The Bride's Secret

‘I came to Tangier alone,’ he said softly, ‘as the hotel will confirm. You have no proof that there is a friend.’

‘But I saw you with people this lunchtime.’ In spite of the dire situation she couldn’t bring herself to mention the redhead specifically. ‘You know you were with—with them.’

‘Pure chance.’ His smile was without humour. ‘Prove otherwise.’

‘But you told Idris and Fatima you were bringing someone,’ she insisted desperately. ‘You arranged it with them.’

‘Yes, I did.’ A brief pause and then, ‘But you do not know their surname, where they live, their telephone number. You will not be able to substantiate your story to the anxious Keith’

‘I shan’t need to give proof.’ She raised her head proudly. ‘Keith will believe me,’ she declared firmly.

‘A man in love is a jealous man, Annie,’ he said coolly. ‘And jealous men are not reasonable at the best of times. And this...this will not be the best of times. Keith imagines he loves you.’

‘You would lie?’ she asked dazedly. ‘You’d really do that?’

‘Without hesitation.’ It was immediate and cold.

‘But I’ve told you, he isn’t my boyfriend.’ She glared at the imperturbable profile, her eyes fiery. ‘It’s all in your imagination.’

‘Then you have no cause to worry that pretty little head, have you?’ he said urbanely. ‘All, as they say, is well.’

But it wasn’t. A picture of Keith’s face as it had been that lunchtime was suddenly there in front of her, and snippets of their conversation echoed in her mind. He had told her she wasn’t over Hudson, at the same time as making it plain he cared about her. The way he had reacted to Hudson—his attitude towards her—it all confirmed her suspicions that Keith wanted more than just a working relationship.

‘Don’t ever try to play poker, Annie.’ The voice was livid. ‘And, as far as I’m concerned. I’m doing the guy a favour. At least he gets a warning, which is far more than I did.’

‘It’s not like that.’ She had never wanted to hit someone so much in her life. ‘I’ve told you, Keith and I are just friends.’

‘Spare me.’

How could she hate someone, really hate them as she did Hudson at this minute, and yet love them so much it was a physical pain in her heart? Marianne asked herself bleakly as she settled back in her seat helplessly. And yet could she blame him for being like this? What would she have been like if the situation had been reversed and it had been Hudson who had walked out on her after that glorious two months they had shared? She would have wanted to kill him. It had been bad enough for her, knowing she had to go. But him...

She stared miserably through the dark windscreen as the car flashed swiftly through the black Moroccan night, her eyes blind.

She had been so happy when Hudson had asked her to marry him that night—ecstatic, wild with joy... She had known, from the first moment of meeting him, that there would never be anyone else for her, but that he’d felt the same had been too wonderful, too glorious to be true. He was an assured, astute man of the world, powerful, commanding, with a reputation that went before him to oil wheels and pave the way in a manner that had left her breathless. People held him in awe—not just for his wealth and formidable influence, but for the razor-sharp, ruthless intelligence that ravaged those foolish enough to try to deceive him.

He was incorruptible and totally honourable—and that in a profession known for its subtle, and at times doubtful, elucidation of the law. He had his own moral code and he stuck to it—whatever pressure was brought to bear by colleagues or criminals. And he had loved her. It had seemed like a fairy tale, a dream, when he could have had any woman he wanted just by lifting his little finger. Beautiful, sophisticated, experienced women who would know all there was to know about pleasing a man.

She had mentioned Hudson in her letters home to her mother in Scotland, unable to hide her happiness, but had been less than pleased when her mother and stepfather had popped up in France the day before Hudson had asked her to marry him. Not that she hadn’t been pleased to see her mother, but her stepfather...

Michael Caxton, an American living and working in Scotland for a big American company, had married her mother after a whirlwind courtship eighteen months before when Marianne had been at university, and from the first moment of meeting him after the marriage she had disliked him. He’d been too handsome, too charming-too much of everything. But her mother had loved him, and, having struggled on her own for five years after the death of Marianne’s father, she had seized the chance of happiness with both hands.

So Marianne had kept her reservations to herself on her visits home, maintaining a surface civility whilst praying that her distrust and misgivings were unfounded. But they hadn’t been, she reflected flatly.

Michael had still been up when she had got home on the night of Hudson’s proposal—her mother, aunt and uncle having long since retired—and she had known somehow, as soon as she’d walked through the door, that his guise of being unable to sleep because of toothache was a lie. His eyes had been too sharp, too cunning.

‘Nice evening?’ It was deliberately casual.

‘Yes, thank you.’ She forced a smile whilst hoping she could escape with the minimum of conversation. He scared her.

‘Getting on well with Hudson, are you?’ he asked smoothly.

‘Very well.’ She looked straight at Michael then to find the pale blue eyes tight on her face. ‘Do you know him?’ she asked quietly as some sixth sense sent cold trickles down her spine. This was all about Hudson somehow; she felt it in her bones.

‘I know of him.‘ Michael smiled but it didn’t reach the unblinking orbs, and she realised then, as a warning bell began to clang stridently in her brain, that his smiles never did. His eyes were the eyes of a shark—empty, cold, dead... ‘Oh. yes, I certainly know of him. He’s a one-man vigilante for law and order in the States, an advocate for the all-American way.’

‘Well, that’s good, surely?’ she replied warily, the fierce joy and excitement that had carried her into the house on wings beginning to die. ‘We need order and laws, don’t we?’

‘Probably... for the masses,’ Michael drawled slowly. ‘Those content to be led all their lives, who want nothing more than a paltry monthly pay cheque that enables them to scrape through to the next month.’ It was clear he didn’t put himself in that category.

‘And you’re not like that?’ She suddenly would have given the world to step back in time an hour and not be there. She was going to hear something she didn’t want to hear; the hairs that were standing up on the back of her neck told her so. ‘You’re different?’

‘How do you think I bought the place in Scotland, Marianne?’

Michael had been living in a hotel when he’d first met her mother, but a few weeks before the wedding he had bought what virtually amounted to a small castle, complete with acres of grounds housing a lake, deer—and had taken great delight in acting the feudal lord.

‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘I haven’t thought about it.’

‘Use your imagination.’ And then as she still stared at him with great, accusing eyes, he snapped, ‘And don’t look at me like that, damn you. You either make it or you don’t in this wodd—there are only two choices—and to make it you take all the help you can get. I’ve...done favours for people, bent the rules a little, oiled wheels,’ he finished softly, his eyes narrowed and hard.

‘But you’re an accountant,’ she murmured naively. ‘How—?’

‘Hudson is going to get offered a case in the next little while, and if he takes it it could prove...uncomfortable for people who have been very good to me. If the dirt starts to fly it’ll come my way too, and a little bit of dirt contaminates everything it comes into contact with—your mother, you—and if you’re with Hudson...’

‘What... what case?’ she asked through numb lips.

‘Things have been hotting up for some time, but eighteen months ago certain people decided I’d better leave the States and lie low—subpoenas have a nasty habit of rearing their heads when you least expect them,’ he continued almost matter-of-factly.

‘Does my mother know?’ She couldn’t believe the conversation was really taking place, not here, in her aunt’s pretty little sitting room. ‘Does she know why you left the States?’

‘Of course not. I never discuss my business with anyone,’ he drawled softly, his voice at odds with the intensity of the chillingly cold eyes. ‘It is...personal.’

‘Then why are you telling me?’ she asked bewilderedly.

‘Think, girl, think!’ The words were harsh before he collected himself and continued in the same soft tone as before, ‘It is clear from what you’ve told your mother that you have some influence with Hudson de Sance, and that is a bonus we could never have arranged if we had tried for years. If de Sance doesn’t take the case it will come to nothing, end of story.’ He smiled meaningfully.

‘You’re asking me to persuade him not to take it?’ she asked numbly. ‘Is that what this is all about? You expect me to do that?’

‘Exactly.’ Now the soft voice was persuasive. ‘It will be best for everyone concerned—you see that, surely? Me, your mother, you—even Hudson. It will not do his sterling reputation any good when it comes to light he’s having an affair with the daughter of one of the men he’s prosecuting. And it would come to light...’

‘I am not your daughter,’ she shot back bitterly.

‘The media won’t see it like that,’ he countered darkly.

‘And it’s not an affair, not like you mean. He...he wants me to marry him,’ she said desperately. ‘He loves me.’

‘Does he? Does he indeed...?’ Michael nodded reflectively. ‘Better and better.’

‘I hate you.’ She glared at him, her eyes blazing. ‘You married my mother purely as a cover, didn’t you? And you’ll dump her as soon as it suits you. You don’t love her, you’re incapable of love. I bet you couldn’t believe your luck when I began to date Hudson—’

‘A gift from the lap of the gods,’ he confirmed sardonically. ‘And definitely not to be ignored. Now, if you’re clever, Marianne, you’ll use this for your own advantage. I can make you a very wealthy woman in your own right, and as Hudson’s wife...’

‘Even if I agreed to this, it wouldn’t be just this one time, would it?’ she said bitterly. ‘You’d put Hudson in a terrible position, use emotional blackmail about me and my mother, threaten to blacken his name through me if he didn’t agree to what you and your friends want. He would never be free of you.’

‘It would be just this once; you have my word,’ he said smoothly, but she saw the look in his eyes and knew she was right.

‘Your word?’ she repeated scathingly. ‘You’re despicable, filthy. I can’t bear that my mother has allowed you to touch her.’

‘Careful, Marianne, be very careful,’ he warned silkily. ‘I can break her and I can break you, and my friends have extensive influence. Just be sensible and all this can be worked out very nicely.’

But she didn’t behave according to Michael’s definition of sensible. She escaped to her room and sat there for hours, her mind desperately seeking a release from the horror, only to come to the conclusion that there wasn’t one. She couldn’t put Hudson through the torment that her revelation would involve—whichever course of action he took. Either he compromised everything he had built his life, character and reputation around—and Michael would make sure he kept on compromising, too—or he would have to fight her stepfather and his criminal friends, and in the process, through his relationship with her, mud would stick to him, too. It was a no-win situation whichever way she looked at it.

Unless she left Hudson now. Disappeared out of his life. Disappeared out of everyone’s life. Her heart pounded furiously, but it was the only way.

She wrote three letters. One to her mother, explaining everything. One to Michael, informing him she was going where no one would find her and that she was telling Hudson nothing except that their relationship was over. And one—the most difficult—to Hudson. And then she packed, left the house before dawn, and once in England made for London, her mind and emotions shattered.

She couldn’t remember much now about the first few months, although she had survived somehow—living in a tiny bedsit and working as a waitress, her mind on automatic most of the time. Later she’d realised she had had some sort of mini-breakdown, but at the time she had just got through each day as it came, the blackness in her soul absolute.

The thing that had shocked her out of the stupor was seeing an old friend from her home village purely by chance, and learning in the middle of a crowded café that her mother and Michael were dead, killed in a car crash the day after they had returned to Scotland. It had been like a blow straight between the eyes.

She had grieved desperately for her mother, hated Michael with a vengeance that had shocked her, longed for Hudson with renewed intensity. But gradually, over the following weeks, she had come to the realisation that she was thinking and feeling and living again—even if the main element to it all was suffering. Agonising suffering.

‘Would you like me to hold your hand while you face the music?’

‘What?’ The dark, silky voice had intruded into the nightmare world with all the softness of cold steel, but as she came out of her reverie she saw her hotel looming up in the distance and a new sort of panic rose. ‘Oh, no, I don’t; of course I don’t,’ she snapped testily—hating him, loving him, feeling as though she couldn’t take much more without howling like a baby.

‘He might wonder why you didn’t phone him to tell him where you were,’ Hudson suggested quietly. ‘I wondered that myself. Why didn’t you?’ The grey eyes flashed her way for one vital second.

Because it simply hadn’t occurred to her, she thought helplessly. She hadn’t thought of Keith once, not once, through the evening; all her thoughts and emotions had been tied up with the tall, ruthless man at her side. ‘It wasn’t necessary,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t answer to Keith or anyone else.’

‘Hmm. independent, eh?’ he drawled easily. ‘Funny, I don’t remember you as quite so militant when you were with me.’

She wasn’t militant, she was melted jelly inside, Marianne thought with painful self-awareness; but the time had long since passed when she could have explained her actions to him. Perhaps if she had known about Michael’s death when it had happened—had gone to Hudson then and told him everything—things might have been different now. But then again Michael’s untimely death hadn’t negated any of her reasons for leaving Hudson. The contact with her would still have been there; the people Michael had been involved with could still have tried to discredit Hudson through her. Whichever way she had looked there had still been no solution.

When she had found out about the car crash she had contacted the family solicitor, and had been amazed to find Michael and her mother had left everything to her in a will they’d made when they had married. Michael’s wealth had been considerable, and she would never forget the absolute shock and amazement on the solicitor’s face when she had insisted on giving everything she had inherited to charity. But to her it had been blood money—tainted, unclean—and she had only been able to breathe freely again when every last penny had gone, even though part of it had been from her mother’s estate.

‘Here we are. And look who’s waiting like an anxious mother hen,’ Hudson said softly, and nastily, as the sports car growled to a stop outside the hotel and Hudson cut the powerful engine.

Marianne looked, and then felt a pang of deep and mortifying guilt as she saw Keith’s worried face—which was made all the worse by the knowledge that Hudson’s cruel analogy wasn’t far off beam.

‘I suppose a goodnight kiss is out of the question?’ Hudson drawled with mocking amusement, his good humour apparently restored at the sight of Keith practically dancing in agitation as he raced down the steps towards them.

‘You’re a rotten swine,’ she hissed furiously.

‘I know...’ His voice carried a wealth of satisfaction.

As Keith reached them and opened the passenger door Hudson left the driver’s seat to stand just outside the car, his brawny arms leaning on the top of the vehicle as he watched Marianne alight.

‘Where have you been?’ Keith’s voice was several octaves higher than normal, his round, boyish face flushed and perspiring. ‘I expected you to be here when I got back this afternoon, and then I thought you’d at least be back for dinner.’

‘I’m sorry—’ Marianne began quickly, but the tirade continued.

‘I’ve been worried to death, and none of the others knew where you were.’ He was ignoring Hudson as though the big figure watching them with such obvious satisfaction didn’t exist. ‘Couldn’t you have phoned or something? Just a few words to say where you were?’

‘It was my fault, I’m afraid.’ Hudson’s voice was like smooth cream, and even a babe in arms would have been able to tell he was enjoying every minute. ‘We... had dinner with some friends.’

How could he make the truth sound so much like a lie? Marianne thought savagely. He’d done that on purpose—that brief pause which had made what followed sound even more unlikely. Oh, she hated him!

‘Isn’t that so, Annie?’ He made the pet name take on soft and unbelievable connotations as he shifted his big body lazily, his eyes glittering in the muted light from the hotel.

‘Yes, yes, it is.’ Well, it was. “They...these friends of Hudson’s had prepared us a meal,‘ she continued helplessly as Keith drew back slightly, disbelief written all over his face. ‘It—it would have been rude...I—I couldn’t really leave,’ she stammered.

‘And they didn’t have a phone?’ Keith asked tightly.

Oh, she wished he’d leave this until they were alone and she could explain properly, Marianne thought desperately, vitally aware of the entertainment value the little tableau was affording Hudson. Couldn’t Keith see he was playing right into the other man’s hands? Apparently he could’t

‘Well? Did they have a phone?’ Keith repeated snappily.

‘I...I don’t know.’ She stared at him unhappily. ‘Can’t we discuss this inside?’ she suggested quietly. ‘Please. Keith?’

‘Yes, they have a phone.’ The deep voice spoke again from the other side of the car. ‘We just didn’t think of it, I’m afraid. Enjoying ourselves too much, I guess,’ Hudson added smoothly.

She’d hit him. She would—she’d hit him. Marianne took a deep breath and prayed for calm. ‘Keith, I really can explain—’

‘We are shooting at five tomorrow morning, Marianne, and I would appreciate you being in the lobby at half past four.’ Keith had drawn himself up to his full five feet nine inches, quivering hot outrage in every line of his pink face. ‘It is important we catch the dawn light, so don’t be late,’ he added sharply.

‘No, of course I won’t, but if I could just explain—’

‘Goodnight, Marianne.’ He strode back into the hotel without looking back, his back stiff and his head upright.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ She rounded on Hudson like a small virago. ‘I’ve never seen him like that. How could you?’

‘Easily; the man’s a fool,’ Hudson said drily. ‘Hasn’t he heard of the concept of fighting for what he wants? Or has everything dropped into his lap so readily he’s nothing more than spoonfed? Faint heart never won fair lady, and all that.’

‘You know nothing about Keith.’ She was angry, furiously angry, at his arrogance. ‘He’s a lovely man—gentle, good-natured—’

‘So is the average cocker spaniel,’ he returned coolly, and in her rage she didn’t notice how his mouth had thinned with her championship of the other man. ‘But the attributes that make a pet dog so worthy would soon pall in a lover, believe me.’

‘He is not my lover!’ she spat heatedly. ‘He never has been.’

‘He’d like to be.’ It was straight for the jugular, and so true she was lost for an answer. ‘And you know it,’ he added grimly as her fiery face spoke for itself. ‘So cut the twaddle.’

‘Is that why you behaved like this tonight?’ she asked hotly. ‘Because you know—?’ She could have kicked herself for the slip, and continued quickly, ‘Because you think he loves me?’

‘I think he imagines he’s in love with you,’ Hudson answered cynically. ‘Which is quite a different thing, as we both know. He doesn’t know you any more than I knew you—he loves the fantasy you project, like I did. With me, I guess it provided a kick to the holiday for you to have a little fling before you returned home to your fiancé, yes? With him, no doubt, it’s good to have the boss panting for you—gives you the edge over the rest of the girls.’

‘You’re disgusting,’ she bit out tightly, masking the pain and crucifying hurt his words had caused with superhuman effort.

‘Realistic is the word.’ He surveyed her coldly with dark, narrowed eyes, his black hair and the shadowed planes and angles of his face bleak in the moonlight. ‘Yes, I’m realistic about you now, Annie. I only get taken for a ride once; you’d better understand that.’

‘I didn’t take you for a ride,’ she protested shakily. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ She stared at him helplessly, her mouth tremulous.

‘No? Then what do you call it when you agree to marry one man, knowing there’s already another tucked away back home you’re promised to?’ he spat out menacingly. ‘Tell me; I’d really like to know.’

‘It wasn’t true, what Michael told you.’ She stared at him, her green-gold eyes reflecting a shaft of moonlight that turned her hair silver. ‘He had no right to say what he did.’

‘Wasn’t true?’ He laughed harshly. ‘Oh, come on, Annie, don’t disappoint me now; you can do better than that.’

‘It wasn’t,’ she insisted quietly. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

Then what was true? That “goodbye, Hudson, thanks for the memories but I’ve decided the life of a lawyer’s wife is not for me” letter you left for me?‘ he asked grimly. ‘You’re telling me that you just got cold feet, that that was the reason you disappeared off the face of the earth for I don’t know how long? Do I look stupid, Annie? Do I?’ he added savagely, his face dark and cold.

How could she tell him? She stared at him as her mind raced. If she told him the truth, the whole truth, he could react one of three ways. It was clear he didn’t love her any more, so he might just acknowledge what she said and walk away.

Or—and here her heart thudded—he might pity her, feel some responsibility towards her, especially if he guessed she still loved him, and ask her to take up where they left off in spite of the fact his feelings had died. If he did that, would the threat to him through her still remain? Probably, she thought grimly. From what she had heard, the sort of people Michael had been involved with had very long memories. And then the last two years would have been for nothing.

Or, thirdly—and she had to admit most likely—he simply wouldn’t believe her anyway; he would think she was making up some fantastic story to cover her deceit. And with Michael’s death all chance of proving what she had to say was gone. Hudson was far more likely to believe her stepfather’s lies—he had had two years to let Michael’s lie work its poison.

There was every reason for saying nothing and none for telling him the truth, except... Except she couldn’t bear him to look at her with such contempt and scorn. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She had missed him so much, so much, and she didn’t know what to do about it...

‘Don’t bother trying to work out what to say.’ He slid back into the car as he spoke, his voice hard. ‘I wouldn’t believe it anyway.’ The driver’s door shut with a savageness that was very final.

Well, that settled her answer. She watched him for a moment with misty eyes as he drove the car over to the small car park surrounded by bushes and flowering vegetation. He despised her, and she really couldn’t blame him. Perhaps if she told him the truth he wouldn’t believe she and her mother had had no knowledge of Michael’s involvement in such heavy crime anyway. He had fought such people all his working life and loathed them and the corruption they represented. Maybe him thinking she had been hiding a fiancé in the background was light in comparison.