“You’re assuming that I share your wish for a divorce,” said Nicholas.

“You can’t wish to stay married to someone who—who won’t live with you.” Cally said, slowly and unsteadily.

“Of course not.” He sounded almost brisk. “Naturally I want a wife who’ll share my home and my bed.”

He smiled at her, his eyes touching her—stripping her, she realized, as her heart began to flutter in panic.

“In fact, I want you, my sweet,” he added softly. “Because you stood beside me in church and made certain vows. I remember it perfectly. You were wearing a white dress with a lot of little buttons down the front of it. Frankly, I was fantasizing about undoing them all—with my teeth,” he added, with a kind of sensuous reminiscence that made her shiver.

“Now, at last, I want those vows fulfilled, and I really think, my sweet, that I’ve waited long enough. Even you must agree that our wedding night is long overdue….”

Legally wed,

but he’s never said…

“I love you.”

They’re…

The series where marriages are made in haste…and love comes later….

Look out for more WEDLOCKED! wedding stories available only from Harlequin Presents®

Look out for the next book in this miniseries:

The Antonides Marriage Deal

by Anne McAllister

#2533

His Wedding-Night Heir
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Endpage

CHAPTER ONE

SHE was running. Forcing herself onwards down a long straight road, where flanking trees threw grotesque shadows in front of her. Shadows that she did not want to enter. Her breath tore at her lungs, and her legs ached, but she could not stop. And dared not look behind.

Must keep going. Need to move on. The words beat a rhythm in her brain. Have to run. Have to…

Cally Maitland sat up, gasping, her body damp with perspiration, as the sudden shrill of the alarm clock invaded her subconscious and brought her with shocking suddenness to the reality of a new day. She reached out a shaking hand and silenced the noise, then sank back against her pillow, trying to clear her head.

My God, she thought. What was all that about?

But of course she already knew. Because she’d had that dream before. Several times.

The sun was pouring into the room through a gap in the shabby curtains, and it was clearly a beautiful May day. But Cally felt a chill in the air, and wrapped her arms round her body with a faint shiver.

She said softly, half under her breath, ‘It is—definitely—time to go.’

She pushed back the thin quilt and got out of bed, running her fingers through her tousled light brown hair, smoothing it into its usual shoulder-length bob. That was one thing she had refused to economise on—her monthly trip to the best hairdresser in town.

There were shadows under her long-lashed hazel eyes, she realised, giving herself a swift, critical glance in the mirror, and the flowered cotton pyjamas she’d bought from a market stall covered her slim body without grace.

She felt, she recognised with bewilderment, like a stranger in her own skin. A being totally alien to the cherished, pampered girl she’d been eighteen months ago. That girl had vanished for ever.

Her mouth tightened with sudden bleakness. But there was no time to linger feeling sorry for herself, she thought, squaring her shoulders. Kit had phoned the previous evening to call an emergency breakfast meeting at the Children’s Centre, and she couldn’t be late.

She collected clean underwear, and one of the plain grey skirts and cream blouses that formed her working gear, and headed for the small dank shower room which had been created in a corner of the attic room she inhabited.

The landlord had thrown up cheap plywood partitions to divide the living space from the sleeping area, and pushed together a rudimentary kitchen with a sink and a gas stove in an alcove. He felt that entitled him to christen the whole thing a flat, but it was still nothing more than a draughty bedsit.

To call it adequate would pay it an undeserved compliment, Cally thought, grimacing over the fact that her towel was still damp from the day before.

It was not the kind of accommodation she had ever envisaged for herself. But it was just affordable, and it was also the last place on earth where anyone would think to look for her, and that was its major—its sole—attraction for her as far as she was concerned.

Still she would bid it goodbye without a moment’s regret.

Although she couldn’t say the same for Wellingford itself, oddly enough.

She’d chosen it for the same reasons she’d picked the flat. It was a small, nondescript market town beside an unexciting river. A neutral background that she could disappear into. Somewhere to provide her with breathing space to think and consider her long-term future.

She had not expected to like it, of course, Cally thought, trying to coax hot water out of the reluctant shower. She had certainly not anticipated being happy here either, yet somehow, against all the odds, she’d achieved a measure of both.

There were times when she’d almost managed to forget her reasons for being there. Almost, but not quite.

And now it was time to leave, she told herself. She’d already stayed more than a month over her allotted time, and she simply couldn’t risk remaining any longer. Otherwise she might start to feel at home, and that was dangerous. She needed to keep moving. To cover her tracks.

Although there was no actual proof that this was necessary, she reminded herself. No evidence of any attempt to trace her, as she’d feared. She could well be panicking unduly. Yet some gut instinct—some sense of self-preservation—seemed to be warning her again. Otherwise, why the dreams?

In any case, there were valid, practical reasons for her to leave Wellingford.

For one thing, the job she’d enjoyed so much no longer existed, and at the end of the week she would receive her final wage packet from the Hartley family. Who would begrudge her every penny of it.

She sighed as she cleaned her teeth. She could still hardly believe that Genevieve Hartley was dead. She’d seemed indomitable—eternal. Even now, six weeks later, Cally half expected to see the large car draw up at the end of Gunners Wharf and Mrs Hartley’s small, silver-haired figure alight.

Riding to our rescue, Cally thought grimacing. Except it was far too late for that.

I hope the dead can’t see the living, she told herself with sudden fierceness. I hope Mrs Hartley doesn’t know what her ghastly sons and their expensive wives did to her dream for Gunners Wharf even before she was cold in her grave. All those hopes and plans and hard work just swept away. All those people suddenly discovering they needed somewhere else to live.

It shouldn’t have happened, of course. Mrs Hartley’s intentions had been very different. She’d meant the Gunners Wharf project to survive and thrive even when she was no longer there to supervise it. She’d been to see her lawyers, to draw up the necessary adjustments to her will, only to succumb to a sudden devastating heart attack before the all-important document could be signed.

Even so, the residents had all hoped that her wishes would be respected. She’d made them clear enough even to her resentful children.

So they’d collected for a wreath, and attended the funeral to demonstrate their affection and respect for the woman who’d encouraged their visions, only to find themselves totally ignored by the family, their presence unnecessary and embarrassing.

A bad omen, Cally had thought at the time, unease twisting inside her.

And her premonition had been quite correct.

Within two weeks all the tenants had received notice to quit, and Gunners Wharf had been sold for redevelopment. They’d protested, naturally, but legally, they’d been told, they didn’t have a leg to stand on. Their leases had been privately agreed with Mrs Hartley, and the rents kept deliberately, unrealistically low.

But there’d been nothing in writing, and her sudden death had prevented her from regularising their position in law.

Besides, it had been added, in a final blow to their hopes, most of the houses were still waiting to be renovated, and could well be deemed unfit for human habitation.

As she put on her clothes Cally tasted the acid of tears in her throat, and swallowed them back. She’d become genuinely fond of Genevieve Hartley, and her death had been a personal blow, quite apart from all the other ramifications.

On the other hand, the abandonment of the Gunners Wharf housing project would give Cally a personal release.

I always knew my time here was limited, she reminded herself, applying moisturiser to her pale skin. But I thought I’d be the first to leave.

Once again someone she loved had been suddenly and tragically taken away from her. And once again she was left floundering in a kind of limbo.

Genevieve Hartley had been almost the first person Cally had met when she’d arrived in Wellingford.

She’d been sitting in the bus station buffet, drinking coffee while she looked through the small ads in the local weekly paper, scanning them for job opportunities and room rentals, when she’d spotted the last entry in the ‘Situations Vacant’ column.

‘Administrative assistant required for housing project with Children’s Centre,’ she’d read. ‘Enthusiastic and computer literate. Able to work on own initiative.’ Followed by a telephone number.

Less than an hour later she’d been in Mrs Hartley’s elegant drawing room, being interviewed.

She’d been unfazed to find that her future employer was a chic elderly woman with steely blue eyes and an autocratic manner. She was used to ageing despots. In fact, she’d spent most of her life with one, she thought ruefully. So Mrs Hartley’s brisk, searching interrogation had come as no real shock.

Cally had sat composedly, answering the older woman’s questions with quiet candour.

Yes, she had references, but mainly for waitressing and shop work. She’d been taking a kind of gap year, she’d added, mentally crossing her fingers, travelling around and working at whatever jobs offered themselves.

‘But you have worked with computers?’ Genevieve Hartley poured China tea into thin porcelain cups. ‘I need someone who can do word processing, keep records and oversee the on-going renovation scheme. Also act as liaison between the builders, the tenants and the Town Hall.’ She paused with a faint smile. ‘My tenants at Gunners Wharf have not had easy starts in life, and this has made them wary, so sometimes the situation can become—shall we say volatile? I’m looking for someone who can sort out any snags before they become real difficulties.’

Cally hesitated. ‘I took computer studies during my last year at school.’

‘Which school was that?’

Cally told her, and the plucked brows rose. ‘Indeed?’ said Genevieve Hartley. ‘Then I suggest a fortnight’s trial on both sides. After all,’ she added drily, ‘you might find some of the tenants rather too much of a problem.’

I’d find not eating a much greater one, Cally thought wryly. Thought it but did not say it.

‘In addition to the administrative work you’ll be asked to take your turn at the Children’s Centre, particularly helping out in the coffee bar.’ She gave Cally an unexpectedly sweet smile. ‘So your past experience could be useful, my dear.’

The money Mrs Hartley had offered was reasonable, but not lavish. It had enabled Cally to live, yet hadn’t encouraged her to put down roots. Which was exactly what she needed.

In time, when she was entirely free of her former life, she would find a home, and a career. Until then she would continue to be a nomad, because it was safer that way.

Tonight, she thought, adding a muted lustre to her lips, she would get out her map book and decide where to go next.

The river might sparkle in the sunshine, but the brightness did no favours to the dilapidated warehouses and crumbling sheds along Gunners Wharf itself.

In many ways redevelopment was exactly what was needed for the entire area, Cally conceded reluctantly as she walked down to the Centre, where the admin office was based. But why did it have to happen at the expense of the housing scheme? Why couldn’t they have existed side by side?

Here, in the back street running parallel to the wharf, nearly half the properties had already been restored, with new windows and roofs, freshly pointed brickwork and gleaming paint. A lot of the work had been done by the tenants themselves, as an act of faith—an investment in a future that had now been taken from them, she thought bleakly.

Mrs Hartley had provided the Children’s Centre at her own expense, patiently providing funds to meet every new Health and Safety regulation that the local council could throw at them. It was no secret that it had cost her a small fortune, and maybe this was what her sons had resented so much. Because it was also known that Hartleys department store, like many other High Street shops, had been struggling for a couple of years, and needed a cash injection.

Well, they certainly had it now, Cally thought, biting her lip. The sale had gone through so fast that they must have had a string of potential buyers already lined up. While the single mothers and families in badly paid work they were turning out would struggle to find alternative housing that they could afford.

She sighed. But, as her grandfather had always said, one man’s gain was another’s loss. And the whole scheme had been living on borrowed time anyway.

‘Cally.’ A girl’s voice broke across her reverie, and she turned to see Tracy approaching, pushing her baby buggy over the dilapidated pavement. ‘Cally—what’s this meeting about? Do you know? Has Kit said anything?’

Cally stifled a sigh, and pulled a silly face at the baby in the pushchair, an act rewarded by a lopsided grin.

‘Not a thing,’ she responded briskly. ‘But we don’t live in each other’s pockets, you know.’

She’d said it before so often, but no one seemed to take her denials seriously. Kit Matlock was the director of the Centre, and the man with whom she worked most closely. They were both, on the face of it, single, so assumptions were made.

Nor could Cally deny that, before the recent bombshell, Kit had been making it clear he’d like to shift their professional relationship to a more personal level—which was, in itself, another excellent reason for moving away.

Not that she disliked him. How could she? He was attractive, pleasant, and endearingly short on temperament. But they were not an item, and never would be. And Cally had resolutely made excuse after excuse to refuse his invitations.

Their most intimate involvement to date had only been the sharing of sandwiches and coffee at lunchtime, in her small, crowded office at the rear of the Centre. And that was as far as it would ever go.

Because, she told herself, I don’t cheat.

‘Oh,’ Tracy said, obviously disappointed. ‘I thought maybe he’d found a loophole in the law or something. And obviously he’d tell you first.’

Cally buried her bare hands in the pockets of her black jacket and forced a smile. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Tracy—honestly. Kit’s a lovely guy, but I’m moving on very soon. I’ve been offered another job—in London,’ she added with sudden inspiration.

Tracy stared at her, woebegone. ‘You’re leaving?’

‘I have to. Technically, I’m unemployed, so I need to find work pretty urgently.’ Kit too, she thought.

Tracy groaned. ‘It’s all falling apart,’ she said dismally.

Cally felt intensely sorry for her. Tracy’s house had been one of the first in the terrace to be overhauled. There had been serious damp in the upstairs rooms, and little Brad had been seeing a local doctor with non-stop chest complaints. Now he was well enough to use the Centre, and Tracy had found part-time work as a supermarket checkout assistant. Things had been looking up for both of them. Now the coin was in the air again.

Most of the others were already there, hunched awkwardly on miniature chairs in the playroom, drinking coffee and nibbling half-heartedly on the Danish pastries Kit had brought.

The air of gloom was almost tangible as he stood up. ‘Sorry to drag you here so early, everyone. I asked for this meeting because, thanks to Leila, we now know who’s bought Gunners Wharf.’

There was a murmur of surprise. ‘How did you manage that?’ someone asked.

Leila looked round with open complacency. ‘My mum’s next door neighbour works in the planning department at the Town Hall. The company’s called Eastern Crest Developments, and they’re going to be in town the day after tomorrow. Roy says they’re putting on an exhibition at the Town Hall to show how they’re going to redevelop Gunners Wharf with the Council.’ She nodded. ‘So this is our chance.’

‘To do what?’ Cally asked.

‘To show them they can’t just walk all over us,’ Leila informed her triumphantly. ‘I say we picket the Town Hall. Carry banners saying “Save our Homes” and “Hands off Gunners Wharf”. Chain ourselves to the railings if necessary.’

Cally groaned inwardly. ‘Why stop there?’ she said. ‘Why not march down the High Street and put a brick through Hartleys’ windows?’

Leila’s eyes widened. ‘Hey, that’s not a bad idea.’

‘You’re right,’ Cally said shortly. ‘It’s more than bad. It’s appalling—and illegal as well.’

‘Well,’ Leila said defiantly, ‘so is what they’ve done to us.’

‘I was going to suggest a slightly softer approach,’ said Kit. ‘Why don’t a few of us go to the exhibition and actually talk to the developers? See if their scheme couldn’t be adapted somehow to include Gunners Terrace. Suggest it could show the human side of big business. After all, they may not even know we exist down here. I bet the Hartleys won’t have mentioned it during negotiations,’ he added grimly.

There were a couple of upturned noses. ‘I’ve heard it’s all going to be yuppie flats and designer boutiques,’ someone said. ‘They won’t want the likes of us making the place look untidy.’

‘And won’t this Town Hall thing be invitation only?’ another voice asked.

‘Well, Roy could get us the invites,’ said Leila.

‘And it has to be worth a try, surely?’ added Tracy.

Kit gave her a warm smile. ‘I certainly think so.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you should be part of the deputation, with Cally and myself.’

‘Just three?’ Leila queried with a touch of belligerence.

‘I think small could be beautiful under the circumstances,’ Kit said smoothly. ‘No use going in mob-handed. That could be seen as aggressive, and we want a discussion, not a confrontation.’ He paused. ‘Of course we’ll be relying on you for the entry passes.’

There was a silence while Leila weighed her own disgruntlement against the good of the Gunners Terrace community as a whole. At last, ‘Not a problem,’ she said grudgingly, and there was a collective sigh of relief.

‘Is it really necessary for me to go?’ Cally asked later, when she and Kit were momentarily alone.

Kit shrugged. ‘If we manage to talk to Eastern Crest’s big bosses, it would be useful to have an accurate note of what’s said.’

‘Tracy could do that.’

He shook his head. ‘Tracy gets flustered, and she’s too involved to be objective anyway. She’ll hear what she wants to hear. Besides, she’s there for the sympathy vote,’ he added, grimacing slightly. ‘Pretty blonde single mother, whose baby used to be always ailing. That might tug at their hard heartstrings.’

‘Good PR—if slightly callous.’ Cally doodled aimlessly with a pencil. ‘What do you think the chances are?’

‘Of getting them to listen? Pretty good—especially without Leila threatening to kneecap them. Overall?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not hopeful. Major property companies are moneymakers, after all, not social workers.’

‘Yes,’ Cally said quietly. ‘They’re generally not famous for their humanitarian qualities. They tend to have their own agenda.’

‘Therefore,’ Kit went on, ‘we need to present our case in an articulate and reasonable way—and pray like hell.’ He paused. ‘Of course, what we really need is a deus ex machina—another rich philanthropist to make a counter-offer and save us all at the eleventh hour.’ He grinned at her. ‘Got many millionaires in your address book?’

The pencil snapped suddenly in her fingers. ‘No,’ she said, her voice faintly hoarse. ‘Not many.’

‘Nor me,’ he acknowledged ruefully, and was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant. ‘After the meeting, we could maybe have some dinner—at that Italian place in the High Street. What do you think?’

‘Fine by me,’ Cally agreed. ‘But you’d better warn Tracy to get a babysitter,’ she added disingenuously. ‘It will do her good to get out for the evening.’

Kit’s face fell a little, but he knew better than to argue.

When she was by herself again, Cally wondered whether that would have been a good time to tell him she was leaving—if he hadn’t guessed already. After all, the Hartleys must have him under notice too, although they’d reluctantly agreed to let the Children’s Centre remain open for the time being.

They’re thinking of nasty stories appearing in the local paper, Cally thought. Television cameras filming weeping children in pushchairs. The kind of publicity one’s friendly local department store needs like a hole in the head.

The kids’ parents, of course, were a different matter. Not everyone had the same concern for the disadvantaged as Genevieve Hartley had had, or tried to do anything about it. They’d be counting on that.

And the Gunners Terrace residents, once they were made homeless, would qualify for council housing anyway. That would be their argument, so how many people would really care if a small, struggling would-be community fell by the wayside?

But Cally knew that real pride, real spirit was being engendered in this tiny part of town, where those qualities had long been absent. And that it mattered. But it would soon wane once the families were dispersed, as seemed inevitable.

They deserve to survive, she told herself with sudden angry passion. They don’t need another defeat. If only—only—there was something I could do…

But there could have been—once, a sly voice in her head reminded her. If you’d chosen another kind of life. If you hadn’t run away. You might have made all the difference.

For a moment she was motionless, staring into the distance with eyes that saw nothing but pain.

She said under her breath, ‘But I made the right—the only possible choice. I know that.’ And dropped the broken pencil into the wastepaper basket.

She had no smart clothes, so she opted for another version of her working gear for their visit to the Town Hall.

The exhibition, which included a video presentation as well as a scale model of the development, was being staged in the conference hall—which hadn’t seen many conferences, but was useful for antiques fairs and craft markets. Also for the flower show in its usual inclement weather.

The Mayor and his entourage were clearly preening themselves because the place was living up to its grandiose title at last.

There were a lot of people present, most of them clustered around the tables where the scale model was set up, and the remainder hovering near the lavish buffet.

Waiters were going round with trays of champagne and heavy platters loaded with canapés, presumably all with the compliments of Eastern Crest. How to win friends and influence people, Cally thought cynically as she stood with Kit and Tracy, wondering whom they should approach.

But in the end the decision was made for them when they found themselves caught in a pincer movement by Gordon Hartley and his younger brother Neville, their faces flushed and inimical as they strode across the room.

‘I wasn’t aware anyone had asked you here.’ Gordon addressed Kit, ignoring the two girls completely. ‘I’d like you to leave—now.’

Kit held up three invitation cards. ‘Someone clearly has a different idea,’ he returned coolly. ‘I thought we should see what we’re up against.’

‘You’re up against nothing,’ Neville chimed in. ‘You’ve already lost, so what’s the point in coming here, making fools of yourselves? Our mother may have looked on you all as an act of charity, but we don’t.’

‘All the same.’ Kit was undeterred. ‘We’d like to have a look at the proposed development, and maybe speak to whoever’s in charge at Eastern Crest.’

Cally found herself admiring his calmness. His refusal to be rattled. He had ‘We shall not be moved’ written all over him, in spite of the hostility he was faced with.

Goodness, she thought, if Leila had come she’d have bitten someone in the leg by now.

‘Then you’re really out of luck.’ Gordon was speaking again, his tone curt, pushing his weight forward threateningly. ‘Because the chairman himself is hosting tonight’s presentation, and he plays in the big league. Get out now, before you become a laughing stock or he has you removed.’

The brothers’ raised voices were attracting attention, Cally realised, with embarrassment. Curious glances from all over the room were coming their way, and even some of the crowd round the model were turning their heads to look.

She realised that she wasn’t just uncomfortable, she’d actually begun to tremble inside. Even begun to be afraid in some obscure but compelling way.

We shouldn’t be here, she thought, swallowing. We may have invitations, but there’ll be an official guest list somewhere, and we’re still gatecrashers.

She touched Kit’s sleeve. ‘Listen,’ she began, ‘maybe we should…’

But the sentence was never completed. Because she was suddenly aware that a hush had fallen. That someone was making his way across the room towards them between groups of people that obediently fell back at his approach.

A tall man, she saw, with a thin tanned face under fashionably dishevelled hair, dark as a raven’s wing. A face marked by high cheekbones, a nose and chin almost arrogant in their strength, a mouth tough and unsmiling. And totally unforgettable.

The muscularity of his broad-shouldered, lean-hipped body was emphasised by the elegance of his designer suit as he strode towards them with powerful, determined grace, purpose in his every line.

He was someone, she realised, the breath catching in her throat, that she knew. Whose reappearance in her life she’d been dreading for over a year. And who was here now, almost within touching distance, when there was no time to run or place to go.

All she could do was stand her ground and pray to whatever unseen deity protected fugitives.

But as his eyes, grey and deep as a winter ocean, met hers, Cally felt the measure of his glance in the marrow of her bones, and knew that her escape had only been an illusion all along.

‘Good evening.’ The cool, crisp voice was like ice on her skin. ‘Is there some problem?’

A game, Cally thought numbly. He was playing a game, with rules that he’d invented. But no one knew it but herself.

‘A few troublemakers have got in, Sir Nicholas,’ Neville Hartley said swiftly. ‘But we’re dealing with them. So if you’d like to go back to your guests…’

‘Presently,’ the newcomer said quietly. He looked at Kit. ‘May I know who you are?’

Kit cleared his throat. ‘I’m Christopher Matlock, and I run the Children’s Centre, and the Residents’ Association down at Gunners Wharf. We face eviction because of your development, but I’m still hoping some compromise can be reached, and that you might spare me some time to discuss the matter.’

‘Ah, yes.’ The other man nodded. ‘This has been mentioned to me.’ He turned to Tracy, whose face had been blotched with nerves ever since their arrival. ‘And this is?’ His smile held a swift charm that softened the hardness of his face.

‘Tracy—Tracy Andrews,’ Kit said quickly, seeing that she was beyond speech. ‘One of the residents.’ He turned to Cally. ‘And this is my administrative assistant.’

‘Oh, but we need no introduction,’ the new arrival said with cold mockery. ‘Do we, Caroline, my love?’

Before she could move he took one long step towards her, capturing her chin in his long fingers. He bent his head, and for a brief, hideous second Cally felt the sear of his mouth on hers.

He straightened, his lips twisting. ‘They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I wonder if that’s true. Because you don’t seem very pleased to see me.’

‘Cally?’ Kit was staring at her, lips parted in shock. ‘You know this man?’

‘Yes.’ She forced her lips to move to make the necessary sounds. ‘His name is Nicholas Tempest.’

‘I’m the chairman of Eastern Crest.’ His smile did not reach his eyes. The gaze that held hers was a challenge, and a warning. ‘Now, tell him the rest, darling.’

And from some far, terrible distance, she heard herself say, with a kind of empty helplessness, ‘He’s my husband.’

CHAPTER TWO

THERE was a moment when she thought she might faint. When she would have welcomed the temporary surcease to this intolerable moment that unconsciousness would provide.

But she wasn’t that lucky.

Instead she heard Nick drawl, ‘Will someone fetch a chair for my wife? She’s had a shock.’

It was exactly the challenge she needed. I am not—not—going to fall apart, she told herself, her body stiffening. At least not now.

She made her tone crisp. ‘Thank you, but I’m perfectly all right.’

She turned to Kit, who was looking poleaxed, while Tracy was standing with her mouth open and her eyes out on stalks.

‘But please get Tracy a drink,’ she added. ‘She really needs one.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think it’s best if I leave.’

‘Not yet, darling.’ Nick’s voice was silky, but the fingers that closed on her wrist felt like iron. ‘After all, you went to the trouble of seeking me out tonight. So why don’t you say what you came to say?’

Cally bit her lip. It was her left hand that he’d imprisoned. The hand that had once, for a few hours, worn his ring but was now bare—a fact, she could tell, that wasn’t lost on him.

She wanted to pull free, but feared an undignified struggle which she might lose. She said brusquely, ‘Kit’s our spokesman. Perhaps he could make an appointment to see you tomorrow.’

‘Unfortunately I shall be leaving after breakfast.’ He paused. ‘But I could spare you all some time later, when tonight’s presentation is over.’

‘But we’re going out for a meal.’ The champagne she was sipping seemed to have loosened Tracy’s tongue. ‘An Italian meal. My neighbour’s looking after the baby,’ she added, beaming.

‘Then why don’t I join you?’ Nick suggested, smoothly and unanswerably. ‘You can put forward your point of view over veal Marsala.’

Tracy stared at him. ‘But I was going to have lasagne.’

‘Then of course you shall.’ He was smiling again, using that charm of his like a weapon. Controlling the tense silence that had descended. ‘While you tell me all about Gunners Terrace.’

‘It was an idea of our late mother’s,’ Gordon Hartley butted in, almost desperately. ‘Sadly, she died while the scheme was in its infancy, so most of the houses are still untouched. They’re dangerous and insanitary, and they should be pulled down.’

In spite of her mental and emotional turmoil Cally managed to give him a steady look. ‘That isn’t altogether true, and you know it. Half the terrace has been completed, and work has started on the others.’

‘But we won’t talk about it here and now,’ Nick cut in decisively. He’d released Cally’s wrist, but the pressure of his fingers seemed to linger like a bruise. ‘I still have things to do, so we’ll have to postpone the discussion.’

‘There’s really nothing to talk about, Sir Nicholas,’ Neville Hartley blustered. ‘I think we’ve made the position quite clear already.’

‘One side of it, certainly,’ Nick agreed. He looked at Kit. ‘What’s the name of the restaurant you’re using?’

‘The Toscana,’ Kit muttered awkwardly. ‘In the High Street.’

Nick looked at his watch. ‘Then I’ll meet you there in an hour’s time.’ He paused. ‘All of you,’ he added softly, his gaze resting briefly on Cally. ‘I hope that’s clearly understood.’ Another swift, hard smile and he was gone, and the crowd seemed to close round him.

There was a taut silence, and Cally could see the Hartley brothers exchanging wary glances.

She could understand their problem, she thought wryly. Young Lady Tempest, wife of Eastern Crest’s dynamic chairman, would have been an honoured guest, overwhelmed with obsequious attention. Nick Tempest’s clearly estranged wife was a horse of a different colour, and they weren’t sure quite how to deal with her.

To be civil to someone who’d encouraged Genevieve Hartley in her reckless foolishness and battled with them openly after her death would be anathema, but neither could they throw her bodily into the street with her companions, as they obviously wished.

After all, Gunners Terrace was supposed to be down and out, just waiting for the bulldozers to arrive. Now the residents had an unsuspected ace up their sleeve, and for the moment the Hartleys didn’t have a strategy to deal with it.

In the end Neville Hartley said thickly, ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’ And they stalked furiously away.

‘Perhaps that should be our line,’ Cally called after them, her voice inimical.

Then suddenly the tension went out of her, and she was gasping as if she’d been winded.

Kit was staring at her as if she was a stranger. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘You are married—to him? It can’t be true.’

‘It’s perfectly true.’ Her voice was raw. ‘But not for much longer, I assure you. Once I’ve been separated from him—from Nick—for two years, divorce should be easy.’

‘Is that how he sees it?’ Kit asked sombrely.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You were the surprised one just now,’ he said. ‘If you ask me, your husband knew you were going to be here tonight, and he was waiting for you.’

‘He’s very dishy,’ Tracy said on a note of envy. ‘I wouldn’t mind him waiting for me.’

Cally gave a taut smile. ‘Well, at the restaurant you can have him all to yourself. I’ve had enough surprises for one day, and I’m going home.’

‘But you can’t,’ Kit said, dismayed. ‘You heard him. He’s willing to listen to what we have to say—something we hardly dared hope for. But it has to be all of us or it’ll be no dice. Cally, you can’t walk away—not when we actually have a chance to put our case.’

She looked down at the floor. ‘I think I’d be more likely to damage your cause than help it.’

I should have listened to that dream the other night, she thought. Accepted it as a warning and gone while the going was good. But I was too complacent. I let myself think that he’d have stopped searching by now—if he’d ever begun.

Unless, of course, this is all one sick coincidence. But somehow I don’t think so.

‘If you’re not with us, I don’t think we’ll have a cause,’ Kit told her grimly. ‘You can’t give up on it all now. Besides, what point would there be when he knows where you are?’

It was logical—it was reasonable—but it made the situation no easier to accept.

She said, ‘I can’t just—meet him socially. Too much has happened.’

‘Then look on it as a business meeting,’ Kit urged. ‘They say half the deals in the country are done in restaurants.’

She bent her head. ‘You really think he’s going to offer any concessions?’

‘Why not? He didn’t have to agree to talk to us. He could have insisted on seeing you alone. That’s a hopeful sign, isn’t it?’

‘Nick likes to manipulate people,’ she said. ‘And he always has his own agenda.’

‘Nevertheless,’ he said stubbornly, ‘it has to be worth a try.’ He paused, and his tone altered. ‘Cally—did you ever intend to tell me you were married?’

She gave him a straight look. ‘I didn’t plan to be around long enough for that to be necessary. Anyway, it’s not an episode I’m proud of. I’m just thankful it will soon be over and done with.’

‘Why’s he a sir?’ asked Tracy.

‘Because he’s a baronet. He inherited the title from a distant cousin.’

‘With loads of land and money?’ Tracy was clearly intrigued. ‘That’s dead romantic.’

‘Most of the land had been sold off,’ Cally said wearily. ‘And he was already a millionaire several times over. So all he really got was a rather rundown house.’

‘Was it love at first sight?’ Tracy persisted. ‘When you met him? I mean, you obviously fancied him enough to marry him.’

‘Actually,’ Cally said in a clear, bright voice, ‘it was just a business arrangement. Only I decided rather late in the day that I couldn’t go through with it after all. And I’d rather not talk about it any more either,’ she added.

Except that she almost certainly wouldn’t have a choice in the matter, she told herself, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray and swallowing some of it down her dry throat.

Because she was faced at last with the confrontation she’d have given anything to avoid.

She tried not to look—to see where Nick was in the busy room, or if he was alone. Particularly that. She strove hard not to wonder what he was thinking—or what he might have to say to her later. Because there was bound to be some kind of reckoning.

Even if he agreed that a quick and quiet divorce was the best way out of their situation—and as far as Cally was concerned there was no possible alternative—she was still unlikely to escape totally unscathed.

I left him with a lot of explaining to do, she told herself tautly. Made him look a fool. Something he’s unlikely to forgive or forget.

And now she would have to come up with an explanation for her headlong flight from him.

Not the truth, of course. That was locked away deep within her, and she would not go there. But something—anything—that would carry a modicum of conviction.

She put down her glass and with a murmured excuse went out of the room, down a flight of stone steps to the women’s cloakroom. She had it to herself, which she was grateful for, because one glance in the mirror told her that she looked as if she was running a temperature. Her eyes were feverishly bright, and there was a hectic flush along her cheekbones, so the last thing she wanted was for someone to ask if she was all right—especially if Nick was around to hear it.

I need to look cool, calm and collected, she told herself, as she ran the cold tap over the pounding pulses in her wrists and applied a damp tissue to her temples. I have to keep the emotional temperature low, no matter how difficult it may get later, because I can’t afford any sign of weakness.

And if they could only agree to conduct the eventual divorce in a rational, equable spirit, that would be a bonus.

She supposed divorce was the solution. She couldn’t imagine Nick accepting the annulment that represented the true state of affairs between them. Not good for his all-powerful male image, she thought wryly.

Although it would be her lack of sex appeal that would probably be blamed. What else could it be? Because, where women were concerned, Nick Tempest didn’t have to prove a thing.

Whereas she—she had little to offer. She was still too thin, she admitted, and under normal circumstances too pale. Her features were generally nondescript, with that thick, glossy fall of hair her only real claim to beauty. Although even that was brown. The whole picture was dull and duller, underlined by a blouse, skirt and jacket that didn’t hold a scrap of allure between them.

No change there, she thought, her mouth twisting.

The witnesses at their wedding must have imagined they were watching a peacock mate with an ugly duckling.

But then Nick hadn’t married her for her attractions, or her charm. He’d had his own reasons…as she’d finally discovered, she thought, tension lancing her as those hidden memories stirred again.

Not that it mattered, she told herself vehemently. It was all past and done with, and soon that would be a matter of law.

I want nothing from him, she thought, but my freedom. And surely that isn’t too much to ask? He should be glad to be rid of me at so little cost.

In these past strange months in limbo, she’d learned that she could earn sufficient to keep herself without luxuries. Once she was no longer running away, she could actually seek some training, prepare herself for a career. Life would open up in front of her.

And, however long it took, and however painful the process, she would learn to forget that for a few hours she’d been Nick Tempest’s convenient bride.

‘So you’re still here.’ Tracy came into the cloakroom. ‘Kit sent me to find you. I think he was getting worried in case you’d disappeared.’

‘No.’ Cally had managed to tone down the worst of her flush with powder. She produced her comb and started to smooth her hair. ‘I’m still around.’

‘Put some lippy on,’ Tracy suggested.

‘I haven’t brought any.’ It was a fib, but she hadn’t used it earlier, and there was no way she wanted to look as if she’d made any kind of effort. It was the kind of feminine detail that Nick would notice, she thought, with a pang.

‘Kit thinks we should go and have a quiet drink at the White Hart.’ Tracy went on. ‘Plan our tactics, he says.’ She gave Cally a straight look. ‘You don’t think there’s much point, do you?’

Cally put her comb in her bag. She said quietly, ‘I honestly don’t know. He could simply have refused to talk to us.’

‘Well, he’s your husband, so you should know,’ said Tracy. She added, ‘And it’s not really “us”, at all. It’s you—isn’t it?’ And her eyes met Cally’s with a question she was unable to answer.

By the time they reached the restaurant Cally was on tenterhooks, totally gripped by tension. The preliminary discussion in the pub hadn’t got very far, because Kit was clearly still upset about her concealed marriage and was prepared to be resentful, which she regretted.

She realised, to her shame, that she was hoping against hope that Nick would yield to the Hartleys’ blandishments and not turn up.

You’re supposed to be fighting for Gunners Terrace, she reproached herself silently. Balance that against an awkward hour or so in your ex-husband’s company, and get a grip.

But Nick was there before them, occupying a corner table—the best in the house, naturally—and accompanied by a fair, stocky man whom he introduced as Matthew Hendrick, the project architect.

Cally was so determined not to sit next to Nick that she found herself placed opposite him instead, which was hardly an improvement, she thought, biting her lip with vexation.

While the menus were handed round, the bread brought and the wine poured, she could feel Nick’s eyes on her in a cool assessment which she could not avoid and he did not even try to conceal.

She could only hope he was thanking his stars for a lucky escape, but her intuition warned her that she might be wrong.

She ate sparingly of the antipasti that formed the first course, and only picked at the chicken in its rich wine sauce that followed. She tried to fix her mind on the earnest discussion going on, primarily between Kit and Matthew Hendrick, while Nick watched and listened. This was all that should matter to her, she reminded herself. The plight of the residents. The need to save the project and continue it. She should be joining in here, making her own reasoned contribution, as Tracy was doing.

But she was too aware of the dark man opposite, with the cool, contained face. Too conscious of the apprehensive thoughts circling in her mind, giving her no peace.

She refused dessert and coffee, praying inwardly that the party would start to break up and she’d finally be let off the hook.

But it was a vain hope.

‘Goodnight, Miss Andrews—Mr Matlock.’ Nick had risen to his feet and was shaking hands. ‘Matthew, I’ll meet you on site tomorrow at nine a.m. My wife and I are going to stay for a while, and enjoy our reunion.’ His smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘We have a lot of catching up to do—don’t we, my sweet?’

Cally’s lips parted to utter a startled protest, but she bit back the words and sank back in her chair. That same intuition told her that any resistance on her part would only make her look foolish in the end. Far better not to fuss, she thought, but to let him think she regarded spending time alone in his company with complete indifference.

But how that was to be achieved she hadn’t the faintest idea.

The others left, and she saw Kit looking frowningly back at her. She was almost tempted to call out to him, ask him to stay, but she knew that wouldn’t be fair. She’d enjoyed working with Kit, but she would never have wanted more even if she’d been free, and she would have told him goodbye without regrets.

Besides, if Eastern Crest were interested enough in what he had to say to hold a site meeting, she couldn’t jeopardise that by allowing him to annoy the chairman.

And Nick had made his wishes coolly and brutally clear.

They were going to talk.

As he resumed his seat, she said in a small, brittle voice, ‘I feel as if someone should read me my rights.’

‘I already know mine,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to consider them.’ He signalled to the waiter to bring more coffee.

‘I don’t want anything else,’ she told him quickly.

‘Then you can sit and chat to me while I have some. Doesn’t that paint a nice domestic picture?’

‘Nick,’ she said, deciding to jump straight in, ‘do we really have to do this? Can’t we just accept that our marriage was a seriously bad idea and call it quits? I—I’d honestly like to go home.’

‘An excellent idea,’ he said affably. ‘Why don’t we do just that? Unfortunately, at the moment home for me happens to be the Majestic Hotel—a flagrant misnomer, if ever there was one.’ He gave her a small, cold smile. ‘I wonder if I could get them under the Trades Description Act? However,’ he went on, ‘with uncanny prescience, they’ve given me the bridal suite, so perhaps I should forgive their delusions of grandeur.’ He drank down his espresso. ‘Shall we go?’

She could suddenly feel the hectic drumming of her pulses. Hear the silent scream of No in her dry throat. She thought, He doesn’t mean that. He can’t…

Aloud, she said shakily, ‘I’m going nowhere with you. You seem to have overlooked the fact that I’ve left you.’

‘Oh, no, darling,’ he said with corrosive lightness. ‘I remember that incredibly well. Our wedding day, right? In fact, the ink was barely dry on the register when you scarpered.’

She said stiffly, ‘I suppose you deserve some kind of explanation.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and his voice seemed to remove a layer of her skin. ‘I bloody well do. And maybe an apology for making a fool of me quite so publicly. That would be a beginning.’

She bit her lip. ‘Yes, of course. I—I’m sorry about that.’

‘But nothing else?’ Nick divined grimly.

She thought, You were making a fool of me in private—or does that not count?

She lifted her chin. ‘It was something I had to do. I felt I had no choice.’ She hesitated. ‘What—what did you tell people?’

‘I couldn’t manage the truth,’ he said. ‘Because I didn’t know what it was. I had no farewell note—no “Dear John” blotched with penitent tears to point me in the right direction. So I simply let it be known that you’d had a change of heart, however late in the day, and that we’d agreed to separate.’

He paused. ‘You see, my sweet, at first I didn’t realise what had happened. You’d taken the car, so originally I assumed there’d been an accident. I wasted a hell of a lot of time making increasingly frantic hospital calls, until the police called to say they’d picked up some kids joy-riding. They’d stolen your car from a station car park twenty miles away and written it off. The guy in the ticket office there recognised you from our engagement photograph—now, there’s an irony—and said you’d bought a ticket to London. One way.’ His mouth twisted harshly. ‘That, of course, put an entirely new slant on the situation.’

Cally looked down at the tablecloth, tracing meaningless patterns on the white linen with her forefinger. ‘So you did—go looking for me?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not at first. Frankly, I was too bloody angry. So I thought, To hell with it. And her.’

‘You should have left it like that.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But I too underwent a change of heart.’

There was a loaded silence, then she said jerkily, ‘How—how did you know where to find me?’

‘Except for those first weeks, I’ve always known where to find you.’

A shiver chilled her spine, and she closed her eyes momentarily. ‘And I thought I’d managed to cover my tracks. That if I kept moving I’d drop out of sight.’

‘Oh, finding you was the easy part,’ he said sardonically. ‘Deciding what to do about it was trickier.’ He paused. ‘There was a time, you see, when I thought you might come back. That you might find living with me marginally preferable to slaving away in various greasy spoons.’ The grey eyes met hers. ‘But you never did.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Because I thought I was free. It never occurred to me that I was simply on the end of a long rope.’

There was a silence, then he said, ‘What made you come here?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s the same as any other place. And it seemed—anonymous.’

He said drily, ‘It’s about to undergo a revival. Someone’s decided the town has commuter possibilities. Hence Gunners Wharf.’

‘And hence your presence here, too.’ Her voice was taut.

‘It seemed too good an opportunity to miss,’ he said slowly, and she knew he was not referring to the development. Or not solely. And felt her heartbeat falter in panic.

She said hurriedly, ‘Eastern Crest—is that a new acquisition? I didn’t recognise the name…’

‘Well, darling,’ he drawled, ‘you haven’t been around much, keeping up. And without you to divert my attention I’ve had more time to devote to acquisitions and mergers.’ He paused. ‘And if you’d recognised the name, you’d have done—what?’

There was another silence, then she said wearily, ‘I don’t know. Running and trying to hide has clearly been futile. And I suppose we needed to meet eventually, to discuss what to do about the divorce. But why at this particular time?’

‘I was told you were seeing someone,’ Nick said expressionlessly. ‘So it seemed an opportune moment to intervene. Your colleague, Mr Matlock, appeared upset to hear you were married,’ he added pensively. ‘I do hope, darling, you haven’t been making promises you’re not entitled to keep.’

‘I’m “seeing” no one,’ Cally said through gritted teeth. ‘And Kit has no reason to feel aggrieved. So you could have easily saved yourself the inconvenience.’

‘Yet, as you say, we needed to meet—to talk about the future. So this became the time—and the place.’ His smile was brief and without warmth. ‘And apart from the implicit defiance in your voice and body language, you’ve hardly changed at all, my love.’

‘Perhaps the defiance was always there,’ she said. ‘But you didn’t notice.’

‘I noticed a hell of a lot,’ he said quietly. ‘And I was prepared to make allowances. Only you never gave me that chance. You preferred to bolt as if I was some kind of mad axe murderer.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing so dramatic. Simply because I wasn’t going to live my life on your terms.’

His brows lifted. ‘Did I impose any conditions? I can’t recall them.’

‘You made me become your wife,’ she said, her throat tightening. ‘That involves—obligations.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘In plain words, you didn’t want to sleep with me.’ He gave her a meditative look. ‘Admittedly, we didn’t have a conventional courtship, but you never gave the impression at the time that you found me particularly repulsive.’

Cally bit her lip. ‘Well, you know now.’

‘In fact,’ Nick went on, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘there were moments when the indications seemed distinctly favourable. Or did I imagine that?’

No, thought Cally, a tide of unwilling colour rising in her face. You didn’t imagine it—damn you.

She said stiffly, ‘You’d naturally prefer to think so, of course. You wouldn’t want a dent in that irresistible image of yours.’

‘If I’d ever been conceited enough to entertain such a notion,’ he returned icily, ‘you’d have shattered it for ever when you ran away.’

‘But I’m sure you’ve had consolation,’ she flung at him, and could have bitten out her tongue. She had not meant to say that.

‘Why, darling—’ Nick’s tone changed to mockery ‘—did you really expect me to soothe my wounded feelings by staying celibate?’

‘And do you really expect me to care—one way or the other?’

As long as I’m not there to see it…

The thought flashed, unbidden, and was instantly suppressed. Even to admit as much damaged the mental and emotional barriers she’d so carefully constructed against him, and she couldn’t afford that.

In fact, she couldn’t afford any of this…

She took a deep breath. ‘Nick—let’s stop here and now, or we shall only say things we’ll regret. Why don’t we just—draw a line, let our respective lawyers deal with the rest of it?’

‘Because you’re assuming,’ he said, ‘that I share your wish for a divorce.’

She said, slowly and unsteadily, ‘You can’t mean that. You can’t wish to stay married to someone who—who won’t—live with you.’

‘Of course not.’ He sounded almost brisk. ‘Naturally I want a wife who’ll share my home and my bed.’ He smiled at her, his eyes touching her—stripping her, she realised, as her heart began to flutter in panic.

‘In fact, I want you, my sweet,’ he added softly. ‘Come back to me, and in return for your charming—and willing—company, I’ll tell Matthew Hendrick to save your precious terrace and include it in the development. Turn me down, however, and the demolition crew move in next week. And that’s my final word.’

He paused. ‘So the future of Gunners Terrace rests entirely with you, darling.’

‘You can’t do this,’ Cally protested, her voice hoarse with incredulity. ‘You’re making me responsible for other people’s lives—other people’s happiness. It—it’s emotional blackmail.’

‘Now, my viewpoint is slightly different,’ he said. ‘Because you stood beside me in church and made certain vows. I remember it perfectly. You were wearing a white dress with a lot of little buttons down the front of it. Frankly, I was fantasising about undoing them all—with my teeth,’ he added, with a kind of sensuous reminiscence that made her shiver. ‘Now, at last, I want those vows fulfilled, and I really think, my sweet, that I’ve waited long enough. Even you must agree that our wedding night is long overdue.’

She said numbly, ‘You mean you’d—you’d actually force me to—to…’

‘I’ve no intention of using force,’ he told her coolly. ‘It’s high time that delightful body of yours discovered what it was made for. And, if memory serves, the last time you were in my arms you thought so too.’

Her head went back sharply, as if he had struck her. ‘What you’re suggesting is obscene. Unthinkable. You can’t think for one moment that I’d agree.’

Nick shrugged. ‘You came here tonight, Cally, of your own free will, wanting a favour. Quite a sizeable one at that. I’m now telling you the price ticket it carries. Whether you pay it, of course, is your choice alone. It depends on how strongly you feel about the survival of Gunners Terrace—these people you claim to care about so deeply.’

‘You think I’ll save them at the expense of my own life?’

‘Not the whole of it,’ he said. ‘Just the year you stole from me when you ran away. You see, I still have use for you, and that should be enough time for you to repay some of the debt you owe me—and give me what I want.’

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘I don’t understand. You’re saying now that you want me to come back to you, but only for a limited period?’

He said quietly, ‘Just as long as it takes for you to give me a child. So make your mind up quickly, because the staff here are waiting to close.’

She stared at him, stunned and incredulous, her brain churning wildly. She was dazedly aware that what he’d said was correct. The other tables had emptied while they were talking and she hadn’t even noticed. The waiters were gathered now in a small group at the end of the room, chatting amongst themselves.

While she sat in this pool of lamplight, like a fly trapped in amber… Listening to him, but not believing what she was hearing. She heard herself laugh, the sound strained and alien.

She said, mastering her voice somehow, ‘You want me—to have your baby? You can’t honestly be serious. It’s ludicrous. Totally impossible.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but I am perfectly serious. This is a question of inheritance, Cally. I want an heir—someone to come after me. Son or daughter. I don’t mind,’ he added with a curt shrug.

‘And that’s good and sufficient reason…?’ She choked over the words.

‘I inherited Wylstone Hall because I was Ranald Tempest’s only relative,’ he said. ‘But we were almost complete strangers to each other. ‘Whatever I leave will damned well go to my own flesh and blood. Not some distant relation—someone I’ve barely met.’

He paused. ‘Achieve this one thing for me, Cally, and then I’ll release you from the marriage. I won’t fight the divorce. In fact, I’ll make it easy for you.’ He paused. ‘And you’ll find me generous.’

Money, she thought. He means money. I’d probably never have to work again unless I wished it.

‘And afterwards?’ she asked, her voice shaking. ‘If I should—have a child, what happens then?’

‘That’s open to negotiation,’ he told her curtly. ‘But I suggest that in principle we share joint custody. At first, anyway.’

She stared back at him. She said faintly, ‘You must be—insane.’

‘Why? Because I want my wife to have my baby? It seems a fairly normal course of events to me.’

‘But we don’t have a normal marriage.’

‘Not at this moment, perhaps,’ he said softly. ‘But all that could change very soon.’

She said in a low voice, ‘Is that—why you married me? Because you thought I was young and strong, and you could breed from me?’

Nick shrugged. ‘We all have our own priorities,’ he said. ‘But rest assured that I also found you—highly desirable.’

Her arms went round her body in an involuntary gesture of self-protection, and she saw his mouth twist.

She said hurriedly, ‘But surely there are other women…’ She paused, swallowing. Trying to blot certain forbidden images from her mind. ‘I mean—you could divorce me quickly and find someone else. Someone who’d make you happy. Want to give you a family.’

‘Let me be blunt,’ he said. ‘I’ve had time to think during our—separation, and I’ve discovered I’ve no real taste for being a husband. One unlucky foray into matrimony is quite enough, and I have no plans to replace you.’ His faint smile was cynical. ‘Don’t they say, “Better the devil you know”?’

‘Yes,’ she said numbly. ‘Sometimes—they do.’ But it doesn’t have to be true.

‘Besides, you clearly can’t wait to get away from me,’ he added. ‘So there’s no threat of you wanting to hang around on a permanent basis.’

She said tautly, ‘Cramping your style?’

‘Precisely, darling,’ he drawled. ‘How well you’re getting to know me.’

‘Then think about this instead,’ Cally pressed on, with a touch of desperation. ‘There’s no certainty about these things. Pregnancy and the rest of it. For all we know I might not—one of us might not—be able to have children.’

Nick shrugged. ‘That’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’ His eyes met hers. ‘Are you on the Pill?’

Mutely, she shook her head. A celibate life, she thought, didn’t need that kind of protection.

‘Then I’d need you to guarantee to stay off it,’ he said curtly. ‘But the final decision, as I’ve made clear, rests entirely with you. You either co-operate—come back to me as my wife—or you don’t. A simple choice.’

Simple? Cally thought, a bubble of hysteria forming in her chest. Simple? Was that what he really believed?

‘It’s revenge—isn’t it?’ Her voice was torn—ragged. ‘You want to punish me—humiliate me. It’s payback time.’

‘If so, you’re heavily in arrears, sweetheart,’ he told her unsmilingly. ‘Tell me something, Cally, why accept my marriage proposal in the first place—if it was so degrading to you?’

She hesitated warily. ‘I—I suppose I was grateful. It was all a hell of a mess and you rescued us. Although you had no reason to do so. And if I never said it before, I’ll say it now. Thank you for that—for everything you did for my grandfather—and for me.’

His glance was cynical. ‘I want more than words, Cally.’

Her voice trembled. ‘But I have nothing else to give. I could try and repay you in other ways eventually, but I won’t—do what you want. You must see that. I—I can’t…’

He studied her for a moment, brows raised, then reached into his jacket for a mobile phone.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Calling Matt at the hotel, to tell him tomorrow’s site visit is cancelled.’ His voice was clipped. ‘You can tell the residents why any deal’s off. You have the rest of the night to plan your explanation. I suggest you make it a good one, because according to your boyfriend a lot of lives are going to be devastated. I’d hate for them to blame you, but I suspect they might.’

‘No.’ It hurt to breathe suddenly. ‘Wait.’

‘Well?’ The response was uncompromising, the phone still in his hand.

She looked down at her fingers, laced tightly together in her lap.

‘Gunners Terrace is precious to me,’ she said tautly. ‘Perhaps more than I’d even realised. And so is my eventual freedom.’ She paused. ‘I presume you’re also prepared to guarantee that—in writing?’

‘If that’s what it takes.’ Nick put the phone back in his pocket.

She lifted her head. Met his gaze directly. Unflinchingly. ‘Then I’ll—do what you want. But you have to give me some time—some space—to adjust.’

‘And why should I do that?’ He sounded almost casually interested.

She said, quietly and clearly, ‘Because I don’t want my only child to be—made in hatred. And I don’t believe you’d want that either.’

‘You really think you hate me?’ Faint, galling amusement in his voice.

She nodded. ‘I know it.’

‘So what are you suggesting instead?’ he drawled. ‘Surely not—love?’

She winced. ‘I thought—some kind of compromise. After all, you were prepared once to make allowances—you said so earlier.’

‘How unwise of me.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Very well. I’ve had a year to practise restraint, so I suppose I can go on being patient for a while.’

He signalled for the bill, then turned back to her, the grey eyes merciless. ‘But be warned, darling. Don’t push your luck. Because I have no intention of waiting for ever. Do I make myself clear?’

From somewhere a long way off she heard herself say, ‘As crystal.’

And somehow she found herself getting up from the table and going with him out into the night.

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