The Price Of A Wife

‘Yes?’ Her heart stopped, and then raced on like a runaway train.

‘This is Luke Hawkton. I’m sorry to bother you at home like this but I have a problem.’

‘You. do?’ Oh, for goodness’ sake say something businesslike, something that will impress him, she thought disgustedly as she heard her faint, breathless voice.

‘I have to fly to Germany tonight—an unexpected business complication that may well necessitate my spending several days out there.’ The firm, controlled voice wasn’t unfriendly, but nevertheless she found herself holding her breath as she listened to him. ‘I don’t want any further delay on the Night Hawk project, Miss Owens; there has been enough already. The thing seems to have picked up problems like a cat picks up fleas.’

‘Oh.’ She glanced down at her feet to meet Mog’s bright green gaze, which she was sure had darkened with disapproval at his simile.

‘I would like you to get all the relevant data sorted out over the weekend and bring it out to me. I will arrange for a car to pick you up at eight on Monday morning and my secretary will be waiting for you.’

‘I...’ She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Are you saying you want me to fly out to Germany, Mr Hawkton?’

‘The name’s Luke, and, yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,’ he said coolly.

‘But I could fax you—’

‘No, that would not be satisfactory.’ He cut across her protest immediately. ‘I want you in front of me, where we can discuss things properly and get everything ironed out,’ he continued firmly. ‘Your plane leaves Heathrow at nine-thirty, so I understand, and my secretary will give you the tickets and all the necessary information concerning your hotel and so on. A car will be waiting on your arrival in—’

‘Hang on a moment, did you say hotel?’ She found her voice along with her wits, and at the same moment it hit her why Luke Hawkton reminded her so strongly of Peter.

They were the only two men she had ever met who were completely and totally sure of themselves and of their ability to command, to subdue, to dominate. It sat on them like a live aura and both repelled and fascinated those unfortunate enough to come within striking distance—or at least it repelled her now, she thought bitterly. Thirteen years too late.

She would always believe it had been Peter’s utter lack of remorse, his unwillingness to accept any blame for the accident or her injuries, that had caused her father’s massive heart attack. In the two months before he died her father had been eaten up by bitter pain and resentment that his only daughter had been treated so badly, and he had felt her desperate anguish and primitive blind despair as though it were his own. On the day before she’d finally come out of hospital he had collapsed in the street just outside the main doors and died moments later.

‘Just an overnight stay, Miss Owens—or may I call you Josie? As we are going to be working pretty closely over the next few months I think a less formal approach is called for, don’t you?’ The deep, faintly husky voice broke into her thoughts, commanding her concentration.

‘Yes, of course.’ She forced a pleasant tone that was in direct contrast to her feelings. ‘But with regard to the hotel I’m sure that isn’t necessary. I can easily catch a night flight. In fact, I’d prefer to do that,’ she added firmly. ‘I have things to do here—’

‘Which I am sure can wait twenty-four hours.’ There was a touch of steel in the pleasant tone now, only the merest intimation that his words were an order and not a suggestion, but it was enough to make the hand holding the phone clench tightly round the inoffensive instrument as she glared at it angrily.

‘I’m not sure exactly when I will be free to talk to you, so it makes sense to allow a little leeway into the evening.’ His voice was reasonable—too reasonable, as though he were explaining something obvious to a recalcitrant child. ‘You do understand the enormity of the job you have taken on, I trust?’

‘I think so, Mr—’ She stopped abruptly. She couldn’t call him Luke, she just couldn’t, but he would think she was being awkward if she insisted on Mr Hawkton. ‘I think so,’ she repeated carefully. ‘And of course if you’d prefer me to stay over then I will. You’re the boss.’ She had wanted the last three words to sound light, but they had merely sounded petulant.

‘That I am, Josie,’ he said quietly, his voice very dry. ‘Now, a car will be at the entrance to your block of flats at eight on Monday morning with my secretary, Emma, inside. All you need to bring is your passport, an overnight bag and, of course, the details on the project. I have informed Mike and Andy of the arrangements, incidentally.’

I just bet you have, she thought tightly, before giving herself a mental slap on the hand. What was the matter with her, for goodness’ sake? The man was going to spend a small fortune on this damn launch; he had every right to expect her one hundred per cent commitment. ‘That’s fine.’ She injected a note of enthusiasm into her reply. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, then.’

‘Goodbye, Josie.’ Was that thread of sardonic amusement always in his voice, or had he guessed the extent of her reluctance? she thought tightly. If he had, he had clearly taken great delight in commanding her obedience. Oh, stop it, stop it, she told herself desperately. She had to take hold of this unwarranted hostility to a man she knew nothing about and bring logic and reason to the situation.

Luke Hawkton was a respected, powerful multimillionaire, with business interests in more concerns than most of London put together. He had chosen her proposal, hers, not Mitchell’s or one from the other firms he had checked, and there was everything to thank him for. That was fact. These...feelings of hers were irrational, unjustified and in the circumstances downright dangerous if they began to jeopardise her professionalism.

With the benefit of hindsight she could see that Peter Staples had been a wastrel of the first order, a spoilt, vain megalomaniac with something base and vile at the bottom of him—a man who was actually unable to feel any sense of remorse or contrition. He had stood in court after the accident and lied so convincingly, and with such conviction, that if she hadn’t been in the car herself she would have believed every word he’d spoken. He’d got off scot-free, or as near as dammit, and had walked away from the whole mess without a thought for the two dead men and the ruined life—hers—that he’d left behind him.

But...She shut her eyes for a moment as she bit on the underside of her lip, her teeth nibbling agitatedly at the soft flesh. But there was still something—the enormous confidence, perhaps, the unswerving faith in their own ability and power—that linked the two men in her mind.

Peter Staples had changed the course of her life, her whole future at fifteen. His cruelty had turned her into something dry and desolate, her body into a barren place that would forever be unfruitful, empty. They had all told her she was lucky to be alive, that she had so much to be thankful for in that the only scars she had didn’t show, but they didn’t know. They didn’t understand how it felt to be in her head, to know that she was a woman on the outside only, a mutilated shell irrevocably flawed.

She had refused to go to counselling sessions after a few weeks; the motherly little woman with a photo of her grandchildren on her desk hadn’t helped much. And then had followed a period of blackness, deep, primitive blackness, from which she had eventually pulled herself inch by inch when her mother had become ill just as she had started her two-year college course. Nursing her mother and coping with her extensive studies had left her with no time to brood on her dark thoughts, and on the night her mother had died she had made a vow to herself.

No chasing rainbows, no hoping for the moon, no happy ever after. She was on her own now, and on her own she would remain. She would never ask any man to accept second best. She had raised her chin proudly and stared into the mirror through eyes drenched in tears. Her career would be her life and she would go for that one hundred per cent.

It wasn’t the life she would have chosen, but her options had been ripped out of her with the surgeon’s knife. There would be no romance in her life; she couldn’t risk getting close to someone only to shatter their hopes. No, she would make the best of what she had. She would. And cut the self-pity from that moment on.

And she had. Almost. She opened her eyes and stared round the pretty, well-furnished room. She was very, very fortunate. She was. And this chance now to go still further was welcome, marvellous.

But in spite of Luke Hawkton’s munificence, in spite of the fact that he had been nothing but generous so far, she didn’t like him. Illogical, unreasonable, absurd—yes, it was all that and more, but nevertheless something linked him in her mind with Peter Staples, and she couldn’t do anything about it.

CHAPTER THREE

‘JOSIE. How nice to see you again. I trust you had a good flight?’ The deep, dark voice trickled over her nerves like liquid fire.

‘Fine, thank you,’ she responded carefully.

As Luke took her small hand in his, his large fingers swallowing hers whole, she forced herself to betray none of the agitation that had gripped her as soon as he had stridden into the hotel’s small conference room.

On arriving in Germany, she had been met at the airport by an impressive limousine that had swept her in style to the luxurious first-class hotel where she was to be staying. There she had been greeted with a deference that had left her nonplussed, until she’d realised she had come under the umbrella of Hawkton Enterprises.

Her room was the last word in opulence, the lunch that had been provided five minutes after her arrival simply superb, and the ground-floor conference room that had been reserved for her alone had meant she could spread out all her countless pieces of paper and continue working in comfort while she waited for the great man to put in an appearance.

And now he was here. And he looked very, very big. The beautifully tailored suit and grey silk shirt and tie he was wearing sat well on the hard male body, but couldn’t disguise the muscled strength in the broad shoulders and chest. He was uncompromisingly virile, in fact menacingly so, and again that strange little shiver of sensation snaked down her spine as she felt his warm flesh against hers.

‘You have been busy.’ In spite of the fact that he had let go of her hand almost immediately, the burning memory of his hard hand gripping hers remained with her for several seconds before she could erase it and bring her mind under control sufficiently to reply.

‘Yes.’ She nodded with what she hoped was cool aplomb. ‘I’ve sketched out a few rough ideas on different angles for the fair and the ball later. There’s a Victorian look, or perhaps you’d prefer an Edwardian style? And we need to determine pretty early on whether the period you choose for the fair will run over into the ball, because if so your guests will need some considerable time to get appropriate clothes ordered for both. The ice rink will be expensive to construct, of course, and we will have to provide a vast number of boots in different sizes—’

A discreet knock at the door broke into what was fast becoming a gabble, even to her own ears, and a second later a waiter entered, carrying a tray containing coffee and cakes.

‘Thank you.’ Luke’s voice was cool and calm, and once the waiter had left, leaving the tray on the table at their side, where Luke had indicated it should go, he turned to her, a slight smile curving the hard mouth. ‘Do I make you nervous, Josie?’

‘What?’ The word escaped before she could draw it back, and she knew she was blushing a bright red as she qualified it hastily. ‘No, not in the least. Of course not.’

‘Of course not.’ He repeated her words with slow, laconic disbelief, his dark eyebrows slightly raised as he leant back in his chair to survey her through narrowed eyes. ‘There is no need to be nervous, I do assure you. You have the job. It is, as they say, in the bag.’

‘I know.’ If only it was just the job in hand that was the trouble, she thought silently. If only. ‘And there’s no problem, really,’ she said brightly, willing the hard, astute man in front of her to believe the lie.

‘Good.’ The piercing silver eyes remained trained on her face for one more moment before they dropped to the papers in front of him and he waved his hand at the tray. ‘Would you care to be mother?’

It was an old phrase, and one that she had come up against many times in the last few years, but it still had the power to hit her in the stomach like a hard fist and she was glad that that glittering gaze was no longer on her.

‘Milk or cream?’ she asked carefully as she poured the coffee.

‘Black, please.’ He didn’t look up as he spoke. ‘And I’d like a piece of that disgustingly rich fruitcake while you’re about it. Lunch seems a distant memory, and I can see we’ll be tied up here for an hour or two. Dinner at eight suit you?’

‘Dinner—?’ She stopped abruptly. She somehow hadn’t expected to have dinner with him, although, thinking about it now, maybe she should have. But she had supposed he would be busy with other high-flying tycoons—the ones he had come out here to see, presumably.

‘You do eat?’ he drawled quietly, still with his eyes on her work.