His Rags-to-Riches Bride. Susan Stephens
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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, and could surely dictate his own terms. It made no sense for him to opt merely for this fairly ordinary two-bedroomed job.
She bit her lip. But then Daniel’s motives for doing anything would always be a mystery. And she really had to remember that this was none of her business, anyway.
He was here, and he obviously intended to stay, so her reluctant task was to establish some kind of working neutrality. And speculation would simply cloud the issue.
Besides, if she didn’t ask any questions she could free herself from any obligation to answer them either.
And maybe the whole wretched subject of the marriage that never was could be finally laid to rest.
Maybe.
Could it really—ever—be that simple? she wondered. And told herself that her eyes were suddenly blurred because she was chopping onions. No other reason could be permitted—or even be possible.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WASN’T an expensive wine. Neither Jamie nor she had aspired to acquiring a vintage collection, even if they could have afforded it. But it was chilled and crisp, and it soothed the dryness of her throat as Laine, curled up in a corner of the sofa, waited for Daniel’s return.
He’d said two hours, but it was now over three. That was, of course, if he planned to return at all. Because it had occurred to her that maybe he’d decided that sharing a roof with her wasn’t worth the hassle, and that he was, even at that moment, arranging alternative accommodation somewhere as far away from her as possible.
Which, in the short term, would solve some of her problems, but inevitably create others in their place.
Practically, she could not afford to occupy the flat alone—unlike Jamie, who’d always earned a much larger salary than she’d done, or at least while he’d still been working at Cowper Dymond.
And right now she couldn’t actually afford to live in the place at all, she reminded herself unhappily. Thankfully, there was no mortgage to pay, but there were plenty of other bills looming large on the horizon, and if she didn’t start earning at once she was going to find herself in real difficulty.
She sighed. As she’d headed home the flat had seemed like a safe refuge. But then investing in Andy’s boat had also appeared to be a good deal.
And there had even been a time when the prospect of becoming Daniel’s wife had been the answer to her prayers—the fulfilment of her most treasured hopes and dreams.
Oh, God, she thought with sudden anguish, the muscles tightening in her throat. How wrong is it possible to be in one short lifetime?
The sound of his key in the door brought her sharply back to the here and now. She leaned back against the cushions, trying to look perfectly relaxed, but realised at the same time that she was clinging to the stem of her glass as if it was a lifeline.
‘Hi.’ She forced a smile as he came in, attempting the nonchalant approach, as if she was quite accustomed to his returning from the office for dinner. As she would have been, of course, if their marriage had ever become a reality.
Don’t think like that—even for a moment. Don’t go there.
‘Good evening.’ He halted for a moment, studying her, his brows raised sardonically. ‘I was quite expecting to find you’d barricaded yourself in during my absence.’
She shrugged, pretending ruefulness. ‘The furniture was just too heavy for me to move.’ She paused. ‘Besides, I talked to Jamie. Found out what had happened.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe he could be such an utter fool.’
‘Isn’t that rather naïve of you—considering his past record?’ Daniel tossed the jacket he was carrying over the back of a chair and loosened his tie, before walking over to one of the shelved alcoves which flanked the fireplace and pouring himself a whisky from the tray of decanters which stood there.
He came back, dropping loose-limbed onto the sofa opposite, and for one sharp, unwary moment she felt the breath catch in her throat.
Hurriedly, she pulled herself together. ‘Well—perhaps. But I thought he’d outgrown that—unruly phase. Got his act together.’
‘Well, he now has a chance to do exactly that,’ he said. ‘Perhaps this girl of his can keep him straight. If not, he’s on his own next time.’
‘You think there’ll be one—after this?’
It was his turn to shrug. ‘Who knows? Maybe it isn’t simply a phase, as you put it, but an extra helping of the Sinclair wild streak and impossible to remove, even with surgery.’
She stared at him. ‘What are you talking about? What—streak?’
‘This overweening impulse to go looking for danger.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Simon had it too, remember?’
‘I remember nothing of the kind,’ Laine said curtly.
‘No? Then what took him back to those bloody mountains time after time, constantly pushing himself to go higher—faster—than anyone else?’ His voice was harsh. ‘And what the hell possessed him to go on that last trip—when everyone tried to talk him out of it?’
She stared down at the pale gold of her wine, her throat tightening. ‘I don’t know,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’ve never known.’
‘Exactly,’ he said.
Her gaze met his with swift defiance. ‘Well, please don’t include me in this absurd generalisation about my family. I certainly don’t go looking for trouble.’
‘But you seem to find it, all the same,’ he said unanswerably. ‘How’s the ankle?’
‘Better,’ she returned. ‘I found some more bandages in the bathroom cupboard and strapped it up again, all ready for my trek to the job centre tomorrow.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Daniel said smoothly. ‘And you appear to have been busy in other ways.’ He glanced towards the kitchen. ‘Something smells good.’
‘You cleared Jamie’s room for me, so I’ve cooked dinner for you.’ She paused. ‘Chicken puttanesca. I hope you like it.’
‘Thank you, but sadly we’ll never know.’ There was no trace of regret in his tone. ‘I’m going out tonight. I merely came back to change.’
‘Hot date?’ She kept her voice light, faintly amused, ignoring the ludicrous, unreasoning disappointment that speared her.
‘Is there any other kind?’
‘Serious?’
He swallowed some of his whisky, watching her steadily. ‘Is that really any of your business?’
‘Well, yes, in a way,’ Laine countered. ‘I just wonder—if the pair of you are an item—why you don’t move in with the lady instead of living here? It would seem to make more sense—that’s all.’
His glance was cynical. ‘It’s not that serious.’
‘Poor girl.’
‘She can take care of herself,’ he returned curtly. ‘Speaking of which, this could be a good