She turned quickly as the lights on the car died, walking swiftly into the hotel and picking up the key to her room before Hudson reappeared; knowing she couldn't face him again that night. But perhaps he was finished with her anyway? He'd made his point, told her exactly what he thought of her and in what contempt he held her; perhaps he would be satisfied with that? She had hurt him, she knew that—the knowledge had sent her half mad at times—but the alternative would have been far worse; it could have destroyed him and his career, she told herself frantically.
She reached her room, entering it quickly and then leaning weakly back against the door in the darkness as the tears began to seep from her closed eyelids. She had done the only thing she could two years ago, and it had been because she loved him, pure and simple. So why couldn't she gain just the smallest crumb of comfort from the knowledge to help combat the pain that was tearing her apart inside? It wasn't fair; none of this was fair.
She sank to the floor, her legs finally giving way as the storm of weeping overtook her, her moans like the cries of a wounded animal that had no hope.
She had just been learning to live without him, to accept that her life would never be one of fulfilment in the family sense—as a wife and mother—and now the pain was as raw and lacerating as it ever had been in the early days.
How long she lay there she didn't know, but when at last she rose, her face sticky and damp, there were no more tears left—only a cold, chilling emptiness in the pit of her stomach as she recalled his last words to her and the look on his face as he had uttered them.
CHAPTER THREE
'What's the matter with Keith today?' Marjorie pulled a face as she bent over Marianne and whispered in her ear, 'He's like a bear with a sore head; I've never seen him like this. Is it because you were late back last night?'
'I don't think that helped,' Marianne said quietly as the wafer-thin model straightened again, and they both looked to where Keith was bawling at June and Guy, his face turkey-red.
'He makes my Tony seem like a positive angel,' Marjorie drawled softly. 'And that's hard to do, believe me. Well, we live and learn. I had no idea Keith had it in him.' She glanced down at Marianne again, who was setting up the equipment, her face pale and sombre. 'He's crazy about you, you know,' she added quietly.
'Marjorie, please… ' Marianne raised anguished eyes. 'That doesn't help. I could never think of Keith in that way.'
'Sorry.' There was a pause, and then, 'Mind you, if I had the choice of Keith or that hunk you went off with yesterday there'd be no contest He was absolutely gorgeous. Old flame?'
'Sort of.' Marianne's voice was dismissive but it didn't work.
'You were careless to let that one escape,' Marjorie said softly, her beautiful almond-shaped eyes bright with curiosity. 'Is he married? The best ones usually are,' she added resignedly.
'Marjorie, I've got to do this.' Marianne kept her head bent to the task in hand. 'Okay?'
'I get the message: mind your own business, Marjorie,' the other girl said good-naturedly. 'But if he's not married and you want to introduce us… ?' she wheedled hopefully.
'It was a one-off, Marjorie; I probably shan't be seeing him again,' Marianne said as calmly as she could through her screaming nerves. Much more of this and she would say something she'd regret.
'Pity.' The model sighed deeply. 'Great, great pity.'
The morning had started badly and got progressively worse, and by lunchtime Keith's bad temper had affected everyone, making the very air tense and volatile, which made it all the more awkward when, just as they were packing up, Marjorie called across, 'Marianne, you know that one-off? He's going for double.'
'What?' She straightened and turned as she spoke, and then froze, her heartbeat going haywire, as she saw the tall, dark figure watching them from the road as he leant indolently against the side of his car, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans and sunglasses hiding his eyes. How could one man look so—so gorgeous?
They had been filming on Tangier's three-mile-long white sandy beach, the atmosphere enhanced by several grazing camels and the two barefoot, curly-haired Moroccan children tending the animals; they had been delighted to pose for the cameras for a few dirhams. Although the May sun had been pleasantly warm at first, for the last two hours it had been blazing down out of a cloudless blue sky with the temperature steadily soaring. Marianne felt hot and dirty and sticky, and the last person—the very last person in all the world—she wanted to see at that moment was Hudson de Sance.
'Did you arrange to meet him here?' Keith had moved to her side when Marjorie had drawn everyone's attention to the brooding figure watching them so intently, and now Marianne turned to look at the slight Englishman, rubbing her hand across her damp forehead as she did so. This was all she needed—Keith throwing a wobbly.
'No.' She had a thudding headache, she was tired, and she had never felt more like a bone between two bridling dogs, and she was blowed if she was going to explain further. She'd had enough.
'Do you want to talk to him?' Keith asked stiffly, his nose, cheeks and forehead scarlet from the sun and his thin, stringy legs, in the wide khaki shorts he was wearing, boyishly innocuous.
No, she didn't want to talk to him, but when did someone not wanting to do something ever stop Hudson de Sance if he wanted it? she asked herself grimly. 'Not particularly, but it will be easier in the long run,' she said flatly, watching his shrug and angry grimace as he flounced away with a stab of very real irritation before guilt swamped her.
He was only behaving like this because he liked her, she told the little voice in her mind that had pointed out—with devastating and clear honesty—that Hudson would never behave so petulantly and childishly. She could imagine Hudson being coldly sarcastic with a supposed rival, perhaps even aggressive if he thought the occasion warranted it, but indulging in the tantrums and querulous, peevish behaviour they had been forced to endure that morning? Never. It simply wasn't in his nature, she admitted silently.
She tried to ignore her crumpled, grubby appearance as she slowly walked over the hot, powdery sand towards the road, but it was a little difficult, especially as she could see, the nearer she got, that Hudson was his normal impeccable self—his jet-black hair slicked off a forehead that was tanned a deep golden brown and his short-sleeved dark blue shirt crisp and crease-free.
'You've been working hard, I see.' It could have meant anything, spoken as it had been in an expressionless drawl and with the lethal, piercing grey eyes hidden behind dark glass, but she bristled instantly, feeling it was a comment on her appearance.
'Yes.' It was a snap, and she tried to moderate her tone as she continued, 'Did you want to see me?' It was a stupid question.
His voice acknowledged the fact as he said, 'How intuitive of you.'
It would have been better if they had never met again, she thought miserably, than for them to be reduced to this cold war of words. She could understand him hating her; the letter itself had been bad enough, but after what Michael had told him…