Two-Week Wife

Swearing at the memory, Adam levered himself away from the door, throwing off his robe as he strode over to his built-in wardrobe.

He began to agonise, as he dragged on some clothes, about whether he’d ever marry.

Probably not, came the savagely rueful acceptance. He’d only ever wanted one girl as his wife and the mother of his children. How could he settle for second-best?

No, he’d be having one-night stands with blonde bimbos when he was eighty—paid for, by then— and dreaming of what might have been, if only he hadn’t been such a useless schmuck at eighteen!

He glanced down at the old jeans he’d automatically pulled on and thought of all the swanky clothes he’d recently installed in the penthouse instead of the boot of his car—the ones he wore in his secret life as gambler and lover extraordinaire. The Italian suits. The tuxedos. The black silk pyjamas and dressing gowns.

He shook his head at himself, for he knew that that life wasn’t real. It would one day come to an end. It was a game. Thankfully a prosperous game, while his wits and courage were up to it, but still essentially a game—to be played as a boost to his ego and bank balance as well as a much needed diversion from the distress real life kept bringing him.

Real life was outside this door, waiting for him, waiting to try to change his mind about being her pretend husband.

He would have to be strong. Already he was feeling guilty. Already he was weakening. Tempting thoughts began infiltrating his brain. Maybe he would enjoy the pretence? Maybe he could lie there at night beside her and fantasise? Maybe she’d be so grateful to him that she’d let him...?

His teeth clenched down hard in his jaw. He didn’t want her bloody gratitude. He wanted what she willingly gave those other guys. He wanted her passion and her desire. He wanted her sexy little body, naked and panting beneath him, begging him to go on, desperate for him...

Adam swore as he became hotly aware that his fantasy had swiftly transferred to a hard, aching reality. He dragged a sloppy Joe down over his thudding heart and vowed not to weaken one iota.

Even if she got down on her hands and knees before him, he would not budge an inch.

A darkly ironic smile creased his mouth as he shoved his feet into battered trainers.

Let’s not go too far, Adam, came the wicked thought. Bianca on her hands and knees was a perverse and powerfully persuasive prospect. Too bad it would never come about. He would give anything to have her at his mercy. Anything!

Bianca spun round from the kitchen sink when she heard Adam’s bedroom door bang. Oh, dear. He still sounded very angry. What to do? How best to approach him?

Appeal to his sense of compassion, she decided, and raced out to head him off before he could leave. The sight of him dressed in old clothes distracted her for a second.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘So you’re not taking the soon-to-be fiancée out tonight?’ she asked tartly, and immediately bit her bottom lip. Wrong tack, you fool.

‘We’re staying in,’ he drawled. ‘Watching videos and searching for the meaning of life.’

Bianca was taken aback by his sarcasm. He really was in a filthy mood. Perhaps she should leave appealing to his compassion till tomorrow.

But what if he didn’t come home tomorrow? He was staying away from the flat more and more these days—obviously at this Sophie’s place.

‘Adam, when can we talk about this further?’ she asked, in her most apologetic and reasonable tone. ‘I know you’re angry with me, and I’m sorry. I should have told you before this.’

‘You shouldn’t have done it at all!’

‘Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.’

‘Bianca, saying sorry is not always enough.’

Bianca could feel mutiny brewing inside her heart. Why was he being so damned difficult about this? Was she asking so much? Two miserable weeks of pretending to be her husband and then he was off the hook to marry this...this Sophie creature.

‘You always said I could count on you,’ she pointed out rather sulkily.

‘You can. In things that count.’

She pouted her displeasure. ‘I would do it for you.’

‘Do what?’

‘Pretend to be your wife.’

‘Really? That’s an interesting thought. But I don’t need a pretend wife. I’m going to have a real one.’

Bianca still hadn’t come to terms with that. Still, there was a many a slip twixt the engagement and the altar. If this Sophie was anything like his previous girlfriends he’d soon be bored to death with her. None of those bimbos had had enough brains to boil water.

‘So what do you expect me to tell Mum?’ she asked defiantly.

He shrugged. ‘That’s your problem.’

‘I’m not going to tell her I lied, Adam.’

‘Heaven forbid. Tell you what, though. I’ll stay away the whole fortnight. You tell your mum we’re having a trial separation. Then, later, you can write and say that it didn’t work out and we’re divorced.’

‘She’ll be very upset.’

‘Only if you are. Tell her that it was an amicable parting and that we’re still good friends. That’s the best I can do.’

Bianca pressed her lips tightly together to stop herself from saying what she thought of him and his so-called friendship. When the chips were down, it had proved about as strong as his so-called love! ‘Is that your final word on the matter?’

‘It is.’

‘Then to hell with you, Adam Marsden. You’re not the man I thought you were. As soon as Mum goes home to Scotland, I’ll be finding somewhere else to live.’

His sudden stillness raised one last grain of hope in her breast. She could have sworn regret flashed momentarily in his eyes. But then they cooled perceptively and her heart sank.

‘I think that would be best for all concerned, Bianca,’ he said, with casual indifference.

All of a sudden she wanted to cry. Or to scream. Or both. Instead, she gave him an icy glare. ‘I will never ask you for another thing. Not as long as I live. I will have trouble even speaking to you!’

His face hardened. ‘Good.’

‘I had no idea you were such a bastard! To think I once believed you loved me!’

The cruellest little smile pulled at his mouth. ‘The things we have to live with,’ came his sarcastic remark.

Bianca could only stare at him. ‘I don’t know you at all, do I? You’ve become a stranger!’

‘A stranger?’ he repeated idly. ‘Yes, you could be right.’

And, with that devil’s smile still playing on his lips, he picked up his car keys from where he always left them in the ashtray on the coffee-table and walked out on her.

CHAPTER FOUR