him a suspicious glance, watching the dark lashes flick downwards in answer to her scrutiny, although he never lifted his eyes from the road.
The Ferrari was picking up speed. India had fastened her seat-belt when she got in, and that, combined with the luxury of the deep leather seats, combined to hold her snugly in place, even when the car veered abruptly to the right. She just had time to see the road sign before suburban darkness swallowed them up again, and what she read on it had her turning ashen-faced to the man seated next to her.
‘This isn’t the way to Melisande’s! It said on that signpost, M4, Bath and South Wales.’
‘So it did,’ Simon Herries agreed smoothly.
‘Well, aren’t you going to turn back?’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ India stared at him in disbelieving silence. ‘Because we’re going the wrong way, that’s why!’
‘Oh