His Wedding-Night Heir

Tracy stared at him. ‘But I was going to have lasagne.’

‘Then of course you shall.’ He was smiling again, using that charm of his like a weapon. Controlling the tense silence that had descended. ‘While you tell me all about Gunners Terrace.’

‘It was an idea of our late mother’s,’ Gordon Hartley butted in, almost desperately. ‘Sadly, she died while the scheme was in its infancy, so most of the houses are still untouched. They’re dangerous and insanitary, and they should be pulled down.’

In spite of her mental and emotional turmoil Cally managed to give him a steady look. ‘That isn’t altogether true, and you know it. Half the terrace has been completed, and work has started on the others.’

‘But we won’t talk about it here and now,’ Nick cut in decisively. He’d released Cally’s wrist, but the pressure of his fingers seemed to linger like a bruise. ‘I still have things to do, so we’ll have to postpone the discussion.’

‘There’s really nothing to talk about, Sir Nicholas,’ Neville Hartley blustered. ‘I think we’ve made the position quite clear already.’

‘One side of it, certainly,’ Nick agreed. He looked at Kit. ‘What’s the name of the restaurant you’re using?’

‘The Toscana,’ Kit muttered awkwardly. ‘In the High Street.’

Nick looked at his watch. ‘Then I’ll meet you there in an hour’s time.’ He paused. ‘All of you,’ he added softly, his gaze resting briefly on Cally. ‘I hope that’s clearly understood.’ Another swift, hard smile and he was gone, and the crowd seemed to close round him.

There was a taut silence, and Cally could see the Hartley brothers exchanging wary glances.

She could understand their problem, she thought wryly. Young Lady Tempest, wife of Eastern Crest’s dynamic chairman, would have been an honoured guest, overwhelmed with obsequious attention. Nick Tempest’s clearly estranged wife was a horse of a different colour, and they weren’t sure quite how to deal with her.

To be civil to someone who’d encouraged Genevieve Hartley in her reckless foolishness and battled with them openly after her death would be anathema, but neither could they throw her bodily into the street with her companions, as they obviously wished.

After all, Gunners Terrace was supposed to be down and out, just waiting for the bulldozers to arrive. Now the residents had an unsuspected ace up their sleeve, and for the moment the Hartleys didn’t have a strategy to deal with it.

In the end Neville Hartley said thickly, ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’ And they stalked furiously away.

‘Perhaps that should be our line,’ Cally called after them, her voice inimical.

Then suddenly the tension went out of her, and she was gasping as if she’d been winded.

Kit was staring at her as if she was a stranger. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘You are married—to him? It can’t be true.’

‘It’s perfectly true.’ Her voice was raw. ‘But not for much longer, I assure you. Once I’ve been separated from him—from Nick—for two years, divorce should be easy.’

‘Is that how he sees it?’ Kit asked sombrely.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You were the surprised one just now,’ he said. ‘If you ask me, your husband knew you were going to be here tonight, and he was waiting for you.’

‘He’s very dishy,’ Tracy said on a note of envy. ‘I wouldn’t mind him waiting for me.’

Cally gave a taut smile. ‘Well, at the restaurant you can have him all to yourself. I’ve had enough surprises for one day, and I’m going home.’

‘But you can’t,’ Kit said, dismayed. ‘You heard him. He’s willing to listen to what we have to say—something we hardly dared hope for. But it has to be all of us or it’ll be no dice. Cally, you can’t walk away—not when we actually have a chance to put our case.’

She looked down at the floor. ‘I think I’d be more likely to damage your cause than help it.’

I should have listened to that dream the other night, she thought. Accepted it as a warning and gone while the going was good. But I was too complacent. I let myself think that he’d have stopped searching by now—if he’d ever begun.

Unless, of course, this is all one sick coincidence. But somehow I don’t think so.

‘If you’re not with us, I don’t think we’ll have a cause,’ Kit told her grimly. ‘You can’t give up on it all now. Besides, what point would there be when he knows where you are?’

It was logical—it was reasonable—but it made the situation no easier to accept.

She said, ‘I can’t just—meet him socially. Too much has happened.’

‘Then look on it as a business meeting,’ Kit urged. ‘They say half the deals in the country are done in restaurants.’

She bent her head. ‘You really think he’s going to offer any concessions?’

‘Why not? He didn’t have to agree to talk to us. He could have insisted on seeing you alone. That’s a hopeful sign, isn’t it?’

‘Nick likes to manipulate people,’ she said. ‘And he always has his own agenda.’

‘Nevertheless,’ he said stubbornly, ‘it has to be worth a try.’ He paused, and his tone altered. ‘Cally—did you ever intend to tell me you were married?’

She gave him a straight look. ‘I didn’t plan to be around long enough for that to be necessary. Anyway, it’s not an episode I’m proud of. I’m just thankful it will soon be over and done with.’

‘Why’s he a sir?’ asked Tracy.

‘Because he’s a baronet. He inherited the title from a distant cousin.’

‘With loads of land and money?’ Tracy was clearly intrigued. ‘That’s dead romantic.’

‘Most of the land had been sold off,’ Cally said wearily. ‘And he was already a millionaire several times over. So all he really got was a rather rundown house.’

‘Was it love at first sight?’ Tracy persisted. ‘When you met him? I mean, you obviously fancied him enough to marry him.’

‘Actually,’ Cally said in a clear, bright voice, ‘it was just a business arrangement. Only I decided rather late in the day that I couldn’t go through with it after all. And I’d rather not talk about it any more either,’ she added.

Except that she almost certainly wouldn’t have a choice in the matter, she told herself, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray and swallowing some of it down her dry throat.

Because she was faced at last with the confrontation she’d have given anything to avoid.

She tried not to look—to see where Nick was in the busy room, or if he was alone. Particularly that. She strove hard not to wonder what he was thinking—or what he might have to say to her later. Because there was bound to be some kind of reckoning.

Even if he agreed that a quick and quiet divorce was the best way out of their situation—and as far as Cally was concerned there was no possible alternative—she was still unlikely to escape totally unscathed.

I left him with a lot of explaining to do, she told herself tautly. Made him look a fool. Something he’s unlikely to forgive or forget.

And now she would have to come up with an explanation for her headlong flight from him.

Not the truth, of course. That was locked away deep within her, and she would not go there. But something—anything—that would carry a modicum of conviction.

She put down her glass and with a murmured excuse went out of the room, down a flight of stone steps to the women’s cloakroom. She had it to herself, which she was grateful for, because one glance in the mirror told her that she looked as if she was running a temperature. Her eyes were feverishly bright, and there was a hectic flush along her cheekbones, so the last thing she wanted was for someone to ask if she was all right—especially if Nick was around to hear it.