His Marriage Ultimatum

‘I’m glad for you, Dad.’ And she was, she really was, in spite of the selfish little pang her heart had given at the knowledge that she wouldn’t be the number one person in his life any longer.

‘You’ll come and meet her again tonight then?’

‘Of course I will, I’d love to,’ she lied enthusiastically. The truth of the matter was that she would have liked twenty-four hours to get used to the fact that her father had turned into a couple overnight.

‘Great. Joan’ll be thrilled. I think she was a bit worried you might feel she was taking me away from you.’

He laughed with the insensitivity of a father who thought his daughter was perfect and could never have a self-centred thought in her life, and Liberty responded with an appropriate laugh of her own before she said, ‘It’s high time you had someone to share your life with and from the sound of it she’s had no picnic up to yet.’ And she meant every word.

‘Thanks, Pumpkin.’ Her father’s voice was husky now, and there was a brief silence before he said, ‘Eight o’clock at the Phoenix suit you?’

‘The Phoenix?’ This really was true love. It cost an arm and a leg for so much as a glass of wine at the Phoenix, one of London’s most exclusive nightclubs. Liberty had only been there once before when a date had been hoping to impress her. The man in question had been hoping for a lot more too—courtesy of payment for her dinner—and had been more than a little offended when she had rebuffed his arrogant advances and compounded what he saw as an insult to his male prowess when she had sent a cheque for the cost of her dinner to him the next day. ‘Best bib and tucker then?’ she teased lightly.

‘You bet.’ Her father chuckled like an excited schoolboy. ‘See you later. I’ll be watching out for you. And…thanks again, Pumpkin,’ he added softly.

This was turning into one crazy day. She sat for a full minute more mulling over all her father had said before she started the engine, but on the drive back to the office it wasn’t her father and Joan Andrews who filled her mind, but a tall, broad, tough-looking individual with eyes the colour of a stormy winter sky. And she knew she was going to ring Carter Blake’s number.

CHAPTER TWO

LIBERTY told herself she shouldn’t have been surprised when the rest of the afternoon turned into a maniac merry-go-round, mainly due to an extensive power cut just after she returned from lunch. One of her father’s favourite sayings was that it never rained but it poured, and with all the practice computers rendered helpless and irate clients at every turn, the day just got worse and worse.

By six o’clock she felt a frazzled wreck, and if it had been anyone else but her father she was seeing that night she would have rung and made her excuses, the thought of a long hot bath and an early night taking on the appearance of heaven.

She was one of the last to leave the offices in Finsbury, east London, but that wasn’t unusual. She was aiming to become a junior partner within the next five years, and that wouldn’t happen without dedication and hard work. Normally she caught the tube to and from work, but owing to her lunch date with her mother she had decided to use the car that morning. As she stood and stared at it in the practice car park, she reflected that it hadn’t been one of her better decisions.

But she couldn’t think about booking the car into a garage just now. She had the evening to get through and then a long day in front of her tomorrow; the car could wait.

She drove home very carefully, conscious that she was tired and that another accident was the last thing she needed. Her mood lifted as she drew into the tree-lined street in Whitechapel where she had recently bought her first home. After leaving law college, she had spent two years serving articles with her present firm whilst still living at home with her father, but once she had been offered a permanent position had felt the time was right to leave the nest for a rented bedsit. Another rented property, this time a one-bedroomed flat, had followed three years later, but at the beginning of the year she had come across the small, one-bed seventeenth-century almshouse—originally built for ‘decay’d’ seamen or their widows, according to the estate-agent blurb—being advertised in the local paper. She had felt good about the house even then.

The ground floor consisted of a living room and bedroom, with a kitchen, dining room and separate bathroom in the basement and a Lilliputian garden at the rear just big enough to hold a garden table and two chairs and a selection of flowering potted shrubs grouped round a stone bird table and bird-bath.

The lady owner had been retiring and moving to live with a sister in Cornwall after twenty-five years in the house and, against all the advice she would have offered someone else, Liberty had immediately declared herself to be in love with the place and offered the full asking price. She had been installed in her quaint little home within the month, complete with a hefty mortgage which meant she would have to tighten her belt for the forseeable future.

But it was worth it. As she exited the car a shaft of cold autumn sunlight caught the tiny panes in the living room window, causing them to twinkle and glow. Oh yes, it was worth it all right, she thought, mounting the eight walled steps leading up to the stout front door with renewed vigour. She was autonomous, self-sufficient and self-supporting and she would never, ever be beholden to any man to get her the things she wanted.

Liberty did not consciously think of her mother at this point, but the woman who had had such an adverse effect on her personality and her life was under the surface of her mind nevertheless.

The front door opened straight into the living room, which was warm and cosy and comforting. After kicking off her shoes, Liberty flung herself down onto one of her two plump two-seater sofas, which were covered in a vibrant shade of terracotta. She stretched before relaxing her limbs, eyes shut. She loved this room. The oyster curtains and carpet which she’d bought along with the house had been a perfect backdrop for the sofas she had acquired a year or so before seeing her home, and the bookcase behind her and old original fireplace gave a permanence to the surroundings which was wonderfully cheering.

But somehow, tonight, the usual magic wasn’t working. She sat up, frowning slightly. Carter Blake. The wretched man was demanding her attention as he had all through the long afternoon. She might just as well phone him now.

She reached for her handbag and extracted the card. She had glanced at it earlier, expecting a formal business card or something of that nature, but instead there had just been his name with a couple of numbers, one designated as a mobile. Was the other his home? She stared at it, the frown deepening as she resolutely ignored the quickening of her heartbeat.

She would phone him and, if he didn’t answer, leave a message before she began to get ready. She glanced at her watch. She’d order a taxi for tonight first though.

The taxi booked, she felt both annoyed and perplexed with herself when she realised her heart was thudding like crazy at the thought of making the second telephone call. ‘Get a grip, Libby.’ She spoke out loud into the quietness. ‘He’s just a man. Two arms, two legs and no doubt a very inflated opinion of himself.’ The last few years in the market-place of life had shown her that men like Carter Blake—attractive, forceful men who wore arrogance like a second skin—always had an inflated opinion of themselves!

She made a face. That being the case, she wouldn’t rush to phone him after all. She would leave it for a day or two, or at least until tomorrow. She barely had time to shower and get ready for her father’s big night as it was.

By the time the taxi hooted its arrival outside, Liberty had bathed, creamed and coiffured herself into quite a different creature from the smart and rigidly formal Miss Fox of daytime hours. She rarely let her hair down—both metaphorically and literally—but, ever since a pair of granite-grey eyes had given her a cool once-over, a spirit of rebellion seemed to have taken hold. And the Phoenix did require something that bit special.

Her normally sedate hair was now framing a fully made-up face in a silky shoulder-length bob, the classic black evening dress she was wearing giving the illusion of restraint until one noticed the thigh-length slits either side of the pencil-slim skirt. Gerard had urged her to buy the dress for a forthcoming dinner-dance they had been supposed to attend before his liaison with the kittenish Alexia, and she was glad now she had insisted on paying for it herself. It would have been a shame to get rid of such a gorgeous gown but she would have if he had contributed so much as a penny towards it.

There was a lump in her throat as she checked her reflection one last time as the taxi hooted again. And then she swallowed it away, her brown eyes darkening to ebony as she lifted her chin. Gerard wasn’t worth one tear. He was a liar and a cheat and she was well rid of him.

Once in the taxi she pulled her coat more closely around her and tried to ignore the fact that everyone outside the window seemed to be in twos. It must have rained a little while she was getting ready because the pavements were glistening and wet, circles of muted gold here and there where the street lights banished the darkness.

She’d been so stupid to let Gerard Bousquet become more than a casual acquaintance, to let him persuade her that she didn’t have to be alone in the years ahead and that she could share her life with someone else. Although he hadn’t quite convinced her of that, if she was being truthful. She had never been able to fully believe in the plans for their future on which he’d waxed eloquent now and again.

Liberty gazed out into the swirl of activity outside the window but without really seeing it, lost in her thoughts. She had berated herself often in the months she’d been seeing Gerard for her lack of faith in the permanence of their relationship, telling herself the years of seeing her mother go from man to man had made her cynical, but it hadn’t been that.

She frowned slightly as her mind searched for the key to her scepticism and doubt. Gerard was undeniably handsome, sexy, amusing, wealthy and fun to be with, but he had a weak mouth, a mouth that suggested life had been one easy ride for him. It hadn’t dawned on her until this moment but now she realised the knowledge had been at the back of her mind for the last few hours, ever since she had gazed into Carter Blake’s ruthlessly hard face, in fact. The two men were poles apart.

She twisted on the seat, suddenly immensely irritated with herself. Was she going doolally here? What on earth was she doing, comparing the one with the other anyway? Carter she didn’t know from Adam, and Gerard was simply a socialite first and foremost. They both might be socialites for all she knew. Maybe Carter Blake hadn’t done a day’s work in his life either. Anyway, she certainly didn’t want either one of them in her life and why she was wasting one thought on them she didn’t know. This night belonged to her father and Joan.

There was even a buzz on the pavement outside the Phoenix; it was that sort of place. A great nightclub with wonderful food, dancing and a floor show—the Phoenix got everything right. Liberty had been to plenty of nightclubs in the past but all too often she found if the band and floor show were good, the food was mediocre, and vice versa.

She had only put one foot onto the pavement when her father appeared like a genie beside her, his face flushed with excitement and his eyes bright. He looked ten years younger. ‘Wow!’ He took her into his arms, hugging her tight for a moment. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘You look pretty good yourself,’ she said once he had let her breathe again. It was true, he did. The hair which had once been brown was now completely grey but just as thick as ever, and the tall broad-shouldered body was slim and fit. The sum of money her mother had spent to remain looking young and attractive must be into six figures by now, but her father was just getting better and better naturally. Like fine wine.

‘Come and meet Joan,’ David Fox said after he had paid the taxi driver and taken Liberty’s arm in his, leading her through the open front door of the Phoenix with a nod to the two doormen on duty there.

Joan was sitting at the cocktail bar situated just outside the main eating and dancing area, and she left her seat as she caught sight of them. Liberty had almost persuaded herself that her recollection of the woman who had stolen her father’s heart must be clouded by a child’s vision, but no. Joan was still small, dumpy and ordinary, her rosy cheeks free of make-up and her hairstyle dated. Her father was looking at his old love as though she was Julia Roberts, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Gwyneth Paltrow rolled into one. Suddenly Liberty had a lump in her throat.

‘Hello, Liberty,’ Joan said quietly.

Joan’s wide smile couldn’t quite hide the anxiousness in her soft brown eyes, and on the spur of the moment Liberty ignored the other woman’s outstretched hand and hugged her instead, her voice warm as she said, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you again, Joan, especially now I know what you mean to Dad.’

‘You…you don’t mind?’ It was wary.

‘Mind?’ Liberty smiled, her gaze including her father as she said, ‘You’re just what he needs. It’s high time he had a little happiness.’

‘Thank you, Libby.’ Joan had taken her hands and now pressed them, tears glittering in her eyes. ‘I can’t tell you what it means for you to say that.’

It set the tone for the evening. By the end of the first course of a meal which was truly superb, Liberty found she had totally relaxed and was enjoying herself. She had forgotten—or perhaps, as she’d only been a child when she had first known Joan, she hadn’t realised—that Joan had a terrific sense of humour along with a wit that was positively wicked at times. Within a few minutes of being in the other woman’s company Liberty could perfectly understand why her father was so captivated by her. And she was the absolute antithesis of Miranda.

It was as Liberty was finishing the last mouthful of her baked scallops with cured back bacon and thyme that her attention was drawn to a table a short distance away. She didn’t know quite what had attracted her gaze—maybe it was because the four people about to be seated had caused something of a minor stir, one of the women being a well-known supermodel—but as her mildly enquiring eyes met grey-granite she felt the impact down to her fragile but wildly expensive silver sandals.

Of all the people to see tonight—Carter Blake! As he smiled at her she managed to force a fairly normal smile in return, glad of the three or four tables between them as her heart pounded so hard she was sure he would have noticed if he’d been a little nearer. The contact only lasted a moment or two and Carter was the one to break it, turning to the elegant woman at his side and saying something as they all sat down.

Liberty took a hefty gulp at her wine before she became conscious that her father—in the gregarious way he had with people—was speaking in an undertone to a man at the next table who had also been looking across the room. ‘Should we all know who they are?’ David Fox asked mildly as the head waiter appeared at Carter’s table with a distinctly ingratiating smile.

The other man grinned at him, clearly amused. ‘The woman in the red dress is Carmen Lapotiaze,’ he said softly, ‘the famous—or perhaps it should be infamous—model, and the other woman is an actress, quite well-known.’

‘Not by me,’ David Fox said cheerfully. ‘And the men?’

‘The good-looking brute with Carmen is Carter Blake; he owns this place and half of London. The other guy I don’t know.’

‘He owns this nightclub?’ It was Joan who was speaking now and she leant forward interestedly. ‘That explains all the scurrying about of the staff then.’

The other man nodded. ‘He’s one big fish,’ he said quietly. ‘Rumour has it he has his thumb in umpteen pies; not bad for a man who started with next to nothing a decade or so ago, eh? That’s if all the gossip about him can be believed, of course.’ He smiled again before turning to the woman with him, a voluptuous brunette who positively dripped diamonds.

‘Well, ladies, looks like we chose the right night for a bit of excitement.’ David beamed at Joan and his daughter, clearly pleased with himself.

Liberty didn’t want to puncture his bubble but she felt she had to say something. ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she said with a smile to soften her words. ‘The man who ran into me—I’ll give you three guesses who it was, but his name begins with B and ends with E.’

‘Never!’ Her father stared at her. ‘You don’t mean…’

‘And he was driving the most beautiful Mercedes,’ Liberty said ruefully. ‘Or at least it was until my little car had the temerity to jump out in front of it.’

‘Oh, Libby.’ Her father had clearly told Joan about the accident because now the other woman put her hand on Liberty’s arm. ‘Was he okay about it? He isn’t going to be awkward, is he? We can leave if you feel uncomfortable.’

‘No, not at all,’ Liberty said hastily. ‘He was very good, actually.’ Apart from making her feel two inches tall. Which she had probably thoroughly deserved, she admitted silently, but that didn’t make it any easier to take. ‘And we couldn’t possibly leave without dessert anyway,’ she added brightly.

‘I do love my puddings.’ Joan pulled a face. ‘As is pretty obvious. I’d love to be as slim as you but even from a small child I’ve been this shape.’

‘You’re a perfect shape,’ her father cut in before Liberty could say anything. ‘Don’t you dare change a thing about yourself, you hear me? I can’t abide women who exist on a lettuce leaf all day. My surgery is full of them all saying they’ve got stress or nerves or whatever, when what they really need is a few suet puddings and a dumpling or two.’

‘Oh, David.’

Joan was giggling now, but even as Liberty joined in their laughter she found she was envying the older woman with all her heart. To be loved utterly for yourself by your partner in life—how many women were ever lucky enough to find that? Her work brought her into contact with masses of women who had been dumped for a younger model by their husbands, and it worked the other way too. Her own mother was proof of that. She had made up her mind years ago that true love was a fantasy, something which was warm and comforting and wonderful in novels and fairy tales, but not part of the real world. But now, looking at her father and Joan, she was forced to admit there could be exceptions to the rule. But then her father was special; she’d always known that.

Liberty was very careful not to let her eyes stray to that other table while they continued with their meal, but she found herself draining three glasses of wine for Dutch courage. It was delicious wine—everything was delicious—but as she stood up to go to the ladies cloakroom before their coffee and brandy was served, she realised it was also very potent.

Aware that her vertiginous sandals were more than able to tip her over if she didn’t concentrate hard, she made her way to the cloakroom with decorous sedateness, every muscle in her body under rigid control. Wouldn’t he just love it if the dopey lamebrain—as she was sure he thought of her—ended up in a pile at his feet, proving she was just as dizzy and empty-headed as he suspected, she told herself bitterly.

Once in the luxurious marble surrounds she gazed about her. She remembered the awe she’d felt on her first visit here and now this was compounded by the knowledge that Carter Blake owned it all. He must be loaded, utterly loaded. Was Carmen Lapotiaze his lover?

She caught at the thought, angry with herself for speculating even as she answered; of course she would be. Probably one of many. Sexual magnetism had literally oozed from the man and there had been a wealth of experience in that rugged face. A tiny shiver curled down her spine and she resolutely banished all further conjecture. Carter Blake was absolutely nothing to do with her and his sex life even less so!

She fiddled with her hair and applied a touch of lipstick before leaving the cloakroom, delaying the moment she had to re-emerge even as she berated her cowardice. She hated to admit it, but every mouthful of food and sip of wine had been accompanied by an almost painful awareness of the tall, dark figure sitting some distance away, and even when she had been conversing with her father and Joan her ears had been tuned in for the laughter which emanated from his table now and again. That was bad enough, but it was all the more galling because he had, no doubt, put her out of his mind immediately after that one brief polite smile. Certainly she didn’t think he’d looked her way again.

Her toilette completed, she shut the clasp of her evening bag with a little snap and squared her shoulders. She had already told her father she needed to be at the office early the next morning—which was perfectly true—and that she would be leaving shortly after coffee was finished. The main reason for this was to leave the two lovebirds alone to dance and enjoy themselves, but since Carter had appeared on the scene wild horses wouldn’t have kept her in the nightclub.

She opened the door of the cloakroom, stepping out into the thickly carpeted foyer and then nearly jumping out of her skin as a hand closed over her wrist.

‘I’m sorry,’ Carter said at the side of her. ‘Did I startle you?’

‘Of course you startled me,’ she said crisply, pulling her arm away and refusing to be intimidated by the height and breadth of him. She also refused to reflect on the fact that, attractive and compelling as he had been earlier that afternoon, he was doubly so in the white tuxedo which sat on the big body with designer ease. ‘I’m not used to people creeping up behind me.’ She frowned at him to make sure he knew she was serious.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever crept in my life,’ he answered with a silky amusement which immediately caught her on the raw.

‘Really.’ She surveyed him through unfriendly brown eyes. ‘Look, if you’re hoping I’ve got my details on me, forget it. This bag holds a lipstick and comb and little else.’

He didn’t spare the silk purse a glance. Instead he continued to observe her with a scrutiny which was unnerving before he said, ‘The accident was your fault, not mine. We’ve already established that. That being the case, why are you so hostile, Miss Fox?’

Liberty stiffened. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I am most certainly not hostile.’

‘No?’ The dark face was overtly mocking.

‘No.’ It was a sharp snap.

She glared at him, and then was further annoyed and taken aback when he laughed softly, his firm mouth curving to reveal even white teeth. ‘I blame the hair.’

‘What?’ He had completely lost her and it showed.

‘Red always makes for fireworks,’ he drawled easily.

Always? Always? He was comparing her to other women he had known, probably even bedded? She drew herself up to her full five feet eight inches, which unfortunately wasn’t as commanding as it would have been with a man of lesser height, and said coldly, ‘What is it that you want, Mr Blake?’

The black eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘What is it you are offering, Miss Fox?’

Irritating man! ‘You know what I mean,’ she said primly.

‘I’m not sure I do,’ he murmured, studying her angry face with hidden fascination. He had been right about the hair—it was glorious. Rich and glowing with a sheen on it like pure silk. And the way it framed her face, bringing out the porcelain quality to that perfect skin and the darkness of her eyes. How could he have thought for a moment she was in any way ordinary?

‘You were obviously waiting here for me. Why?’

‘You don’t think it possible I was passing through to the men’s cloakroom and noticed you?’ he asked blandly, indicating a door at the far end of the foyer.

She stared at him, suddenly feeling a complete idiot. Again. Something she was getting used to when she was round this man. Why on earth would he be waiting for her when he was with Carmen Lapotiaze? She must have been mad to think it for a second and even crazier to say so. She took a deep breath and prayed her face wasn’t as fiery as it felt. Then she didn’t know what to say.