Bought: One Husband

‘Get in the car,’ he commanded tersely, retrieving her scattered belongings with one hand, the other clamped around her waist. Wildly, she thought of digging her heels into the paving slabs, telling him she wasn’t going anywhere, not with him, not ever again. But already a few passers-by were hovering, looking curious. Heaven only knew what would happen if she caused a scene.

Visions of a fracas, the police, the press, lurid details of her bigamous marriage splashed all over the sleazier tabloids flashed behind her eyes. She shuddered, giving in, allowing him to hurry her towards the waiting car.

The well-bred engine of a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow was ticking over quietly, and Jethro opened a back door and slid onto the luxurious leather upholstery beside her, telling the driver, ‘The Blue Boar, James. Quick as you can.’

What was happening? What was he doing? Allie panicked, tried to scramble out before the big car picked up speed, before a police car appeared behind them, blue light flashing, sirens wailing, but Jethro’s hands clamped around her narrow waist, anchoring her to the seat.

‘Calm down, sweetheart. I know what you’re thinking, and I know why you’re thinking it. And every last bit of this mess is my fault.’

He’d gone cold all over when, at the end of a long afternoon, after he’d driven his sister to her bank to pay that cheque into her account, after his second meeting with her brand-new fiancé and his own company solicitor to thrash out the details of the partnership deal the newly engaged couple were entering into, Chloe had said, apparently apropos of nothing, ‘Now I think of it, her face was familiar. She’s either a top model or maybe an actress. She said she thought she knew me, but she got my name wrong. Abbot, she said. I think it was Abbot.’

When he’d prised out every last detail of that fateful meeting in the restroom at Dosser’s he’d known what Allie would be thinking. He’d been cursing himself every second since.

The car had gathered speed now, and he could feel her prickly antagonism. It was reflected in her voice as she asked him, ‘Where did you get the Roller? And don’t tell me you went out and bought it—along with the sharp suits—out of the money I paid you. I’m not that stupid.’ She turned to look at him, her pale face shadowed in the near darkness, her soft mouth pulled into a bitter line. ‘And where the hell do you think you’re taking me?’

‘To dinner. We had a date, remember? And I know you’re not stupid, sweetheart. You’re adorable and deeply loved.’ He took her hand, twining his fingers with hers, and almost she believed him, believed the deep, honeyed sincerity of his voice—until she remembered what an opportunist he was, using her for what he could get out of her, both financially and sexually.

She withdrew her hand, wrapped her arms around her body and he told her, his voice low and gentle and laced, unbelievably, with a thread of humour, ‘I haven’t stolen the Rolls, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I keep it to ferry foreign business visitors around London. It seems to impress. And James Abbot, the driver, is my senior PA. His discretion can be relied upon absolutely. Nevertheless, I think we should keep this conversation on ice until we reach our destination.’

In her emotional chaos she’d actually forgotten they weren’t alone. The driver’s ears were probably flapping. And what had he called him? James Abbot? Not Bill or Bob. Did he always forget people’s names? Was the driver his wealthy friend? Oh, she didn’t know what was going on!

‘How did you know where I’d be?’ she asked, keeping her voice as low as possible. ‘I didn’t leave an itinerary.’

‘You did—or as good as. I found your note, saw you’d written your lunch venue beneath your agent’s number, and phoned her. She told me where you’d be this evening. I waited outside, followed your cab when you left. Simple, really.’

Simple! Nothing was simple or straightforward around Jethro Cole.

She gave up trying to figure anything out, subsiding into the corner of the seat and telling herself that as soon as they reached their destination—wherever that was—she would ask the driver to explain what was happening, because she didn’t trust a word Jethro said!

But the plan didn’t work. How could it when, almost as soon as her feet hit the gravelled forecourt, Jethro, already out and standing on the other side of the luxurious car, tapped his hand on the roof and the Rolls drew away, purring back down the long, tree-lined driveway.

Discreet lighting displayed the gilded name of the hotel above the Georgian portico and security lights gleamed on the immaculate paintwork of expensive motors. Some of the cars even came complete with patiently waiting uniformed chauffeurs.

So they weren’t alone. They were in a public place; he hadn’t brought her to some lonely, desolate spot. She had no reason to be afraid, knew she could never fear him, no matter what situation they found themselves in. He wouldn’t harm her physically; the very thought of that was absurd. But he could hurt her heart, break it so easily. Already it was battered and bleeding, and it was up to her to make sure he didn’t damage it even further.

‘What now?’ she asked tiredly across the small space between them. He was holding her garment bag and a compact leather overnight case of his own. It had been a long, traumatic day. In the space of a dozen hours she’d gone from being an ecstatically happy bride of less than two weeks to a bitter, betrayed dupe.

‘I’m giving you dinner. We had a date, remember? And we’re staying overnight. In the bridal suite. James will collect us tomorrow and drive us home. We have a home in Mayfair. You haven’t seen it yet, but I’m sure you’re going to like it.’

He spoke softy, feeding her information bit by bit, his heart twisting inside him because she looked so fragile and vulnerable. He ached to take her in his arms again, to feel her immediate response to his body, to take away her hurt. But he had to tread carefully. He knew he was on very thin ice here. And the whole damn thing was his own pig-headed, selfish fault.

Dismissing most of what he’d said, her mind fixed on the three words that terrified her so much she couldn’t take anything else in.

The bridal suite.

She couldn’t spend the night with him; she simply didn’t dare. Her emotions would betray her. She couldn’t fight the way her body needed his.

He had closed the gap between them, and his hand on the small of her back was edging her towards the three shallow steps that led to the entrance. She had to find the strength she needed to resist, to quell the treacherous voice in her mind that was asking if it mattered if she spent one last night with him, accepted the ecstasy that only he could give her.

Digging stiletto heels into fine gravel, she said forcefully, ‘Stay here if you must, but I want you to call me a taxi. If you’re looking for a romantic dinner for two and a night of purple passion, then call your legitimate wife! Or was lunch enough to satisfy her?’

His hand slid further round her waist, tightened. He could so easily lift her off her feet and carry her in. His mouth softened with tenderness. ‘I saw our passion as being more gold than purple, sweetheart. Pure, twenty-four-carat gold! And as far as I can recollect, you’re the only wife I have. Or wan

t. It was my sister who had to be satisfied with lunch. Shall we go in? Or would you prefer to talk about it out here? Though I warn you, it’s all a bit of a tangled mess, and sorting it out could take an hour or two.’

Her head was spinning. She allowed him to walk her into the muted elegance of the hotel’s foyer without even thinking about it. She wanted to believe him, but how could she?

He had never mentioned the existence of a sister before. He never talked about himself. She knew as little about him now as she had done on the day she had offered to pay him for marrying her.