The Price of a Wife

'What can I do for you, Mr Hawkton?' Josie forced all apprehension out of her voice but it was difficult not to feel intimidated by the big masculine figure in front of her. Being so tiny, she had never felt drawn to large, obviously virile men, preferring a slim, more aesthetic type of male to complement her slender fragility rather than a macho man, but she had certainly never felt threatened by a man's bulk before.

But it wasn't just that. It was something indefinable about him—insolent, challenging… And something in her own make-up, probably connected with the red hair, she thought with a silent spurt of amusement, was instantly antagonised as well as defensive.

'I came here today to see you.' The words hit her with a little shock that she had the sense to hide from the intent gaze.

'Really?' She managed a cool and, she hoped, very professional smile. 'With what purpose, Mr Hawkton?'

The hard mouth twisted in a small smile and she thought she detected approval in his narrowed eyes as he crossed his arms and leant lazily against the cream linen-covered wall behind him. 'You're very petite,' he said softly as his gaze wandered over the whole of her, from the top of her mass of curly red hair, tied high on her head in a restrained knot from which the odd tendril curled tightly, down to her small feet shod in expensive Italian leather court shoes that were nevertheless wonderfully comfortable and practical for a busy day like this one had been. 'Is that why you keep all that marvellous hair balanced on your head like that?'

'Not at all.' Keep calm; don't rise to his bait, she told herself flatly as she kept the smile in place by sheer willpower, like most small people, she didn't particularly like her lack of inches being pointed out—and certainly not by a big brute like this man! 'I wear my hair like this because it is practical, Mr Hawkton, that's all,' she said quietly, with a touch of ice in her voice now that the sharp ears detected immediately.

'I've offended you. I'm sorry.' He straightened with a smooth twist of his body. 'You're sensitive about your height?'

'No, I am not.' She eyed him fiercely, her temper rising in line with the colour of her cheeks. What was it with this guy anyway? She had only known him for about sixty seconds and he was asking her the sort of personal questions even her closest friends wouldn't presume to ask.

'Good, because it's captivating,' he said surprisingly, and there was a look in the silver eyes that told her he meant exactly what he said. 'Quite captivating. Especially when taken in conjunction with the red hair and beautiful eyes. What colour are they exactly?' he asked as he leant down and looked straight into her open gaze.

She snapped her head back as though she had been bitten, narrowingly missing knocking a tray of glasses full of champagne out of one of the waiter's hands. 'Look, Mr Hawkton, I've got things to see to,' she said tightly, the honey-gold eyes that he had admired flashing green sparks. 'I happen to be working here, and—'

'I know.' He didn't seem in the least put out by her abruptness. 'That's why I came today.' He smiled lazily.

'I—' She stared at him for a moment as her thought process suffered a slight hiccup. Hawkton… Hawkton? She knew she ought to know the name.

'But I mustn't keep you,' he said smoothly as he watched and, she was sure, enjoyed her confusion. 'Perhaps we could have a word later, before you leave?'

She nodded tightly. 'Of course. Now, if you'll excuse me?'

His nod and amused, glittering eyes were an insult in themselves, and she knew her cheeks were burning as she turned from him. The creamy skin that came along with the dark red hair showed even the slightest tinge of colour, and there was more than a tinge today, she thought despairingly. She should have asked him who he was instead of reacting to the conversation like a scalded cat. At least that would have given her a clue to his identity.

She had a brief

word with the catering staff to make sure that the champagne would flow until the last guest left when the doors closed at nine, checked that Evans, the security man, was fully aware of all the arrangements, and then signalled Penny to join her as she stepped into the office behind the main gallery. They had only planned to be at the opening for a brief hour or two, but a last-minute panic had stretched out the hours.

'You go now, Penny.' Josie smiled at her assistant as she joined her in the quiet office. 'You've put in more than your fair share. And have a lie-in on Monday morning. I won't expect to sec you until lunchtime. You've worked late every night this week.'

'Oh, thanks, Josie.' Penny smiled her appreciation as she reflected, and not for the first time, that she was very fortunate in having a boss as nice as Josie Owens. 'Are you sure you won't need me for the meeting tomorrow morning?'

'No.' Josie shook her head as she slipped off the desk on which she had been sitting and walked to the door. 'It's just a background fill-in on some new contract Mike and Andy are desperate to secure. I haven't even glanced at the bumph they threw at us all this morning.'

Mike and Andy were the co-directors and owners of the promotions firm, compulsive workaholics who were positively neurotic about snatching new deals from under the noses of their many competitors in the promotions field. Both men worked seventy- and eighty-hour weeks and expected their six executives, of which Josie was one, to do the same when necessary.

In spite of their extremely high salaries the other five executives, all men, considered themselves ill-used, but Josie didn't. Her work, her small circle of close friends, her beautiful flat in Chelsea and her cat, Mog, were her life. Fate had made it clear, thirteen years ago, that she couldn't expect more.

She and Penny left the office together and already the crowd had thinned. Josie signalled to one of the three art gallery staff that they were leaving and received a nod and a mouthed 'Thank you' from the middle-aged woman who would be in charge of the daily running of the place, and then she glanced round for Luke Hawkton. She would have to see him before she left, it would be too rude not to, but he didn't appear to be in the gallery.

And then she saw him, deep in conversation with Mr White, and, almost as though the power of her glance had drawn him, he looked up and straight over to where she was standing, and she knew, she just knew, they had been discussing her. But before she could react, think, even, he had moved swiftly across the space separating them and to her side, his dark face cool and blank.

'Do I take it you are available for that talk now?' he asked quietly with a polite nod at Penny, who nodded back, then made her goodbyes and left.

'Certainly, Mr Hawkton.' She had to raise her eyes some considerable way to meet the silver-grey gaze, and again the sheer breadth and height of the man sent something hot flickering down her spine, especially when her senses registered a whiff of the most delicious aftershave.

'Have you finished here?' he asked smoothly, his face quite expressionless.

'Finished…?' She looked sideways at him. 'I—yes, I've done all I can do—'

'Good,' he drawled, watching her with narrowed eyes. 'Then we can talk in comfort, perhaps? There is an excellent little Italian restaurant just a stone's throw away, so perhaps you would allow me to take you to dinner?'

'Dinner?' If he had said he wanted to take her to the moon she couldn't have been more surprised. 'B-but—' Oh, hell, she thought furiously, what was it about this man that made her stutter and stammer like a gawky schoolgirl? She had to pull herself together, and quickly. 'I'm sorry, Mr Hawkton.' She forced a cool smile and tried for the busy-career-woman brush-off that had always been so successful in the past. 'I'm afraid I'm busy tonight—'