Page 12 of A Secure Marriage

'How soon? Next week?' he asked, his eyes sharp, and Cleo dragged in a deep breath, feeling the wetness of sweat on her forehead, the palms of her hands, her back.

'No. The week after. We're leaving tomorrow on our honeymoon.' Sharing any details of her life with him made her feel ill and the words were stiff, difficult to push past her teeth. 'Leave me a phone number. I'll contact you when I have it.'

'Just see you do.' He had pushed himself to his feet, moving to stand close, and Cleo was too frozen with loathing to move away, her feet rooted to the silky oriental carpet. 'Because, quite apart from poor old Uncle John, you have someone else to consider now, don't you, my love?' An eyebrow arched with hateful mockery. The sort of stuff I could dish out about you would make that new husband of yours look something of a laughing-, stock in the City, wouldn't it? A bit of a fool, wouldn't you say? And he wouldn't be one bit pleased, would he?'

She couldn't speak; there was nothing to say. But she longed to lash out at him, to hit, kick and batter, but the moment of temper, of hot temptation, passed. And Fenton drawled, 'Yes, we must consider your husband's feelings in all this, mustn't we, my love—my clever, clever love? And you are clever, damnably so. I admire you for it! To get your pretty little hands on a large fortune, you marry an even larger one! Nice thinking! Go right to the top of the class!'

And behind them, in a voice that would have frozen a molten lava flow, Jude said, 'Won't you introduce me to your friend, darling?'

And Cleo, her eyes darkening with panic, watched with horrified fascination as Robert Fenton gave her a leering wink over the rim of the brandy glass he was lifting to his lips.

CHAPTER FOUR

AFTERWARDS, Cleo had been unable to remember precisely how she'd coped. Her heart had been slamming, her stomach clenched in a sickening knot, but she'd managed to perform the introductions gracefully although she'd been agonisingly aware of Jude's eyes on her as she'd watched, as though mesmerised, as his brandy had slid down Fenton's throat.

'Can't stay, I'm afraid,' Fenton had handed the empty glass to Cleo, his eyes flickering to Jude as he swaggered to the door. 'Just dropped in to offer my congratulations. Lovely lady you have, Mescal. Quite lovely.'

'I'll see you out.'

Jude's voice had been toneless as he'd followed the other man out through the door, ignoring Fenton's airy, 4No need, I can find my way.'

And Cleo had sagged against the wall, still clutching the empty glass, her hands shaking. How much had Jude heard? Panicking, she tried to force her mind to remember exactly what Fenton had been saying. Something about how clever she'd been to marry Jude's fortune in order to get her hands on her own! He would think she'd been bragging about it—and to Fenton, of all people—and plying him with the best brandy to add insult to injury!

Quickly, she put the glass on a table, drawing in deep breaths and trying to compose herself as she heard Jude's approaching steps along the hall.

'Known him long?'

The enquiry was almost polite and she said, 'About two years,' searching his eyes for a clue to his mood. But there was nothing, just a blank careful coolness, only a hint of a question in the gravelly voice.

'Just called to offer his congratulations?'

'Yes, that's right.' She was sure he must hear the lie in her voice, see it in her eyes, and she had turned away, rearranging an already perfectly balanced bowl of tulips, feeling the cool, waxy petals beneath her shaking fingers, waiting for the accusation that must come if he had indeed overheard the remark Fenton had made.

But there had been nothing, and, when she'd steeled herself to look around, the room had been empty.

And now the sun beat down from a paintbox-blue sky, shimmering on the fine golden sand, bouncing off the cluster of angular white buildings of the fishing village further down the coast.

Cleo stirred, stretching her long legs, revelling in the heat of the sun, and Jude said, so very casually, 'Turn over. You've had as much sun on your back as your skin can stand.'

Her heart picking up speed, Cleo's body went rigid and wary, very still. She hadn't heard him come over the sand. But then she wouldn't, would she? The sand was very soft and she'd been drowsing, and the hypnotic suck and drag of the waves as they lapped the shore and retreated again would have drowned out any sound he might have made.

Then he spoke again, repeating his directive, his voice sharper this time.

Recognising the sense of his command, Cleo turned, feeling the beach towel rumple beneath her, wishing she'd been more prepared. She still trod carefully through the minefield of uncertainties, unspoken anxieties, that was her week-old marriage to this man.

She fumbled for her sunglasses and put them on, something to hide behind.

There was little else. Her tiny black bikini revealed most of what there was to reveal, and she wouldn't have worn it if she'd known he would be back from that fishing trip so soon. She had imagined she had the best part of the day to herself.

'You're back early.' So light her voice, so carefully neutral. Cleo was proud of the way she was containing those creeping, unnerving anxieties, the doubts, the dread. He was looming over her and she snapped her eyes away.

Dressed in only a pair of brief black denim shorts—faded and ragged—the dark golden body which was dusted with crisp black hair seemed impossibly male, superbly athletic and very, very threatening. The sight of him made something inside her shudder, tremble with a sensation she couldn't identify.

It was fear, she told herself, primitive fear. But there was something more, something nameless.

'I didn't want to be accused of neglecting my wife.* There was a bite to his tone that she hadn't heard during the week of their marriage, and she sensed a difference in his attitude. A subtle difference that made her feel tense, more wary than ever.

It had been as much as she could do to adequately cope with the way he had been since their wedding: cool, polite, but pleasant with it. And the four days they'd been on the island hadn't been quite the ordeal she'd anticipated. He had been courteous, making sure she was content, had all she needed. And what the maid, who apparently came with the villa, thought about the arrangement of separate bedrooms, the way they spent most of their days following separate pursuits, Cleo didn't know, or care.

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