Apart from all the other horrors, she had married a bigamist. There could be no other explanation!
Frowning, Chloe watched the abrupt departure of the tall, elegantly beautiful blonde. Then, shrugging slightly, she twisted the diamond of her engagement ring back into place. It kept slipping round, the stone digging into her palm. They would have to get the band made smaller.
Back at their table, Allie re-seated herself and fended off Christa’s ‘What the hell took you so long?’ with the arch of one brow.
‘Don’t ask embarrassing questions, darling,’ she said smoothly, then speared a prawn and followed up, ‘What time do you want me for this evening’s do? And where?’
She felt icily cool now. She had strength. No man would turn her into a lost wreck of a creature, or fill her with the acid of bitterness that would, in the end, ruin her life.
She had her life; she had her future. She had herself to rely on. She didn’t need more.
Fran had been right, and all her own earlier instincts had been spot-on. No man could be trusted. They all betrayed you in the end.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EVERYTHING had gone smoothly, Allie assessed coolly. But then, any event organised by that indefatigable fundraiser Madeleine Floyd-Palmer always did.
Backstage, the usual chaos had reigned. One of the designers had thrown a tantrum, and at one point the principal co-ordinator had threatened to walk out. But, as far as their audience was concerned, the food and wine served at immaculate tables set around the ballroom and the fashion show had been perfect.
‘There you go.’ The dresser undid the last of the dozens of tiny silk-covered buttons that ran down the back of the fabulous wedding gown and Allie stepped out of it, was glad to.
Modelling the beautiful confection, smiling as she did her slow solo walk beneath the softly strobing lights, had put the first dent in the armour she’d assumed since she’d told Christa she would accept this assignment. The dreamy, romantic music had brought a sheen of tears to her eyes, made her think of Jethro, of what might have been.
Which was an exercise in futility, she told herself now tartly, ignoring the chatter—a lot of it bitchy—as half a dozen models got into their own clothes and endlessly fussed with their hair and make-up.
They, and the designers, were expected to mingle with the dinner-suited or bejewelled diners back in the ballroom of this prestigious hotel. Dinner over, the stage would be cleared for dancing, and they’d be mingling with the crème de la crème, who had paid through the nose to attend, not only to support a fashionable charity but to be seen to be doing so.
I’m turning into a cynic, she thought. But then she had every reason to, hadn’t she?
As the changing room emptied she took the black silk with the daring sequinned top from a garment bag, stepped into it and pulled the zip at the back that cinched the slinky, glittery bodice to her like a second skin.
She was going to do her duty, mingle and smile. She was going to party. She’d left a note for Jethro, propped up against the telephone. ‘I’m working tonight.’ She hadn’t added sorry, only, ‘Don’t wait up.’
Because she’d be late. Because she needed to delay the final confrontation for as long as possible. She had to be sure she could handle it with icy dignity. She couldn’t afford to go to pieces, to let him see how badly his treachery had hit her. Her trust, her love, had been shattered. She had to keep her pride intact.
She placed the suit she’d arrived in in the empty garment bag, stepped into high-heeled black pumps and faced the mirror. Despite the expert make-up her face looked pale, her eyes too big and haunted.
Suddenly the idea of partying was out. She couldn’t do it. The thought of it made every nerve in her body go tight and painful. Unwilling to change yet again, she hoisted the strap of the garment bag over her shoulder, picked up her purse and made her way to the foyer.
Pointless to delay the inevitable. The small dent occasioned by wearing that wedding dress had been successfully ironed out. She was right back in control. A few more hours wouldn’t make the coming confrontation any easier. The doorman hailed her a taxi and she gave the address of her flat, but, travelling along the Embankment, she ordered tightly, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Let me out here.’
‘Are you sure?’ His middle-aged face showed his concern. Possibly, she thought, because her hand was shaking as she passed him his fare. She nodded, her throat too choked to allow her to speak, and she saw him shrug fatalistically as she turned away.
She was all wired up again. How could she face Jethro, tell him what she knew about him, what she’d seen—the wedding ring on the finger of the girl who had been Chloe Abbot and was now, on her own admission, Chloe Cole—while her battered heart was raw and bleeding?
She would have to make sure she was together before she saw him. Since lunchtime today she had believed she was. But that wretched wedding gown had triggered a relapse. She had thought she’d mentally dealt with that too, but obviously she hadn’t. She needed more time.
Tears sprang to her eyes blurring the view over the river. The low evening sun had dipped behind a cloud and the river looked dark and oily. Lights gleamed, throwing dancing reflections across the water.
Why couldn’t she stop loving him? Why couldn’t she stop hurting? He didn’t merit this much of her emotion. Her mind accepted that but her stupid heart wouldn’t.
The breeze from the Thames cooled her skin. She shivered, heard firm footsteps just behind her, felt a sudden rush of air, smelled exclusive aftershave, felt strong arms around her as he turned her taut body into the warmth and strength of him.
Jethro. Her knees gave way. How could she be clinging so weakly to him when she knew what he was, was fully aware of how cruelly he’d used her, how callously he’d made her love him and trust him when all the time he had betrayal on his mind?
The palms of her hands connected with the broad span of his shoulders. The fabric of his jacket felt smooth and expensive. Her shocked eyes evaluated the white dinner jacket, the black tie, his shadowed face piratical in the dying light.
She gave an ineffectual shove, her breath choking in her throat, but he cupped her chin in one hand, forcing her to look at him, swearing softly beneath his breath as he saw the tracks of tears on her pale cheeks.