A Passionate Affair: The Passionate Husband / The Italian's Passion / A Latin Passion

She shut her eyes, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Because someone has to. You would actually throw away everything we had without fighting for it. I realise that now. So it’s up to me to fight for both of us. Who was it? Who talked to you?’

‘I… I can’t say. I promised.’

He swore, a savage oath. ‘You promised me more. Remember? Love, honour, cherish, in sickness and in health? You owe me a name, damn it.’

‘Taylor, I—’

‘A name, Marsha. Then maybe we can start to get to the bottom of this. If I’d had my head screwed on I’d have done this months ago, instead of assuming you could actually reason like any sane human being.’

It opened her eyes and brought her head up. She was so angry she wanted to stamp and scream like a child. He was intent on blaming everything on her, even when the evidence against him had been stacked to the sky. He would never know how much she had suffered when she had made that call to the hotel and heard Tanya speak in her sexy little-girl voice from their room. ‘You don’t want to know who it was,’ she said tightly. ‘Take it from me.’

‘I do.’ His eyes were boring into her and his face was harder than she had ever seen it, unreachable.

She stared at him, Susan’s name hovering on her tongue even as her mind raced. If she told Taylor his sister had betrayed him, what would it do to his and Susan’s relationship? Smash it for ever. He was not the sort of man to forgive; she knew that. Whether Susan’s accusation was true or not, he would cut her out of his life with the ruthlessness that had got him to where he was now. And that would mean Dale, her husband, would lose his job, perhaps even their house, because no one would pay Dale what Taylor paid him.

Of course if Susan had lied she deserved all that and maybe more—but if she hadn’t…? And Taylor? What would it do to him? He loved his sister; she was all the natural family he had. Oh, what should she do? She was in a no-win situation here and so was he, if he did but know it. Tough as he was, his sister occupied a very special place in his heart, as he did in Susan’s. That was what made this whole thing so impossible. Susan had to have been telling the truth… didn’t she?

‘I’m sorry, Taylor.’ She kept her eyes steady despite the growing darkness in his face.

‘I see.’

No—no, he didn’t see, but what could she do? She would have to go and see Susan as soon as possible. Maybe talking to her would settle some things. ‘I… I can’t tell you. I would if there was a way, but—’

‘Forget it.’ His tone was final and very cold.

‘Forget it?’ Her mouth had opened in a little O of surprise.

‘Go and get dressed, Marsha.’ He stood aside, his face closed against her.

In spite of herself she reached out her hand, touching his broad chest in a helpless little gesture that carried a wealth of pleading in it. He didn’t move a muscle, merely watching her with narrowed amber eyes that were as cool and unemotional as the resin they resembled.

When her hand fell back to her side she turned swiftly and walked across the room without looking at him again, making her way to the guest room on legs that trembled. Once inside she locked the door, her eyes burning with unshed tears and the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. It was over. The look in his eyes had told her so.

She walked across to the bed and sank down on it, still holding the clothes in her hands. He didn’t want her any more. He had said he was sick of her and the last minute or two had proved it. She ought to be pleased.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, the tears falling hot and fast as she rocked to and fro in an agony of grief, feeling more desolate than she had ever felt before.

Five minutes later and she had pulled herself together sufficiently to pick up the telephone and request a taxi-cab. After washing her face she dressed quickly, running a comb through her hair and applying some lipstick—the only item of make-up she had with her.

She couldn’t countenance an afternoon in Taylor’s company; she felt too raw. Okay, it might look as if she was running away—and maybe she was, she admitted wretchedly—but this was pure self-survival. Reaching for her handbag, she extracted a little notebook and scribbled a quick message to Hannah, promising the older woman she would ring her soon and arrange for them to meet up somewhere. Then, feeling like someone in a bad drama on TV, she crept carefully downstairs and out of the front door, hurrying down the drive.

She was so relieved to see the taxi waiting just beyond the entrance to the drive she could have kissed the small balding man behind the wheel. Instead she clambered in quickly, giving him the address of the bed-sit and then changing her mind in the next instant and telling him to take her straight into work. If Taylor came after her—and it was a big if, considering how they had parted—she would rather have the security of a work environment than be all alone at the bedsit.

She didn’t begin to breathe freely until they were well on their way, and right until she actually walked into the building she felt as though at any moment a hand would tap her on the shoulder or a deep unmistakable voice would call her name. But then she was in the lift, being transported to her floor, and she knew she had done it.

And, strangely, in that moment she felt more miserable than ever.

CHAPTER SIX

‘WHEN do you think he’ll realise the bird has flown the nest?’

Nicki placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of her as she spoke, and Marsha took a careful sip of the scalding liquid before she said, ‘He must know by now.’

‘Worried?’

‘No.’ Marsha’s fingers tightened on the mug. ‘Why should I be? He doesn’t own me, and I’m blowed if I’ll let him tell me whether I can come into work or not.’

‘Good on you.’ Nicki was all approval. ‘He ought to be crawling on his hands and knees begging forgiveness for the way he’s treated you.’

Marsha looked up from the coffee, her eyes narrowing. She might be wrong, but hadn’t Nicki changed tack somewhat from yesterday? Then she had been urging her to give Taylor the benefit of the doubt. Now she sounded as if she’d like to punch him on the nose. ‘What have you heard?’ she asked flatly.

‘Heard?’ Nicki flushed a deep pink as she sat down at her own desk, fiddling unnecessarily with some papers as she said, ‘What makes you think I’ve heard something?’

Marsha didn’t bother to reply, merely raising her eyebrows and lowering her chin while she waited for the other woman to look up.

There was a pause before Nicki glanced at her. ‘It’s just something Janie said, that’s all.’

‘Which was?’

Nicki wriggled uncomfortably. ‘Penelope has swung the contract for Kane International and he—your husband—is taking her out for a meal to celebrate.’

Marsha shrugged. ‘It’s a free country,’ she said, as lightly as she could.

‘Dinner at the Hot Spot.’

Marsha took a moment to steady her voice. ‘We’re separated, Nicki. He’s allowed to see anyone he wants.’ The Hot Spot was the latest big sensation with London’s jet set: a nightclub where you could dance the night away and even get breakfast in the morning. No one went there just for dinner.

Nicki sniffed a very eloquent sniff. ‘I’ve never liked tall dark men,’ she said flatly. ‘Especially when their egos match their… hat size.’

‘I’ve never seen Taylor in a hat.’

The two women stared at each other for a moment before they both smiled weakly. ‘I’ll get you a sandwich while you get stuck into that report,’ Nicki said quietly.

‘Thanks.’

The rest of the day passed without incident. Nicki insisted Marsha have dinner with herself and her husband, and after a pleasant evening in their Paddington flat they drove her home, waiting outside until she waved to them from the bedsit window to say all was well. Their concern was sweet, but made Marsha feel slightly ridiculous. Taylor wasn’t violent, for goodness’ sake, or dangerous—not in an abusive sense anyway. She knew he would rather cut off his right hand than raise it to a woman. She very much doubted his pride would allow him to try and see her again anyway, outside of the divorce court.

She slept badly that night, tossing and turning and drifting into one nightmare after another until, at just gone six, she rose from her rumpled bed and had a long warm shower. Thank goodness it was Friday and she had the weekend in front of her to get a handle on all this. She needed to be able to take a long walk in the fresh air and get her thoughts in order.

She always thought better out in the open. It was a hangover from her childhood and teenage years, when she had liked nothing better than to escape the confines of the dormitory and communal dining hall and wander about in the grounds of the home, staying out until she was found and brought back by an irate assistant.

It was during those times that she had eventually come to terms with the fact that it was probably her fault she had been returned to the home twice when adoption attempts had fallen through.

She had told herself so often the story of how her mother would come back for her—arms open wide as she tearfully told her daughter how much she loved her—that she had been unable to separate fact from fiction. She couldn’t not be there when her mother came, she had determined, and so—much as she hated it—she couldn’t live anywhere else.

It was after her best friend had left the home and forgotten all her extravagant promises to write and visit that she had begun to face the prospect that just wishing for people to behave a certain way didn’t mean it was going to happen. But by then it had been too late.