The Price of a Wife

CHAPTER ONE

'Josie? There's a man over there who's been staring at you for a good ten minutes. Do you know him?'

'Where?' As Josie turned, her wide, green-flecked eyes following Penny's glance across the crowded, noisy room, her face wasn't even faintly interested. She was used to men staring at her; it came with the territory. As one of the highest paid and most successful promotions executives in London, she knew she presented something of an anomaly to the average male—and one that wasn't always welcome in the male-dominated environment in which she worked.

Fine-boned and tiny, at five feet one, and with a mass of gleaming Titian-coloured hair, creamy skin and large expressive eyes in a golden honey shade liberally flecked with green, she wasn't exactly what they'd expected to see if her reputation had gone before her… and it invariably had.

Over the last ten years, since she had first entered the promotions rat race as a nervous but ambitious eighteen-year-old fresh from college, she had established herself as an astute and level-headed businesswoman with a flair for knowing exactly what appealed to the public. Her job was her life; she gave it one hundred per cent commitment and the rewards had been enormous.

'Hang on a minute,' Penny muttered impatiently to herself as the crowd surged and moved, the buzz of conversation fierce and loud. 'Now. Look over there, next to the group from Chantals. He's still looking this way and you can't miss him.'

'Which…?' Josie's voice trailed away as she met the full force of a pair of very intent, narrowed eyes set in a hard, tanned face that was all male and quite expressionless. The man was big, very big, darkly imposing and terribly out of place in this crowd of affected, pretentious sycophants who had arrived by invitation for the grand opening of Josie's latest work project: a flamboyant, madly expensive art gallery in a city already full of art galleries. That much at least registered before she turned sharply away, her stomach lurching.

'Well? Do you know him?' Penny asked curiously, her mild brown eyes alight with interest. 'I know I don't. If I'd met a hunk like him before I wouldn't have forgotten.'

'No, no, I don't know him.' Josie's voice was cool and noncommittal, and not at all as she was feeling inside. She couldn't remember the last time a man's glance had affected her like this. She felt ridiculously disturbed and flustered—threatened, almost? She shook the thought away abruptly, furious with herself for allowing it to enter her mind in the first place.

Nerves. This was all just nerves, she told herself firmly. The same 'first night' agitation she suffered with all her projects until she knew she had got it right. There was no need to let her imagination run riot, useful though that particular attribute was in her line of work.

She drew herself up to her full five feet one and smiled at her assistant, who was a good six inches taller than herself. 'We need to circulate, Penny, admire a few pretty feathers and give the old sweet talk. I'll see you by the main door when the champagne and strawberries are served at seven, OK? We'll have done our duty by then and things will be winding down.'

'Fine.' Penny nodded obediently, her good-natured face setting in a practised smile as she plunged into the melee.

'Josie?' The owner of the art gallery, a successful and wealthy entrepreneur, who had his finger in more pies than Jack Homer, touched her softly on the arm as she turned. 'Brilliant success, girl—well done.' He nodded cynically at the richly dressed, somewhat theatrical assembly. 'Not exactly my type, if I'm being honest, but you sure pulled in all those who needed to be seen here for the gallery to have credibility.'

'That is what you paid me to do, Mr White.' She smiled carefully, her voice and face pleasant but reserved.

The small balding man in front of her had made it plain on more than one occasion that he wanted more than just her business expertise, but she was used to dealing with the Mr Whites of this world, and there was a surplus of them in the city. She was polite, courteous and very adept at deflecting even the most obvious come-on, but underneath the graciousness there was hard-won composure and a firm control that settled even the most ardent suitor when it became necessary. like now.

'Quite so, my dear, quite so.' He patted her arm again, his round face already shiny with perspiration. 'How about a little drink to celebrate all your hard work when this lot have gone? I've got a suite for the weekend in—'

'I don't think so.' She moved an inch or so away, her expression still smiling but her meaning clear. 'I've got a good deal of preparation to do tonight for a meeting tomorrow morning.'

'You work too hard.' His tongue flicked reptilean-like over his lower lip, and she just managed to repress a shudder. 'You ought to have the weekends free to enjoy yourself.'

'I don't work every weekend, Mr White,' she said coolly, 'just when it's necessary. Now, if you'll excuse me, it looks as if Mr Puzo is at a loose end and needs company…' She turned and walked purposefully over to an influential art-dealer, engaging him in conversation until Mr White had drifted away.

At exactly seven o'clock she started to make her way to the door, but stopped abruptly when a sudden break in the crowd showed her who Penny was talking to. That man again. She stared at him, her eyes taking in every little detail of his appearance while she could view him unobserved as he concentrated on Penny.

She had felt his eyes on her more than once as she had circulated the room, had been vitally aware of his dark presence as he had stood somewhat aloof from the rest of the throng by one of the deep, recessed windows. But she had been careful not to let her glance meet his. Why, she didn't quite know.

Who was he? Her smooth brow wrinkled with curiosity. The guest list had been both exclusive and fashionable, and she had made it her business to be aware of the history of each personage represented there. However, most of the names had had 'and partner' written next to them, so she had no means of knowing either who he was with or anything about him other than what she could see. And she had to admit what she could see was… disturbing.

There was a formidable authority about him, a hard, masculine aura that sat on the big body almost challengingly. His hair was black, jet-black, and cut very short, as though he had no time to waste on any sort of excessive grooming, and he was expensively dressed. There was a smooth designer cut to the dark grey suit he was wearing that stood out like a sore thumb against the gaudy wild clothes the art world indulged in.

He looked… She bit her lip, suddenly annoyed with herself as the simile flashed into her mind. But he did. He looked like a dangerous black panther amid a host of vain, preening cockatoos, and the 'and partner' label sat badly on such a man. She couldn't imagine him ever being an appendage to anybody, but who, who was he with? And who was he? And what was the colour of his eyes? His eyes!

She flushed as hotly as if she had voiced the question out loud. Why on earth did she care about the colour of his eyes anyway? She had made up her mind years ago about the road down which she would travel, had to travel, and her plans didn't include any sort of romantic involvement—light or otherwise. She was being ridiculous, crazy. Perhaps Mr White was right; perhaps she had been working too hard lately. She'd certainly never had this trouble with her imagination

before.

'Josie, darling… Wonderful little reception, you clever girl, you…'

She turned very slowly as she forced a social smile to her face, recognising the voice of one of the female executives from a rival firm. She didn't dislike Charlotte Montgomery—in fact they shared the same sense of humour, which had smoothed more than one difficult situation in the past—but she knew the other woman had been working hard to secure this particular project, and magnanimity was not one of Charlotte's virtues.

'You have obviously got the right touch with Mr White; you'll have to let me in on your secret some time…' The words were lazy and without real malice, although their meaning was clear.

Josie knew Charlotte meant nothing personal—she just had to have a little twist of the knife to state her annoyance at losing out to the other woman—but this time Josie didn't like the innuendo. She had had enough sly digs along the same lines from male colleagues in the past, when her work had been superior to theirs, and she had expected more from Charlotte. Both of them were in highly paid jobs, doing good work and surviving on their own initiative and flair despite high odds, and she had thought—naively, perhaps, she acknowledged now—that Charlotte would respect that and leave the sexist talk to the men.

Well, she was blowed if she was going to defend herself. In fact…

'Well, you know how it is, Charlotte.' She gave the other woman a brilliant smile as she spoke. 'The old casting couch still has its uses.'

Charlotte acknowledged the game, set and match with a slight curve of her thin red mouth, but then her light blue eyes widened considerably at something just over Josie's left shoulder.

'Miss Owens?' The male voice was very deep, with a slight husky edge that was undeniably attractive. 'Your assistant tells me you are due to leave soon.'

She turned to face him slowly, knowing who it was even before her gaze moved up and up to meet the hard-boned face. Silver-grey. His eyes were silver-grey, she thought irrelevantly, like ice-cold honed steel.

'I…' He must have heard that last remark, she thought helplessly. How could she explain it had been a play on words, that Charlotte had known it was the very opposite to how it had sounded? 'I…' And then she took a firm grip on herself, years of training coming to her aid, 'I don't think we've met,' she said formally as she held out her hand . politely. 'I'm Josie Owens.'

'Yes, I know.' He smiled coolly but it didn't reach the mesmerising eyes. 'Luke Hawkton. How do you do?'

His grip was firm and hard and strong, very much like the man himself, she surmised as she found her small hand engulfed in his, only to be released almost immediately.

Hawkton? Luke Hawkton? She had heard that name somewhere before, but for the moment the connection escaped her. It had clearly been just the name she had heard; if she had seen a picture of this man she would have remembered. It was an arresting face, not handsome or even good-looking in the normal run of things, but the cruel sensual mouth and hard, determined jawline spoke of dominant strength, as did the high cheekbones and cold, black-lashed eyes, and there was something about the whole that was far more magnetic than any stock attractiveness.

His dark aura was a subtle emanation of restrained power and authority, but there was something else, a sensual undertone, that brought tiny little flickers shivering down her spine. He was all male, utterly sure of himself, and she had no doubt that he could be as ruthless as the lithe, hard-planed panther she had mentally compared him to earlier. A man to be avoided at all costs, in fact.

'Miss Owens?' She suddenly became aware that she had been staring at him almost vacantly for a good fifteen seconds, and that the faintly slanted silver-grey eyes held a thread of amusement in their cool depths. 'I asked if I could have a word with you,' he prodded smoothly. 'Of course.' Charlotte hadn't moved from the spot, and now Josie turned to include the tall blonde as she spoke. 'This is Charlotte Montgomery, a colleague of mine,' she said with a wave of her hand, but the silver eyes barely brushed Charlotte's face. He gave her a polite nod and then took Josie's arm in his hand and guided her away to a far corner of the room before she realised what was happening, leaving Charlotte gazing after them thoughtfully, her blue eyes narrowed.