A Husband's Revenge

His hair, brushed straight back from a high forehead, formed a widow’s peak, his skin was tanned and his eyes were a clear, brilliant green between thick lashes. He looked tough and intelligent and heart-stoppingly handsome, with the kind of animal magnetism that would have made even an ugly man completely irresistible.

At her approach he held out his hand.

As if under a spell, she put hers into it.

He used the hand he was holding to draw her close, and, smiling into her eyes, bent his head.

Her nostrils were filled with the faint, masculine scent of his aftershave, and, feeling his warm breath on her cheek, she trembled inside while, eyes closed, lips parted, she waited transfixed for his kiss.

But the kiss never came.

When she lifted heavy lids he had drawn back. He was still smiling, but his smile was mocking, derisive.

She didn’t need that smile to tell her he was amused by her reaction. Feeling as though she had been slapped in the face, she snatched her hand free and turned away.

Why was he playing with her like this? To remind her that he could? To put her at a disadvantage? For his own entertainment? Or a combination of all three?

Chilled and alarmed, she began dimly to realise something of the power he had over her.

But until her memory returned, and she knew exactly how things stood between them, all she could do was stay calm and resist his potent attraction.

He put on his jacket and, a hand at her waist, accompanied her across the hall and into the lift. Though she was tall and wearing high heels, standing by her side he still seemed to tower over her.

Glancing down at her set profile, he remarked blandly, ‘You’re looking rather...militant. Something to do with a need for self-preservation?’

She studied his face with calm deliberation, then said, just as blandly, ‘And you’re looking rather conceited. Something to do with a mistaken belief in your own powers of attraction?’

To her surprise he laughed, and said appreciatively, ‘You’re starting to sound less like some forlorn waif and more like yourself.’

A moment later the lift slid to a halt and they emerged into the glittering foyer, now thronging with people.

His hand beneath her elbow, he escorted her through the main doors and out onto Fifth Avenue. That famous street was teeming with life and vitality, and had, Clare thought, an air of being en fête.

The early evening was hot and sunny, and the park was full of people. Bright summer dresses and colourful umbrellas blossomed everywhere; candy wrappers and soft drink cans littered the paths, radios blared, babies bawled, children played and perspiring joggers jogged.

It was a scene full of noise and gaiety, and Clare loved it.

Jos tucked her hand through his arm and, as he matched his pace to her slower one, they strolled in silence.

After a while, her thoughts busy, she remarked, ‘You mentioned we met when you came over to England on a business trip. How did we get to know each other?’

Face guarded, green eyes suddenly wary, Jos answered, ‘I’d approached Ashleigh Kent with the intention of buying a house...’

She frowned. Why would he want a house in rural England when he lived in New York?

‘You were the representative they sent to show me around.’

A chill feathering over her skin, Clare stopped walking and stood stock-still. As a dim crystal ball, her mind produced a faint, intangible impression of a bare hall, open to the rafters, with dark galleries running round three sides, and a man standing looking up to a pair of high, narrow windows which threw lozenges of light onto the dusty stone flags three floors below.

Head bent, slim fingers pressed to her temples, she tried to seize the elusive memory that hovered almost within her grasp.

Just when she thought she had it, it vanished like a spectre. Suddenly convinced it held some terrible significance, she gave a low moan and began to tremble violently.

Jos took her shoulders. ‘Clare, what is it? What have you remembered?’

‘Nothing. I...I thought I had, but then it was gone.’

CHAPTER THREE

SHE was shaking so much that she could scarcely stand. Steering her to the nearest vacant bench, he pushed her onto it and stood over her. After a while the trembling stopped. Gathering herself, she looked up at him and said steadily, ‘I’m all right now. We can go on.’

‘I think not. You’ve done enough walking for today. Wait here a moment.’

He went a hundred yards or so to an intersection, where the path they were on was crossed by a wider one. Raising his hand, he snapped his fingers.

As he came back to offer his arm she heard the clatter of a horse’s hooves, and by the time they’d reached the intersection a polished black carriage with a top-hatted driver was waiting. It had a festive, holiday air—the well-groomed horse wore yellow rosettes and the driver’s whip was adorned with a matching bow of ribbon.

Jos helped her step up and then sat beside her. The driver clicked his tongue at the horse and they were off, bowling merrily through the park.

Clare looked at her companion with awe. ‘And I didn’t catch a glimpse of either the mouse or the pumpkin.’

He laughed, white teeth gleaming, charm momentarily banishing the hardness. ‘There are plenty of these carriages about. The only magic is in knowing where to find an empty one.’

The word ‘empty’ reminded her of the memory she had so nearly grasped. ‘The house I took you to see, was it—?’

‘No more questions for the moment,’ he broke in firmly. ‘Just relax and enjoy the drive. Don’t make any attempt to remember. Later on we’ll try a spot of therapy, but I was planning to have a meal out first, if you feel up to it?’

So that was why he’d changed into a suit and tie.

‘Oh, yes, that would be nice,’ she agreed.

The sun shone and, despite the traffic fumes, the balmy evening air fanning her face felt fresh and clean. As they clip-clopped along Jos pointed out all the things of interest, and after a while Clare found herself enjoying the leisurely drive.

It was well past seven when they crossed the Grand Army Plaza and their carriage stopped alongside some others. Beyond rose the pale marble and glazed brick, the richly ornamented mansard of the Plaza Hotel.

‘I thought we’d have dinner here tonight,’ Jos told her as he helped her down and paid the driver. ‘Tomorrow evening, if you like, we can go further afield.’

When he’d given her a glimpse of the celebrated hotel, with its fine shops, lounges and places to eat, he asked, ‘Which of the restaurants do you prefer, Clare?’

‘I really don’t mind. I’ll leave it to you.’

‘In that case...’ With a firm hand beneath her elbow, he steered her towards the nearest, where he appeared to be well known—the maitre d’ calling him by name and ushering them to a secluded table for two.

The very air breathed luxury—the rich aroma of smoked salmon and caviare mingling with expensive perfumes and the sweet smell of success. Above the discreet murmur of conversation and an occasional laugh, ice buckets rattled and champagne corks popped.

As they sipped an aperitif and studied the menu Jos made light conversation, giving Clare an opportunity to respond in kind.

She asked him what it was really like to live in Manhattan, and discovered that he was a born raconteur with a pithy way of expressing himself and a dry sense of humour.