The Price of a Wife

The tall, commanding tycoon in the designer-cut suit and hand-made shoes seemed very different from the angry lover of the day before, and now, in the cold light of England, Josie couldn't believe that this millionaire ten times over had ever said he wanted her. Even the weather had changed; a damp, muggy drizzle was lowering the temperature a good few degrees and creating a feeling of gloominess. And she felt gloomy, more than gloomy—

'Your key?' They were standing outside her flat, and she came to with a start to realise that she had been miles away and immersed in dark thoughts of her own.

'I've got it. Yes, here it is.' She waved her doorkey in front of his face and forced a bright smile. 'Thank you so much for allowing me to stay in your beautiful home—'

'Open the door.' He cut into her little speech of thanks she had been rehearsing throughout the tense, strained journey home without blinking.

'Oh, it's all right, I can manage now—'

'The flat has been vacant for a couple of days and I would prefer to check everything is in order before I leave,' he said flatly. 'That's all. I have no intention of leaping on you, if that's what you're worried about.'

'It isn't.' It was true. With sultry seductresses like Catherine around, charming temptresses who had no hangups, no secrets, no inhibitions about letting him know they thought he was the best thing since sliced bread, why would he persevere with a head case like her? she thought dismally.

'Good. Open the door.' He eyed her expressionlessly, his rugged dark face implacable and very, very remote.

The flat seemed tiny, minute, after the luxurious spaciousness of the chateau, but it was home, and as Josie glanced around her when she followed Luke through the door she had to bite back the tears that had been hovering behind her eyes since the fiasco of the evening before.

'Mog?' Normally the cat had an uncanny instinctive knowledge of when she would be home, and she couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been waiting to greet her, but now even her call got no response.

'Everything seems in order.' Luke was back at her side before she could call again. 'You'll get those invitations off within the next day or so, then? You have the list my secretary prepared?'

'Yes.' He was leaving, just like that, without another word? As though the fact that they had nearly become lovers last night meant nothing at all to him? But perhaps it didn't. She dredged up another bright smile that cost her more than he would ever know. 'I'll do them this afternoon.'

'Right.' He nodded slowly, his eyes watching her with an intensity she didn't understand. 'Goodbye, Josie.'

It sounded so final.

And then he walked out of the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

When Mog still hadn't returned by nine o'clock that night, thick panic began to replace the misery she felt over Luke. She ventured down to Mr Jones's flat at nine-thirty, and when he told her that he hadn't seen Mog for the last twenty-four hours she felt sick. She had found a saucer of untouched food on the kitchen floor which Mr Jones con-finned he had left there the night before, not bothering to replace it that morning because he had thought the cat had been out for a night on the tiles.

'Which I think he still is, love,' the caretaker said comfortingly as Josie stared at him with worried eyes. 'He can look after himself, that one; there's no flies on him. He's a toughie, all right.'

But he wasn't tough where cars were concerned, Josie thought, and her stomach began a dance all of its own. Against steel and metal, sharp claws and bared teeth were no defence. In spite of Mr Jones's very verbal warnings, which encompassed everything from white-slave trading to being mugged, she began a search of the immediate area, combing the nearby streets and gardens, but with no success.

It was dark when she arrived back at the flat, and her heart was in her mouth when she opened the door, but there was no welcoming miaow or running paws, just an empty silence which hit her hard in the chest. 'Mog…' She didn't switch the light on, just padded across to the window and looked out over the shadowed streets where high-rise buildings in the distance illuminated the night sky with tiny squares of glowing warmth. 'Where are you, Mog?'

He was more than just a cat. He was her family. She hugged herself tight round her waist as she swayed back and forwards in the darkness. He had a collar on, with a little tag giving his name and address, but people didn't bother about other human beings in the city, she thought painfully. Would anyone take the trouble even to contact her if he was hurt or—? She shut her eyes tightly. He wasn't dead. She wouldn't believe he was dead.

When the phone rang a moment later she nearly jumped out of her skin before running to answer it, hope leaping in her breast. 'Yes?' she said breathlessly into the

receiver.

'I've been ringing you since half past nine,' Luke said coldly, his voice harsh.

'Have you?' Her concern for Mog was such that it didn't even occur to her to take umbrage at the authoritative tone. 'I've been out.'

'Obviously,' he said with cutting coolness. 'Are you alone now?'

'Alone?' She found herself glancing round the flat before she pulled herself together. 'Yes—yes, I'm alone,' she said quickly. 'What's the matter?'

'My mother has produced a list of her own that needs incorporating with the original invitations,' Luke said tightly. 'I presume that will present no difficulty, or have you already sent the first batch out?'

'The first batch?' She thought she heard the catflap and jerked round, but it was only empty air that met her eyes. 'I… Sorry, what did you say?'

'Are you sure you haven't got anyone there?' he asked grimly. 'You seem… preoccupied. I wouldn't want to intrude—'

'Mog's missing.' She knew her voice was too shrill, and tried to bring it down a tone. He already had every justification for thinking she was neurotic; what on earth was she telling him this for? A cat would mean nothing to a man like him—