‘I was wrong; no doll could compare. You are beautiful. So very beautiful,’ he repeated, the words a husky whisper as his head bent.
He was going to kiss her again and Josie’s lips parted in helpless invitation. The ringing of the doorbell snapped her back to her senses, and, as she turned her head, his lips brushed her cheek.
‘I will have to see the angel one day—it must be really something,’ she babbled, hardly knowing what she was saying. Conan straightened, a brooding look passing over his rugged features.
‘You can’t. Charles smashed it.’ And, dropping her hand, he brushed past her and into the hall to welcome their guests.
Josie followed him, the mention of Charles bringing her back to reality with a thump.
Jeffrey was ushering four people into the hall, and with a broad smile Conan caught Josie’s hand again and made the introductions.
‘Joe Smales, my personal manager, and his wife Betty.’
Josie smiled and said the appropriate words. They were a couple in their fifties, both large and jolly and eminently well suited, she thought, as were the next couple.
‘And this is Harold Banes and his lovely wife Pamela, my surrogate mother.’
Josie was surprised by his comment and the warmth in Conan’s smile for the tiny woman in front of him. But he was right—Pamela was very lovely: forty-something, and even smaller than Josie, with a gamine face and bright red hair. Josie liked the older woman immediately when she said, ‘At last! A woman almost as small as I am!’
Conan, the perfect host, guided everyone into the drawing room, and Jeffrey dispensed the drinks while the conversation flowed easily.
Josie sat back in her chair, nursing an orange juice, and listened to the quick repartee between the couples. It was obvious they were all good friends, and she began to relax and confidently join in the chat.
Everyone had been invited for seven-thirty to eat at eight. It was five to eight when the last couple arrived and the small ray of hope that had dwelt in Josie’s heart since Conan’s explanation of his lunch date was killed stone-dead.
Angela Deacon stalked in like some prima donna. Josie had gone into the hall to welcome her, and wished she hadn’t. The woman made her feel like a midget.
‘Ah, you must be Conan’s little wife. How cute.’ Sliding a mink coat off her shoulders, she swept past Josie.
Close up, the woman was stunning. Almost dressed in a wisp of black silk, with a neckline that plunged to her waist, the skirt moulded so tightly to her thighs it was a wonder she could walk—or so it appeared to Josie.
The man following Angela gave Josie some hope for a moment. He was tall, blond and handsome—but the hope was quickly squashed as he introduced himself as Steve, Angela’s brother.
To Josie’s formal request to take her coat, the stunning blonde replied, ‘No, please join your guests. I know my way around Conan’s house better than my own. I lived here for quite a while.’ With that bombshell Angela sauntered upstairs, trailing the mink behind her.
The colour drained from Josie’s face; she couldn’t help it. She turned her stricken gaze on Conan, but he was engrossed in conversation with Steve, a smile on his handsome face. He had some nerve, Josie thought vehemently. The lying swine had said he had never lived with a woman...
The dinner was a nightmare for Josie. Angela seated herself on the right-hand side of Conan, and ignored everyone else present. Conan, with his wit and charm, kept the conversational ball rolling, but to Josie, seated at the opposite end of the table, it was apparent that her husband and Angela were much more than business colleagues. Conan smiled at the blonde with such indulgence that Josie felt like throttling him.
Afterwards she could not remember a word that had been spoken. Occasionally Conan caught her eye and gave her a reassuring smile, playing the part of the loving husband for the benefit of their guests. But finally the hypocrisy of it was too much for Josie, and she abruptly left the table, explaining that Jeffrey was leaving and she would serve the coffee in the drawing room. Her own fury surprised her. She did not consider herself a fiery person, but seeing Conan with Angela aroused a host of seething emotions she did not want to face.
On entering the room with a loaded tray ten minutes later, she almost dropped the lot on seeing Conan and Angela seated together on a sofa, so close it would have been hard to squeeze a pin between them. Pamela, as if sensing Josie’s feelings jumped up and offered to help serve the coffee, and afterwards she insisted Josie sit down beside her.
‘Don’t let it worry you. We all know Angela of old,’ she said in a quiet aside.
‘Is it that obvious?’ Josie asked with a wry grin. She had thought she had hidden her jealousy rather well.
‘No, only to me, but then I have been watching you all evening.’
Josie stiffened. She had hoped Pamela might turn out to be her friend, but now she wasn’t so sure.
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‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Pamela continued. ‘I mean it in the nicest possible way. Conan is a particular friend of my husband and I. When he first came to London, he stayed with us. He is like the son I never had, and I wanted to make sure the girl he had married was right for him.’ Taking Josie’s hand in hers, she said, ‘I am convinced you’re just what he needs. You do love him?’
Josie felt the colour rise in her cheeks, but didn’t deny it.
‘It’s all right. I can see you do, and I’m glad. Conan is a very guarded, private person, but that’s not surprising when you consider his upbringing. It was bleak.’