The Price Of A Wife

‘So Mike was at uni with the esteemed Luke Hawkton, was he?’ Mitchell was obviously put out that his ideas hadn’t had a mention. ‘Think that’s why he’s going with Top Promotions?’

‘I think Josie’s proposal had something to do with it,’ one of the other men remarked drily. ‘Don’t be a sore loser, Mitch; it doesn’t suit you.’

But Mitchell’s comment, along with Luke’s parting shot, were in the forefront of her mind that afternoon as she sat in her comfortable, bright lounge with the full-length windows to the balcony wide open and Mog lying in purring ecstasy in a spot of blazing sunlight with a whole celebratory tin of red salmon in his stomach.

It was Luke’s ‘unfortunately’ that bothered her, more than the fact that he had referred to her stupid gibe to Charlotte. He surely hadn’t taken her seriously, had he? She bit on her lower lip anxiously as she went over and over the intonation of his voice in her mind. But so what if he had? She could handle that sort of hassle; she’d been doing it for ten years or more, since she’d first stepped out into the big bad world. But she wouldn’t like to think she’d got the job because Luke happened to know her boss.

She frowned into the thick warm air. He either genuinely liked her ideas or he didn’t. And if he didn’t... She shook her head slowly. How did you know with a man like him? He wasn’t like any other man she had ever met in the whole of her life... except one. The thought jumped in from nowhere but once in her mind it stuck.

Yes, there was something about him that reminded her of Peter Staples, something...something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and it had caused an instant and probably unfair antagonism that was as fierce as it was illogical. She thought back to her behaviour of the evening before and winced at her barely concealed hostility to the man who was now, in effect, her bread and butter.

‘Oh, Mog...’ She sighed as she spoke but Mog was too full of salmon and too comfortable to respond to the naked appeal in her voice. He cast her a long, considering glance from large, slanted green eyes before the express train in his chest resumed its rumbling journey, the sunlight turning his brindled fur into a mass of shimmering colour.

This was the chance of a lifetime, an opportunity to nail her colours well and truly to the career mast and cement her credibility into place with unshakeable firmness, and she wasn’t going to let Mitch’s spitefulness or Luke Hawkton’s innuendoes spoil things. She narrowed her eyes determinedly, pushing back the riot of tiny auburn curls that fell about her shoulders. She could do it. She knew she could pull this off; that wasn’t in question. The only thing was...

Her mouth hardened. Could she tolerate Luke Hawkton in her life for any amount of time? The thought was stupid and she knew it. Of course she could; she would have to. And he wasn’t Peter Staples; he wasn’t even remotely like him.

Peter had been wild and dark and fascinatingly handsome to the young fifteen-year-old Josie Owens, with his long jet-black hair and slanted ebony eyes that danced wickedly as they promised the moon. He had been ten years older than she and quite out of her orbit, with his flashy red sports car and his succession of tall, model-type girlfriends that he seemed to change with each passing month.

Their parents had been friends, but then everyone was friends with everyone else in the tiny Sussex village where she had grown up. And so she had loved him from afar, utterly tongue-tied if they ever happened to meet at one of the numerous social gatherings the middle-aged community loved so much and which the younger folks tended to endure, watching him with huge doe eyes and hanging on his every word.

Quite when he had started to flirt with her she wasn’t sure. She had heard rumours that his last girlfriend, a sophisticated, leggy blonde with the face of an angel and the figure of a goddess, had thrown him over—an unprecedented occurrence—and that he was upset about it, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to believe the hearsay. Who in their right mind would reject Peter Staples? He was... just perfect. And so when he’d told her to keep their dates secret she hadn’t asked him why. One didn’t question a god.

They had seen each other three times before he had made the pass at her which had ended in an undignified fight for her virginity. She could still hear the caustic, ugly words he had shouted at her in the heat of his temper when he’d realised his crude seduction attempt had failed, the foul language as he had pulled her back into the car, furious that she had refused him and was demanding to go home.

And then he had driven like a madman, the more so when he had seen her fear, and the car had seemed to fly down the narrow, high-bordered lanes with their tight curves and bends, its expensive tyres screaming and the world outside a green blur. He had been laughing when the car turned the corner and hit the farm tractor.

It had been the first thing she remembered when she had finally come out of the coma—that spiteful, malevolent laughter ringing in her ears and the crash of grinding metal against metal.

The young eighteen-year-old farmboy had been killed instantly; Peter had walked away from the crash with nothing more than cuts and bruises. And she...? She had had a fractured skull, two broken legs and a crushed pelvis that had necessitated an operation. An operation that had robbed her of the chance of ever being a mother.

‘Stop it, Josie.’ She spoke the words out loud and this time something in her voice brought Mog to his feet, and he stretched comfortably before sauntering over and rubbing against her legs. ‘Good boy...’ She spoke automatically, her hand stroking the sleek fur as she gave herself silent orders to pull herself together.

Trips down memory lane were futile and destructive; she knew that. She knew it. And it was rare for her to indulge in them these days. The ringing of the telephone at her elbow interrupted her self-admonishment.

‘Miss Owens?’ Luke Hawkton’s voice was unmistakable.

‘Yes?’ Her heart stopped, and then raced on like a runaway train.

‘This is Luke Hawkton. I’m sorry to bother you at home like this but I have a problem.’

‘You. do?’ Oh, for goodness’ sake say something businesslike, something that will impress him, she thought disgustedly as she heard her faint, breathless voice.

‘I have to fly to Germany tonight—an unexpected business complication that may well necessitate my spending several days out there.’ The firm, controlled voice wasn’t unfriendly, but nevertheless she found herself holding her breath as she listened to him. ‘I don’t want any further delay on the Night Hawk project, Miss Owens; there has been enough already. The thing seems to have picked up problems like a cat picks up fleas.’

‘Oh.’ She glanced down at her feet to meet Mog’s bright green gaze, which she was sure had darkened with disapproval at his simile.

‘I would like you to get all the relevant data sorted out over the weekend and bring it out to me. I will arrange for a car to pick you up at eight on Monday morning and my secretary will be waiting for you.’

‘I...’ She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Are you saying you want me to fly out to Germany, Mr Hawkton?’

‘The name’s Luke, and, yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,’ he said coolly.

‘But I could fax you—’

‘No, that would not be satisfactory.’ He cut across her protest immediately. ‘I want you in front of me, where we can discuss things properly and get everything ironed out,’ he continued firmly. ‘Your plane leaves Heathrow at nine-thirty, so I understand, and my secretary will give you the tickets and all the necessary information concerning your hotel and so on. A car will be waiting on your arrival in—’

‘Hang on a moment, did you say hotel?’ She found her voice along with her wits, and at the same moment it hit her why Luke Hawkton reminded her so strongly of Peter.

They were the only two men she had ever met who were completely and totally sure of themselves and of their ability to command, to subdue, to dominate. It sat on them like a live aura and both repelled and fascinated those unfortunate enough to come within striking distance—or at least it repelled her now, she thought bitterly. Thirteen years too late.

She would always believe it had been Peter’s utter lack of remorse, his unwillingness to accept any blame for the accident or her injuries, that had caused her father’s massive heart attack. In the two months before he died her father had been eaten up by bitter pain and resentment that his only daughter had been treated so badly, and he had felt her desperate anguish and primitive blind despair as though it were his own. On the day before she’d finally come out of hospital he had collapsed in the street just outside the main doors and died moments later.

‘Just an overnight stay, Miss Owens—or may I call you Josie? As we are going to be working pretty closely over the next few months I think a less formal approach is called for, don’t you?’ The deep, faintly husky voice broke into her thoughts, commanding her concentration.

‘Yes, of course.’ She forced a pleasant tone that was in direct contrast to her feelings. ‘But with regard to the hotel I’m sure that isn’t necessary. I can easily catch a night flight. In fact, I’d prefer to do that,’ she added firmly. ‘I have things to do here—’

‘Which I am sure can wait twenty-four hours.’ There was a touch of steel in the pleasant tone now, only the merest intimation that his words were an order and not a suggestion, but it was enough to make the hand holding the phone clench tightly round the inoffensive instrument as she glared at it angrily.

‘I’m not sure exactly when I will be free to talk to you, so it makes sense to allow a little leeway into the evening.’ His voice was reasonable—too reasonable, as though he were explaining something obvious to a recalcitrant child. ‘You do understand the enormity of the job you have taken on, I trust?’

‘I think so, Mr—’ She stopped abruptly. She couldn’t call him Luke, she just couldn’t, but he would think she was being awkward if she insisted on Mr Hawkton. ‘I think so,’ she repeated carefully. ‘And of course if you’d prefer me to stay over then I will. You’re the boss.’ She had wanted the last three words to sound light, but they had merely sounded petulant.

‘That I am, Josie,’ he said quietly, his voice very dry. ‘Now, a car will be at the entrance to your block of flats at eight on Monday morning with my secretary, Emma, inside. All you need to bring is your passport, an overnight bag and, of course, the details on the project. I have informed Mike and Andy of the arrangements, incidentally.’

I just bet you have, she thought tightly, before giving herself a mental slap on the hand. What was the matter with her, for goodness’ sake? The man was going to spend a small fortune on this damn launch; he had every right to expect her one hundred per cent commitment. ‘That’s fine.’ She injected a note of enthusiasm into her reply. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, then.’

‘Goodbye, Josie.’ Was that thread of sardonic amusement always in his voice, or had he guessed the extent of her reluctance? she thought tightly. If he had, he had clearly taken great delight in commanding her obedience. Oh, stop it, stop it, she told herself desperately. She had to take hold of this unwarranted hostility to a man she knew nothing about and bring logic and reason to the situation.

Luke Hawkton was a respected, powerful multimillionaire, with business interests in more concerns than most of London put together. He had chosen her proposal, hers, not Mitchell’s or one from the other firms he had checked, and there was everything to thank him for. That was fact. These...feelings of hers were irrational, unjustified and in the circumstances downright dangerous if they began to jeopardise her professionalism.

With the benefit of hindsight she could see that Peter Staples had been a wastrel of the first order, a spoilt, vain megalomaniac with something base and vile at the bottom of him—a man who was actually unable to feel any sense of remorse or contrition. He had stood in court after the accident and lied so convincingly, and with such conviction, that if she hadn’t been in the car herself she would have believed every word he’d spoken. He’d got off scot-free, or as near as dammit, and had walked away from the whole mess without a thought for the two dead men and the ruined life—hers—that he’d left behind him.

But...She shut her eyes for a moment as she bit on the underside of her lip, her teeth nibbling agitatedly at the soft flesh. But there was still something—the enormous confidence, perhaps, the unswerving faith in their own ability and power—that linked the two men in her mind.

Peter Staples had changed the course of her life, her whole future at fifteen. His cruelty had turned her into something dry and desolate, her body into a barren place that would forever be unfruitful, empty. They had all told her she was lucky to be alive, that she had so much to be thankful for in that the only scars she had didn’t show, but they didn’t know. They didn’t understand how it felt to be in her head, to know that she was a woman on the outside only, a mutilated shell irrevocably flawed.

She had refused to go to counselling sessions after a few weeks; the motherly little woman with a photo of her grandchildren on her desk hadn’t helped much. And then had followed a period of blackness, deep, primitive blackness, from which she had eventually pulled herself inch by inch when her mother had become ill just as she had started her two-year college course. Nursing her mother and coping with her extensive studies had left her with no time to brood on her dark thoughts, and on the night her mother had died she had made a vow to herself.

No chasing rainbows, no hoping for the moon, no happy ever after. She was on her own now, and on her own she would remain. She would never ask any man to accept second best. She had raised her chin proudly and stared into the mirror through eyes drenched in tears. Her career would be her life and she would go for that one hundred per cent.

It wasn’t the life she would have chosen, but her options had been ripped out of her with the surgeon’s knife. There would be no romance in her life; she couldn’t risk getting close to someone only to shatter their hopes. No, she would make the best of what she had. She would. And cut the self-pity from that moment on.

And she had. Almost. She opened her eyes and stared round the pretty, well-furnished room. She was very, very fortunate. She was. And this chance now to go still further was welcome, marvellous.

But in spite of Luke Hawkton’s munificence, in spite of the fact that he had been nothing but generous so far, she didn’t like him. Illogical, unreasonable, absurd—yes, it was all that and more, but nevertheless something linked him in her mind with Peter Staples, and she couldn’t do anything about it.

CHAPTER THREE

‘JOSIE. How nice to see you again. I trust you had a good flight?’ The deep, dark voice trickled over her nerves like liquid fire.

‘Fine, thank you,’ she responded carefully.

As Luke took her small hand in his, his large fingers swallowing hers whole, she forced herself to betray none of the agitation that had gripped her as soon as he had stridden into the hotel’s small conference room.

On arriving in Germany, she had been met at the airport by an impressive limousine that had swept her in style to the luxurious first-class hotel where she was to be staying. There she had been greeted with a deference that had left her nonplussed, until she’d realised she had come under the umbrella of Hawkton Enterprises.

Her room was the last word in opulence, the lunch that had been provided five minutes after her arrival simply superb, and the ground-floor conference room that had been reserved for her alone had meant she could spread out all her countless pieces of paper and continue working in comfort while she waited for the great man to put in an appearance.

And now he was here. And he looked very, very big. The beautifully tailored suit and grey silk shirt and tie he was wearing sat well on the hard male body, but couldn’t disguise the muscled strength in the broad shoulders and chest. He was uncompromisingly virile, in fact menacingly so, and again that strange little shiver of sensation snaked down her spine as she felt his warm flesh against hers.

‘You have been busy.’ In spite of the fact that he had let go of her hand almost immediately, the burning memory of his hard hand gripping hers remained with her for several seconds before she could erase it and bring her mind under control sufficiently to reply.

‘Yes.’ She nodded with what she hoped was cool aplomb. ‘I’ve sketched out a few rough ideas on different angles for the fair and the ball later. There’s a Victorian look, or perhaps you’d prefer an Edwardian style? And we need to determine pretty early on whether the period you choose for the fair will run over into the ball, because if so your guests will need some considerable time to get appropriate clothes ordered for both. The ice rink will be expensive to construct, of course, and we will have to provide a vast number of boots in different sizes—’

A discreet knock at the door broke into what was fast becoming a gabble, even to her own ears, and a second later a waiter entered, carrying a tray containing coffee and cakes.

‘Thank you.’ Luke’s voice was cool and calm, and once the waiter had left, leaving the tray on the table at their side, where Luke had indicated it should go, he turned to her, a slight smile curving the hard mouth. ‘Do I make you nervous, Josie?’

‘What?’ The word escaped before she could draw it back, and she knew she was blushing a bright red as she qualified it hastily. ‘No, not in the least. Of course not.’

‘Of course not.’ He repeated her words with slow, laconic disbelief, his dark eyebrows slightly raised as he leant back in his chair to survey her through narrowed eyes. ‘There is no need to be nervous, I do assure you. You have the job. It is, as they say, in the bag.’

‘I know.’ If only it was just the job in hand that was the trouble, she thought silently. If only. ‘And there’s no problem, really,’ she said brightly, willing the hard, astute man in front of her to believe the lie.

‘Good.’ The piercing silver eyes remained trained on her face for one more moment before they dropped to the papers in front of him and he waved his hand at the tray. ‘Would you care to be mother?’

It was an old phrase, and one that she had come up against many times in the last few years, but it still had the power to hit her in the stomach like a hard fist and she was glad that that glittering gaze was no longer on her.

‘Milk or cream?’ she asked carefully as she poured the coffee.

‘Black, please.’ He didn’t look up as he spoke. ‘And I’d like a piece of that disgustingly rich fruitcake while you’re about it. Lunch seems a distant memory, and I can see we’ll be tied up here for an hour or two. Dinner at eight suit you?’

‘Dinner—?’ She stopped abruptly. She somehow hadn’t expected to have dinner with him, although, thinking about it now, maybe she should have. But she had supposed he would be busy with other high-flying tycoons—the ones he had come out here to see, presumably.

‘You do eat?’ he drawled quietly, still with his eyes on her work.

‘Yes.’ In spite of all her good intentions—and she had been repeating them to herself ever since waking very early that morning—her stomach clenched in protest at his faintly mocking tone. ‘And eight would be fine.’

‘The food here is more than adequate, but I know a little restaurant that is excellent if you don’t mind a drive?’ The devastating gaze swung to her face before she had time to school her features into an acceptable mask, and she saw his eyes narrow as they fastened on her tight mouth.

‘I don’t mind—really,’ she said hastily. ‘Whichever you’d prefer.’ She passed him the coffee and cake as she spoke and then almost dropped the plate as a tingle shot up her arm at the touch of his fingers.

If he noticed her little start of surprise he said nothing, accepting the coffee and cake with a polite word of thanks and then transferring both his gaze and his energies to the job in hand.

And Josie found, after a few seconds had slipped by, that the razor-sharp mind and intimidating intelligence of the man in front of her called forth all her powers of concentration—so much so that she was absolutely amazed when, some time later, Luke glanced at his watch and announced that two hours had slipped by.

‘I think we’ve covered the initial groundwork.’ He smiled at her as he stretched with animalistic grace, his hard muscles flexing under his clothes. ‘Certainly enough to give the thing a kick-start, anyway.’

She nodded quickly in reply, forcing a polite smile to her lips. He had been absolutely right, of course. There was no way the majority of this could have been sorted out by faxing or telephone calls or anything else. It had needed a one-to-one discussion; she had been stupid to suggest anything else. As it was she was going to have her work cut out to keep to the schedule they had drawn up; every day, every hour would count from now on.

‘Let me take those.’ When she’d finished packing all her sketches and papers into her large black briefcase and leather folder he took them from her, tucking them under his arm as though they weighed nothing at all. ‘Your room is just down the corridor from my suite. I’ll call for you at eight and we’ll drive to that restaurant, OK? I’d like a decent meal after the last day or so.’

He gestured for her to walk through the door he had just opened, and as she did so the realisation that she was being controlled by a superior force, one that represented danger, was so strong that she could taste it. And along with that disturbing knowledge came the fact that she was vitally aware of every single movement of that big, powerful male body, that she had been even when immersed in facts and figures and calculations. Even then her subconscious had registered every slight gesture, every action, however small. It was humiliating, mortifying, but her mind and body seemed determined to respond to this man in a way she couldn’t control, and she didn’t like it at all.

The first few months after the accident had been a dark nightmare as she had struggled to come to terms with the loss of her father and also the end of all her girlish dreams of marriage, a husband, babies. Babies. For a time it had seemed as if the whole world revolved around babies. Every television commercial, every programme or magazine featured wide-eyed infants, be they black, brown or white, and each one had screamed her deficiency at her, the fact that she was hopelessly, irreversibly flawed.

Babies had become a terrible and wonderful fascination for her, a whip with which she beat herself daily, an obsession she couldn’t overcome. She had spent hours in front of a mirror with a cushion in front of her stomach under her clothes, the tears streaming down her face as she had cried her desolation from the black void where her heart had been.

But then, slowly, she had begun to claw back her mental stability, forcing herself each morning, minute by minute, hour by hour, to count her blessings. She had become nurse as well as daughter to her mother, and in a strange way that tragedy, following so hard on the heels of the accident and her father’s subsequent death, had settled her emotions. She hadn’t had time to dwell on her own grief as she had sought to make her mother’s last days happy ones, and unbeknown to herself it had been therapy for them both.

When her mother had died she had been almost seventeen, but she had felt like an old, old lady as she had determined the path her life would follow. A fulfilling and interesting career, and a destiny that she and she alone would control, with no emotional or romantic commitment of any kind. Her parents’ death, coming so soon after Peter’s cruel treatment of her adolescent adoration and its devastating conclusion, had turned the word ‘love’ into something that meant agony, misery, suffering and bereavement.