Scandals And Secrets

‘So what if it was just sex last night?’ Nathan scoffed angrily. ‘And the night before. When has it ever been anything other than just sex between us?’

Gemma paled, her hand tightening over the knob as Lenore’s voice flung a furious reply.

‘When has it ever been anything else but just sex for you with any woman?’

Nathan laughed.

Despite her being already frozen with shock and horror, that cold laughter chilled Gemma to the bones.

‘You think I didn’t love you that night all those years,’ Lenore swept on, ‘when we made a baby together? You think that was only sex for me?’

‘I know it was.’ Scornfully.

‘You bastard!’

‘Nothing is to be achieved by calling names. Why don’t you come over here and stop being a fool? Besides, you can hardly flounce out of here in a temper. You’re not properly dressed.’

Gemma had to stuff a fist into her mouth to stop an anguished groan from escaping.

A muffled groan did find its way through those hideous doors, however, and Gemma thought she would die.

‘I should never have let you talk me into coming here,’ Lenore cried. ‘I should never have let you touch me. You’ve always been bad news for women. God, but I hate you.’

‘Shall we see how much?’ he taunted.

‘No, don’t! Oh...oh, God, I’m hopeless...’

Gemma couldn’t stand another second of such emotional torture, but the wild urge to burst in on them and create an embarrassing scene was superseded by feelings of pained pride. Why should she humiliate herself in front of two such shameless creatures? They wouldn’t really care, except in how being caught out would affect their cruelly selfish and amoral lives.

But oh, God, the betrayal hurt as she’d never been hurt before. Nothing compared with the vice-like pain gripping her heart, nor the wintry emptiness within, as though her soul had been sucked dry by some huge emotional vacuum cleaner.

Gemma somehow managed to close the door, hoist her carry-all up on to her shoulder and pick up her suitcase. She didn’t take the lift. She went down the fire stairs, quite slowly, each shuddering step like a death-kneel, her mind disbelieving of how quickly her excited happiness had been changed to despair.

Tears filled her eyes and flooded over, running down her cheeks. She didn’t stop to wipe them away. Neither did she stop going down those steps. If she did, she would surely sag down into a wretched impotent huddle, and once she did that she would not have the energy or the courage to do anything or go anywhere. Nathan might accidentally find her there and she couldn’t bear to hear the lies he was sure to come up with to explain what she’d overheard.

Gemma exited the building and turned to walk up the streets and around the corner, no real destination in mind. She just wanted to get as far away from Nathan and Lenore as she could. The act of walking was a salvation in itself, for having to put one foot in front of the other had a kind of robotic comfort. Gradually, the breeze dried the tears on Gemma’s cheeks and she felt the pieces of her shattered soul gradually reassemble into something that was capable of making decisions.

Not that she was whole again. Her heart would never be whole again, she recognised bleakly. It would remain broken, but a type of glueing together was taking place as she walked, her bewildered despair giving way to the human survival technique of cynicism and anger.

You shouldn’t be surprised, Gemma, a bitter voice berated. You had plenty of clues that Nathan hadn’t married you for love, no matter what he claimed. True love does not keep its emotional distance, nor harbour dark secrets. It is open and trusting and warm and wonderful. Nathan, on far too many occasions, was secretive and distrusting and cold and downright wicked. Look at the way he enslaved your senses, turned you into little more than a sexual puppet. If he’s been patient with you lately, it was because he had other fish to fry. He didn’t need to make love to you because he was having an affair with Lenore!

And you suspected as much. Go on, admit it, you stupid little idiot! Underneath you were worried about the time he was spending with Lenore but in the end you chose to ignore it, because you wanted to believe in his love, wanted to keep pretending.

As for Lenore...

Now that the initial shock was over and she was thinking more clearly, Gemma was stunned to find she didn’t feel quite so angry with Nathan’s ex-wife. In fact, she almost felt sorry for her. If Lenore hated Nathan, as she said, then that was because she was also still in love with him. Gemma could well understand a woman loving and hating Nathan at the same time. She certainly did right at this moment. But at least the hate part seemed to clear one’s vision of the man he really was. Lenore didn’t sound as though she was under any illusions. Neither was Gemma any more. Just to love Nathan was to become a fool, there was no doubt about that. A blind fool!

Gemma looked back over all the warnings she’d been given about Nathan, the warnings she had naïvely ignored. Instead, she’d stupidly gone into a marriage based on nothing but the physical. His wanting her to have a baby was the one thing that she didn’t quite understand. There again, men had babies all the time with women they didn’t love. Maybe it was a matter of ego, of wanting to replicate their genes, or of wanting to keep the women under their control.

Nathan had demonstrated a jealousy and possessiveness over her from the start, suggesting that, while he might not love her, he did like ‘owning’ her. Since their marriage, he’d moulded her into the sort of wife that suited him, a sexually submissive little doll whom he could dress as he fancied, parade in public on his arm, then bring home and make love to as he pleased.

Well, he wouldn’t be ‘making love’ to her any more, she vowed with an intense bitterness that kept the despair at bay. Their marriage was over as of this moment. She would never go back to him. Never ever!

Gemma strode on, around the next corner, heading towards she knew not what. But the ramifications of the decision she had just made were not long in sinking in. Would Byron give her the sack once he found out she’d left his precious adopted son? Even if he didn’t, where was she going to live now? She had no real friends, no one she could turn to, except perhaps...

Damian had said she could rely on him if ever she needed a friend.

Gemma slowed her step. Why was she so loath to call Damian Campbell? Was it just pride that was stopping her, or something more complex than that? Nathan’s own warnings about his enemy no longer held water, did they? One couldn’t believe a thing he said. And yet...

Gemma sighed her confusion, halting completely on the pavement, putting the suitcase down. Momentarily, she closed her eyes, the events of the day threatening to overwhelm her. She felt so alone, so alone and so wretched. Tired too. Yes, suddenly, she felt dreadfully tired. Emotional exhaustion, she supposed.

Opening her eyes, she glanced around and there, on the next corner, stood an old hotel. What she needed was a quiet place to lie down. Somewhere she could simply sleep for a while. Nathan was not expecting her back in Sydney till the following afternoon. He was not expecting her to call tonight. This gave her over twenty-four hours to decide what action she was going to take. Wearily, Gemma picked up her suitcase again and began walking in the direction of the hotel.

What would have happened, she wondered grimly as she carefully crossed the street, if she had stayed in Lightning Ridge and come back as originally planned?

Gemma shuddered to think that she would have innocently gone back home to her husband’s bed, unknowing of his treachery, unsuspecting of how callously he had betrayed her over the weekend, how he would go on betraying her.

Innocent.

Unknowing.

Unsuspecting.

Well, she wasn’t innocent any longer and she would never be unknowing or unsuspecting again. From this moment on, Gemma Whitmore would place her trust in one person only.

Herself.

CHAPTER THREE

CELESTE surveyed her wardrobe with some concern on the Monday morning, moving outfit after outfit along the racks in her dressing-room, mulling over the effect each one would have on Byron Whitmore. What could she wear that wouldn’t inspire contempt in his eyes?

Or lust.

At this last thought, Celeste brought herself up sharply. What on earth was the matter with her, caring what Byron thought, or felt? It was her own feelings she had to worry about. Her own lust. Or desire. Or whatever people called it these days.

She’d read somewhere recently that lust had a chemical basis, hormones or such sparking off endorphins in the brain which in turn impelled one’s body to mate with the object of its desire without any reference to logic or common sense. A mindless animal thing, in other words.

A mindless animal thing was all she could possibly still feel for that man, she’d decided bitterly after her run-in with Damian at the weekend. Nothing else. Certainly not anything finer or deeper. She’d been silly even to consider such a possibility, let alone worry about it!

Since this was the case, she reasoned ruthlessly, then the person who needed protecting was herself, not Byron. How better to protect herself than to dress as provocatively as she always had, thereby ensuring his lust and contempt?

Celeste knew full well that the holier-than-thou Byron Whitmore would not contaminate himself by touching someone who epitomised everything he despised. She was safe, as long as she ran true to form. Whereas if she came out looking unexpectedly demure, shock might make him vulnerable to the primitive desires she knew still lurked in that staunchly high-principled soul of his. She’d seen the lust in his eyes the night of the ball as surely as she had felt her own.

A canary-yellow dress jumped out at her and she drew it from the rack, smiling. If that didn’t put some fire in his veins and disgust into those beautiful blue eyes of his then her name wasn’t Celeste Campbell.

Made of stretch jersey wool, the yellow sheath fitted her like a glove and finished mid-thigh. The high rolled neck and long tight sleeves practised reverse physiology by being more provocative than the lowest-cut, most revealing style. Perhaps this had something to do with the way it clung, projecting a subtle promise rather than overt promiscuity.

Subtle?