The Price Of A Wife

‘You have obviously got the right touch with Mr White; you’ll have to let me in on your secret some time...’ The words were lazy and without real malice, although their meaning was clear.

Josie knew Charlotte meant nothing personal—she just had to have a little twist of the knife to state her annoyance at losing out to the other woman—but this time Josie didn’t like the innuendo. She had had enough sly digs along the same lines from male colleagues in the past, when her work had been superior to theirs, and she had expected more from Charlotte. Both of them were in highly paid jobs, doing good work and surviving on their own initiative and flair despite high odds, and she had thought—naïvely, perhaps, she acknowledged now—that Charlotte would respect that and leave the sexist talk to the men.

Well, she was blowed if she was going to defend herself. In fact...

‘Well, you know how it is, Charlotte.’ She gave the other woman a brilliant smile as she spoke. ‘The old casting couch still has its uses.’

Charlotte acknowledged the game, set and match with a slight curve of her thin red mouth, but then her light blue eyes widened considerably at something just over Josie’s left shoulder.

‘Miss Owens?’ The male voice was very deep, with a slight husky edge that was undeniably attractive. ‘Your assistant tells me you are due to leave soon.’

She turned to face him slowly, knowing who it was even before her gaze moved up and up to meet the hard-boned face. Silver-grey. His eyes were silver-grey, she thought irrelevantly, like ice-cold honed steel.

‘I...’ He must have heard that last remark, she thought helplessly. How could she explain it had been a play on words, that Charlotte had known it was the very opposite to how it had sounded? ‘I...’ And then she took a firm grip on herself, years of training coming to her aid. ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ she said formally as she held out her hand politely. ‘I’m Josie Owens.’

‘Yes, I know.’ He smiled coolly but it didn’t reach the mesmerising eyes. ‘Luke Hawkton. How do you do?’

His grip was firm and hard and strong, very much like the man himself, she surmised as she found her small hand engulfed in his, only to be released almost immediately.

Hawkton? Luke Hawkton? She had heard that name somewhere before, but for the moment the connection escaped her. It had clearly been just the name she had heard; if she had seen a picture of this man she would have remembered. It was an arresting face, not handsome or even good-looking in the normal run of things, but the cruel sensual mouth and hard, determined jawline spoke of dominant strength, as did the high cheekbones and cold, black-lashed eyes, and there was something about the whole that was far more magnetic than any stock attractiveness.

His dark aura was a subtle emanation of restrained power and authority, but there was something else, a sensual undertone, that brought tiny little flickers shivering down her spine. He was all male, utterly sure of himself, and she had no doubt that he could be as ruthless as the lithe, hard-planed panther she had mentally compared him to earlier. A man to be avoided at all costs, in fact.

‘Miss Owens?’ She suddenly became aware that she had been staring at him almost vacantly for a good fifteen seconds, and that the faintly slanted silver-grey eyes held a thread of amusement in their cool depths. ‘I asked if I could have a word with you,’ he prodded smoothly.

‘Of course.’ Charlotte hadn’t moved from the spot, and now Josie turned to include the tall blonde as she spoke. ‘This is Charlotte Montgomery, a colleague of mine,’ she said with a wave of her hand, but the silver eyes barely brushed Charlotte’s face. He gave her a polite nod and then took Josie’s arm in his hand and guided her away to a far corner of the room before she realised what was happening, leaving Charlotte gazing after them thoughtfully, her blue eyes narrowed.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Hawkton?’ Josie forced all apprehension out of her voice but it was difficult not to feel intimidated by the big masculine figure in front of her. Being so tiny, she had never felt drawn to large, obviously virile men, preferring a slim, more aesthetic type of male to complement her slender fragility rather than a macho man, but she had certainly never felt threatened by a man’s bulk before.

But it wasn’t just that. It was something indefinable about him—insotent, challenging... And something in her own make-up, probably connected with the red hair, she thought with a silent spurt of amusement, was instantly antagonised as well as defensive.

‘I came here today to see you.’ The words hit her with a little shock that she had the sense to hide from the intent gaze.

‘Really?’ She managed a cool and, she hoped, very professional smile. ‘With what purpose, Mr Hawkton?’

The hard mouth twisted in a small smile and she thought she detected approval in his narrowed eyes as he crossed his arms and leant lazily against the cream linen-covered wall behind him. ‘You’re very petite,’ he said softly as his gaze wandered over the whole of her, from the top of her mass of curly red hair, tied high on her head in a restrained knot from which the odd tendril curled tightly, down to her small feet shod in expensive Italian leather court shoes that were nevertheless wonderfully comfortable and practical for a busy day like this one had been. ‘Is that why you keep all that marvellous hair balanced on your head like that?’

‘Not at all.’ Keep calm; don’t rise to his bait, she told herself flatly as she kept the smile in place by sheer willpower. Like most small people, she didn’t particularly like her lack of inches being pointed out—and certainly not by a big brute like this man! ‘I wear my hair like this because it is practical, Mr Hawkton, that’s all,’ she said quietly, with a touch of ice in her voice now that the sharp ears detected immediately.

‘I’ve offended you. I’m sorry.’ He straightened with a smooth twist of his body. ‘You’re sensitive about your height?’

‘No, I am not.’ She eyed him fiercely, her temper rising in line with the colour of her cheeks. What was it with this guy anyway? She had only known him for about sixty seconds and he was asking her the sort of personal questions even her closest friends wouldn’t presume to ask.

‘Good, because it’s captivating,’ he said surprisingly, and there was a look in the silver eyes that told her he meant exactly what he said. ‘Quite captivating. Especially when taken in conjunction with the red hair and beautiful eyes. What colour are they exactly?’ he asked as he leant down and looked straight into her open gaze.

She snapped her head back as though she had been bitten, narrowingly missing knocking a tray of glasses full of champagne out of one of the waiter’s hands. ‘Look, Mr Hawkton, I’ve got things to see to,’ she said tightly, the honey-gold eyes that he had admired flashing green sparks. ‘I happen to be working here, and—’

‘I know.’ He didn’t seem in the least put out by her abruptness. ‘That’s why I came today.’ He smiled lazily.

‘I—’ She stared at him for a moment as her thought process suffered a slight hiccup. Hawkton... Hawkton? She knew she ought to know the name.

‘But I mustn’t keep you,’ he said smoothly as he watched and, she was sure, enjoyed her confusion. ‘Perhaps we could have a word later, before you leave?’

She nodded tightly. ‘Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’

His nod and amused, glittering eyes were an insult in themselves, and she knew her cheeks were burning as she turned from him. The creamy skin that came along with the dark red hair showed even the slightest tinge of colour, and there was more than a tinge today, she thought despairingly. She should have asked him who he was instead of reacting to the conversation like a scalded cat. At least that would have given her a clue to his identity.

She had a brief word with the catering staff to make sure that the champagne would flow until the last guest left when the doors closed at nine, checked that Evans, the security man, was fully aware of all the arrangements, and then signalled Penny to join her as she stepped into the office behind the main gallery. They had only planned to be at the opening for a brief hour or two, but a last-minute panic had stretched out the hours.

‘You go now, Penny.’ Josie smiled at her assistant as she joined her in the quiet office. ‘You’ve put in more than your fair share. And have a lie-in on Monday morning. I won’t expect to see you until lunchtime. You’ve worked late every night this week.’

‘Oh, thanks, Josie.’ Penny smiled her appreciation as she reflected, and not for the first time, that she was very fortunate in having a boss as nice as Josie Owens. ‘Are you sure you won’t need me for the meeting tomorrow morning?’

‘No.’ Josie shook her head as she slipped off the desk on which she had been sitting and walked to the door. ‘It’s just a background fill-in on some new contract Mike and Andy are desperate to secure. I haven’t even glanced at the bumph they threw at us all this morning.’

Mike and Andy were the co-directors and owners of the promotions firm, compulsive workaholics who were positively neurotic about snatching new deals from under the noses of their many competitors in the promotions field. Both men worked seventy- and eighty-hour weeks and expected their six executives, of which Josie was one, to do the same when necessary.

In spite of their extremely high salaries the other five executives, all men, considered themselves ill-used, but Josie didn’t. Her work, her small circle of close friends, her beautiful flat in Chelsea and her cat, Mog, were her life. Fate had made it clear, thirteen years ago, that she couldn’t expect more.

She and Penny left the office together and already the crowd had thinned. Josie signalled to one of the three art gallery staff that they were leaving and received a nod and a mouthed ‘Thank you’ from the middle-aged woman who would be in charge of the daily running of the place, and then she glanced round for Luke Hawkton. She would have to see him before she left, it would be too rude not to, but he didn’t appear to be in the gallery.

And then she saw him, deep in conversation with Mr White, and, almost as though the power of her glance had drawn him, he looked up and straight over to where she was standing, and she knew, she just knew, they had been discussing her. But before she could react, think, even, he had moved swiftly across the space separating them and to her side, his dark face cool and blank.

‘Do I take it you are available for that talk now?’ he asked quietly with a polite nod at Penny, who nodded back, then made her goodbyes and left.

‘Certainly, Mr Hawkton.’ She had to raise her eyes some considerable way to meet the silver-grey gaze, and again the sheer breadth and height of the man sent something hot flickering down her spine, especially when her senses registered a whiff of the most delicious aftershave.

‘Have you finished here?’ he asked smoothly, his face quite expressionless.

‘Finished...?’ She looked sideways at him. ‘I—yes, I’ve done all I can do—’

‘Good,’ he drawled, watching her with narrowed eyes. ‘Then we can talk in comfort, perhaps? There is an excellent little Italian restaurant just a stone’s throw away, so perhaps you would allow me to take you to dinner?’

‘Dinner?’ If he had said he wanted to take her to the moon she couldn’t have been more surprised. ‘B-but—’ Oh, hell, she thought furiously, what was it about this man that made her stutter and stammer like a gawky schoolgirl? She had to pull herself together, and quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hawkton.’ She forced a cool smile and tried for the busy-career-woman brush-off that had always been so successful in the past. ‘I’m afraid I’m busy tonight—’

‘Rubbish.’ It was said so matter-of-factly that for a moment the import of the word didn’t register. ‘Your able assistant—Penny, isn’t it?—told me she had had orders to keep this evening free in case of any disasters here that needed sorting out. Now, I don’t think you are the type of boss to tell the minions something like that and not do the same yourself. There are no disasters; you were about to leave... Need I go on?’

Disasters? If ever a disaster had been facing her this six feet plus of cold steel fitted the bill. ‘I really don’t think Penny had any right—’

‘You are going to be difficult.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘I don’t like difficult women, Miss Owens; I don’t like them at all,’ he drawled slowly, his cool eyes assessing her so thoroughly that she could feel the heat from her skin like a brazier burning from the inside.

‘Don’t you, indeed?’ Suddenly all the gloss and carefully nurtured aplomb of the last thirteen years took a nosedive. Who on earth did this man think he was anyway? She had never met anyone like him in her life before; he took the word ‘arrogance’ into another dimension! ‘Well, perhaps what you like and don’t like are not my problem, Mr Hawkton.’ She smiled icily. ‘And I was being quite genuine when I said I was busy. I have an important meeting tomorrow that I have to prepare for.’

‘And you won’t eat tonight?’ he asked sardonically.

‘I—’ She bit back the hot words that were hovering on her tongue as she noticed one or two interested glances in their direction. Oh, this was ridiculous, crazy. She couldn’t remember being put in a position like this since she was in her teens. ‘Yes, I’ll eat,’ she said, with a calm that was purely surface level. ‘Probably a sandwich, or something, while I work.’

‘I see.’ The silver eyes narrowed still more, and as he crossed his arms, his big chest formidable, she forced her eyes not to waver before his. ‘What a daunting female you are,’ he drawled thoughtfully. ‘Do you frighten away the male population in general, or is it me in particular you have an aversion to?’