The Price of a Wife

'Although you will, of course, be dealing directly with me most of the time,' Luke put in smoothly, taking her elbow in a firm grip as they walked. 'That is understood?'

'Of course, Mr Hawkton.' The other man seemed mildly puzzled by Luke's cold voice, and Josie had to bite back the sudden burst of anger his authoritative tone brought to the surface. He was acting as though he didn't think she was capable of overseeing the work, she thought tightly, when he knew quite well that wasn't true.

'You speak excellent English.' She forced every trace of annoyance from her voice as she smiled up at Pierre when an awkward silence had reigned for a few moments. He was a good few inches smaller than Luke, although the hard, firm body was muscular and fit, his face dear and unlined.

'I lived in England with my mother for ten years, until I was twenty-five,' the young Frenchman explained quietly. 'When she died my father offered me a place in his business, so I moved out here two years ago. I love France, my father's country, but I also love England.' He smiled at her, his face open and friendly. 'An English country pub on a warm summer evening with the smell of woodsmoke in the air is hard to beat.'

'Where did you live?' she asked interestedly, unaware of Luke's dark, frowning face at her side.

'Sussex. A little village called Oakcross.'

'I know Oakcross,' she said delightedly, before she could think. 'I—' The sudden realisation that she had said more than she intended came too late. 'I lived near there at one time,' she added weakly.

'Did you?' Pierre grinned down at her. 'We will have to compare notes—' He came to an abrupt halt. 'Owens-Josie Owens. I knew I recognised the name from somewhere. You were with Peter Staples when he had that first car crash of his, weren't you?'

'Peter?' She too had stopped, and she turned to face the young Frenchman, aware as she looked at him of Luke's keen glance on them both. 'I…yes, I—I knew Peter when I was younger,' she stammered weakly. Here, of all places, to be faced with the past. It was ironic, bitterly ironic, she thought desperately. How much did Pierre know, and how quickly could she change the subject?

'You know he is dead?' The words were stark, and without any of the social niceties that were normal in such a conversation.

'Dead?' She stared at Pierre, her eyes enormous in the whiteness of her face. 'No. No, I didn't know that,' she said numbly, shock at the sudden revelation freezing any other reaction.

'Another crash similar to the one with you,' Pierre said levelly, his face straight now. 'He was a good friend, your Peter. The parties and fun we had… He—how do you say it?—took me under his wing when I arrived in England. Showed me the good time…'

He would, Josie thought silently as her mind whirled and spun. Even when she had known him, and especially after the crash, his friends had begun to drift away, recognising the true personality of the man they had hero-worshipped. Peter would have loved having a good-looking young man like Pierre in tow, to bolster the playboy image that had begun to tarnish, and it was clear that he had completely taken in Pierre with that synthetic charm he'd practised so well.

'He wrapped his car round a tree,' Pierre continued flatly, 'after he'd been drinking. He drank a lot after that crash with you—but then I suppose you know about that. And the women… He was always searching for understanding. If you hadn't left him like that—'

'Like what?' Josie stared at Pierre in amazement. What on earth had Peter told the young Frenchman? It was clear from his face that he held her personally responsible for his hero's death.

'You broke his heart—'

'I did nothing of the sort,' Josie flashed back as she found her tongue along with a furious rage that burnt in every nerve and sinew. So that was how Peter had explained to everyone the circumstances of that first horrific crash, with its tragic consequences? Holding himself up as a remorseful, rejected suitor whose woman had walked out on him when he'd needed her most?

'It wasn't his fault, you know,' Pierre said sorrowfully. 'He always wished he could have convinced you of that—'

'Were you there?' Josie bit out tightly. 'Were you? No, you weren't. So just keep quiet about something you know nothing about.'

'I—'

'I think Miss Owens is saying the matter is closed.' If Luke's voice had been any colder the air around them would have splintered, and Pierre suddenly seemed to realise where he was and why. 'Now, if you'd care to continue with the job you are going to be paid a great deal to do…' Luke continued icily, and he waved a hand for them to start walking again.

'Of course.' Pierre was now a deep scarlet, but Josie couldn't dredge up any sympathy for the young man as Luke once more took her arm in a firm hold. The past was suddenly more real than the present, all the pain and agony and terrible desperation of that time at the forefront of her mind as she walked between the two men to the site of the proposed ice rink.

How dared Peter play the part of the innocent? she asked herself angrily. How dared he? And how could anyone, anyone believe such a ridiculous story? But then Peter at his most charming had been hard to resist, and to a young, gullible French boy in a new country with no friends… Yes, she could see that Pierre must have been a sitting duck for Peter's strategy—like herself all those years ago.

So he was dead? Even as she discussed the ice rink plans and future arrangements a separate portion of her brain was ticking away on a different plane altogether. Peter Staples was dead. She waited fo

r some emotion—anything—but it was as though all her feelings had fallen into a great vacuum.

In the early days after the accident, when she had been coping with the knowledge of her own mutilation and the fact that her father's death was due to that man, she had wished him dead constantly. And afterwards, even as she had begun to carve out her new life, she had been consumed by a wish for revenge, driven by it.

But now? Now all she felt was a faint sense of relief that no other woman would suffer the same kind of torment she had at Peter's hands. He had died as he had lived, violently and foolishly, and she was just glad that in his dying he hadn't taken anyone with him. He already had the deaths of two men to answer for.

Pierre left just before lunch, after the plans for the small but extremely expensive ice rink had been agreed, and Luke was in a dark mood of his own as the Mercedes drew away, the occupant clearly relieved to be leaving.

'Are you happy with the arrangements so far?' Josie asked tentatively as they walked into the house, breaking the icy silence. She had decided to endeavour to keep the conversation purely and solely on the job in hand if she could, although her instinct told her it was a forlorn hope.

'Ecstatic,' he said crisply without looking at her. 'Shouldn't I be?'