His Rags-to-Riches Bride: Innocent on Her Wedding Night / Housekeeper at His Beck and Call / The Australian's Housekeeper Bride. Susan Stephens
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on refolding some swimming shorts.
His lips twitched. ‘Now, that,’ he said solemnly, ‘might depend on your point of view. And I’m sure Dan has no complaints.’
There was a stone lodged in her chest. ‘Is he going to marry her?’
He burst out laughing. ‘Good God, no. Our Daniel is definitely not the marrying kind. I can’t see him ever allowing a wife to cramp his style. And this holiday is all strictly casual.’
He studied her for a moment. ‘One day you’ll have boyfriends of your own, Lainie, and then you’ll understand that not all relationships need to be serious.’
He walked over to her and hugged her. ‘Congratulations on getting into Randalls, by the way. It’s just what you need, and you’ll do well there. Things are looking up for you, scrap.’
Were they? Laine wondered as she trailed along the landing. Then why did she feel that the sunlit day had suddenly become dull and full of clouds?
She decided not to go downstairs again, but sought her own bedroom instead, curling up on her favourite window seat and leaning her forehead listlessly against the glass panes.
She kept seeing the way that girl’s hand had touched Daniel’s arm, the pink-tipped fingers stroking his tanned skin. How her body had seemed to curve into his, as if they were part of each other.
There’d been sex education at her school, and she wasn’t sure what she’d hated most—her form teacher’s brisk resumé of the physical facts, or the sniggering crudities exchanged in the playground by her classmates.
Suddenly she felt unhappily that those few awkward moments in the hall had taught her far more about what happened between a man and a woman—and that it was a lesson she could have well done without.
And, although she did not realise it until much later, that revelation marked the end of her childhood.
Not the marrying kind … Nine years further on, Simon’s prophetic words seemed to resound in her brain, and she shook her head impatiently, trying to block them out.
It was time she stopped tormenting herself like this, she thought. What point was there in going back to the past, when it was the present and the future that were going to cause her the real problems?
She stood, looking around the kitchen as if she’d never seen it before.
It was incredibly neat, and immaculately clean, with none of the cheerful clutter that a keen cook might accumulate. The only other change she noticed was the addition of a state-of-the-art coffee machine, which Daniel clearly must save for dinner party use, because she’d only rated a mug of instant.
Oh, get over yourself, she adjured herself impatiently, her mouth twisting. You’re hungry. That’s what’s the matter with you, my girl. Your metabolism’s low, and your spirits are down to match.
You can get through this—but not by turning a drama into a tragedy.
You need to play it cool from now on. Make it clear that now you’ve recovered from the initial surprise of seeing him you can deal with it in a civilised way. And that you are grown up.
Because none of it matters any more. It can’t be allowed to matter, if you’re to retain your grip on your sanity. And if you make too big a fuss you could give him the impression that you still care.
She shivered, her hands balling into fists at her side.
She said aloud, ‘Nothing lasts for ever, and this—situation, too, will pass. It’s just a temporary thing.’
And maybe Jamie’s advice was sound, for once, and a small gesture of reconciliation was called for. So—she would prepare a meal for them both.
At the same time she wanted to prove to him, even in a small way, that she was not the lightweight he seemed to imagine, and that her time on the boat had not been a pleasure cruise, but hard graft.
If nothing else, at least she might gain a modicum of respect.
There was little enough in the freezer, but she retrieved a pack of chicken portions and defrosted them in the microwave. She found onions and garlic in the vegetable rack, and jars of capers and black olives, along with tinned tomatoes and dried pasta in the storage cupboard, and began her preparations.
This is what it might have been like, she thought suddenly, if we’d had a real marriage. I’d have been making dinner just like this, while I waited for him to come home.
Then jeered at herself for her own sentimentality. Their first home together would have been the penthouse in the glamorous apartment block which Daniel had already occupied, which had its own restaurant, with a delivery service. She wouldn’t have been expected to lift a finger. And when they’d eventually set up house, that would have come with a full complement of staff too. Something that would no doubt apply to the house he’d just bought.
She found herself wondering a little wistfully what had happened to the penthouse, recalling how she’d roamed around it open-mouthed the first and only time he’d taken her to see it.
She remembered the sofas like thistledown, the Persian rugs that gleamed like jewels from the vast expanse of polished floor in the living area. She thought of the gleaming bathroom, tiled in a magically misty sea-green, with its enormous tub and the equally spacious shower cabinet. Big enough, she’d told him rapturously, to hold a party in, and had seen his lips twitch.
And most of all she remembered the bedroom. How she’d stood in the doorway, not daring to venture further, and stared speechlessly at the huge bed with its gold silk cover, her mind going into overdrive as the actual implications of being Daniel’s wife came home to her as never before.
Because, up to then, physical contact between them during their brief engagement had been almost minimal, she’d realised with bewilderment. He’d held her after—after Simon, but that had been to comfort her. And he’d kissed her when she’d said she’d marry him. There’d been other kisses since—of course there had—but they’d invariably been light—even teasing. Yet she’d found them intensely disturbing nonetheless.
At no time, however, had there been any real pressure from him to change their relationship to a more intimate level. And, in spite of her happiness and longing, she’d been too shy of him, and too conscious of her own inexperience, to initiate any deeper involvement herself.
It had suddenly occurred to her that they were completely alone together, without fear of interruption, and she was sharply, achingly, aware of him standing just behind her.
Her body had tingled as she’d felt the warmth of his nearness, the stir of his breath on her neck, and she’d wished—desperately—crazily—that he’d turn her into his arms and kiss her with passion and desire, as he’d done so often in her imagination. And that he’d lift her and carry her over to the bed, silencing all her doubts and uncertainties for ever as he made love to her.
Maybe that was why he’d brought her there? Because he didn’t want to wait any longer. He wanted all of her. Everything she had to give.
And maybe he was only waiting for some sign from her.
She had half turned towards him when she realised just in time that he was moving, stepping backwards away from her. He’d said quietly, almost casually, as he glanced at his watch, ‘We should be going.’ He’d paused. ‘If there’s anything about the décor you want to change, you only have to say so.’
And, wrenched by something deeper than disappointment, she’d stammered something inane about the flat being beautiful—perfect. That she wouldn’t want to alter a thing.
She supposed he must have sold it at some point after their separation, but why hadn’t he acquired something similar—with its own gym, swimming pool and every other convenience known to the mind of man—instead of slumming it here?
So he didn’t want to be tied into a long lease? But Daniel Sinclair was a multimillionaire,