Marriage by Deception (4 page)

There were all kinds of reasons ‘why not’. And she was still arguing with herself when she walked down the steps and hailed the cab…

Now, sitting on her sofa, the black shoes kicked off, she castigated herself bitterly for her stupidity. She’d
prophesied disaster—and it had almost happened. But to herself, not Janie.

She shook her head in disbelief. How could someone who looked like that—who dressed like that—possibly have got under her skin—and in so short a time, too?

Because sexual charisma had nothing to do with surface appearance—that was how.

And Sam Alexander was vibrantly, seductively male. In fact, he was lethal.

He also had good bone structure, and a fine body—lean, hard and muscular.

And she knew how it had felt, touching hers, for that brief and tantalising moment. Recalled the sensuous brush of his mouth on her lips.

For an instant she allowed herself to remember—to wonder… Before, shocked, she dragged herself back from the edge.

She shivered convulsively, wrapping her arms round her body, and felt the sudden pressure of the rose stem against her breast.

She tore it out of her dress and dropped it on the coffee table as if it was contaminated.

‘You’re not the adventurous type,’ she said grimly. ‘Back to the real world, Rosamund.’

On her way to the stairs she passed the answer-machine, winking furiously.

‘Ros?’ Colin’s voice sounded querulous. ‘Where on earth are you? Pick up the phone if you’re there.’

For a second she hesitated then gently pressed the ‘Delete’ button.

And went on her way upstairs to bed.

S
AM
stood watching Janie’s slim, black-clad figure retreat. He was aware of an overwhelming impulse to go after her—to say or do something that would stop her vanishing.

But you blew that when you kissed her, you bloody idiot, he told himself savagely as he resumed his seat, signalling to the waiter to bring more coffee.

He still couldn’t understand why he’d done it. She wasn’t even his type, for God’s sake. And he’d broken a major rule, too.

But he’d wanted to do something to crack that cool, lady-like demeanour she’d been showing him all evening, he thought with exasperation, and find out what she was really like. Because he was damned sure the past two hours had told him nothing. That this particular encounter had bombed.

He’d had it too easy up to then, he thought broodingly. The others had been more than ready to tell him everything he wanted to know after just the gentlest of probing.

That was what loneliness did to you, he told himself without satisfaction. It made you vulnerable to even the most cursory interest.

But not Janie Craig, however. She’d simply returned the ball to his feet. And, unlike the others, she hadn’t given the impression that the evening mattered. Less still that she hoped it would lead somewhere.

But perhaps there was something he could salvage
from the wreck. Something that would enable him to finish with this assignment and do some real work again.

If he was ever allowed to.

His mouth twisted bitterly. Six weeks ago he’d been lying in the back of a Jeep, covered in stinking blankets and protected by cartons of food and medical supplies, escaping from a Central African republic and the government troops who’d objected to his coverage of their civil war.

He’d come back to London, exhausted and sickened by what he’d had to see and report on, but secure in the knowledge of a job well done, knowing that his dispatches from Mzruba had made front-page news, under his photograph and by-line, day after day in the
Echo
. Expecting his due reward in the shape of the foreign news editorship that he’d been promised before he went.

His editor Alec Norton had taken one look at him and ordered him away on extended leave.

‘Somewhere quiet, boy,’ he’d rumbled, and tossed a card across the desk. ‘This is a place that Mary and I use up in the Yorkshire Dales—the Rowcliffe Inn—soft beds, good food, and peace. I recommend it. Put yourself back together, and then we’ll talk.’

Sam had gone up to Rowcliffe, a cluster of grey stone houses around a church, and walked and eaten and slept until the nightmares had begun to recede. The weather had been mixed—all four seasons in one day sometimes—but the cold, clean air had driven the stench of blood, disease and death out of his lungs.

He’d explored the two antique shops that Rowcliffe boasted, eaten home-made curd tart in the small tea-rooms, and visited the surprisingly up-to-date print
works of the local paper, the
Rowcliffe Examiner
. He’d been beginning to wonder how he could ever tear himself away when a message had come for him from a friend on the
Echo
newsdesk via the hotel’s fax. ‘Houston, we have a problem.’

One telephone call later, his career had lain in ruins about him. Because Alex Norton was in hospital, recovering from a heart attack, and the
Echo
had a new editor—a woman called Cilla Godwin, whom Sam himself had once christened Godzilla.

She was far from unattractive. In her early forties, she had a cloud of mahogany-coloured hair, a full-lipped mouth, and a head-turning figure. Sam’s nickname referred to her reputation as an arch-predator, cutting a swathe of destruction through one newspaper office after another, inflicting change where it wasn’t needed, and getting rid of those who disagreed with her policies.

He’d no doubt she knew about her nickname, and who’d devised it. When it came to backstabbing, the newsroom at the
Echo
made the Borgias look like amateurs.

But he’d committed a far worse sin than that. During her stint as the
Echo
’s Features Editor she’d made a heavy pass at Sam, after an office party, and he’d turned her down. He’d tried to be gentle—to let her walk away with her pride intact—but she hadn’t been fooled, and he’d seen her eyes turn hard and cold, like pebbles, and known he had an enemy.

And now she was the
Echo
’s boss, with the power to hire and fire.

He’d come back to London to find his foreign news job had been given to someone with half his experience, and that he was on ‘temporary reassignment’ to
Features, which was about the most humiliating demotion he could have envisaged. Cilla had told him herself, relishing every moment of it. She had never been magnanimous in victory.

It was virtual dismissal, of course. She planned to make his life such a misery that he’d be glad to resign. But Sam had no intention of playing her game. He had company shares, and belonged to the joint profit scheme, all of which he would forfeit if he simply walked out.

When he left, he meant to have another job to go to and a negotiated settlement with the
Echo
. Nothing less would do.

‘Lonely in London’ had been all her own idea, of course. It was to be, she’d told him, her eyes glinting with malice, ‘an in-depth investigation of the women who replied to the personal columns’.

Sam had looked back blankly at her. ‘It’s hardly a new idea,’ he’d objected.

‘Then it’s up to you to make it new,’ she said sharply. ‘We want real human interest material—tear-jerking stuff. You’ll have to get close to them—explore their hopes, their dreams, even their fantasies.’

Sam shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. They’ve put themselves on the line already by replying. They won’t want to discuss their reasons with a journalist.’

Cilla sighed. ‘You don’t get it, do you? As far as these women are concerned you’re the real thing. A man searching for real love. You’ll get them to trust you—and you’ll get them to talk.’

Sam said quietly, ‘You have to be joking.’

‘On the contrary. Here we are with a new Millennium, thirty years of women’s liberation, and
yet they’re still looking to find love with a complete stranger.’

‘But I won’t be a complete stranger—not if they’re
Echo
readers,’ Sam reminded her levelly. ‘The name Sam Hunter and my picture were plastered all over the front page not so long ago.’

‘I’m sure you’re not that memorable.’ Her smile glittered at him. ‘But in case you’re right we’re going to use your middle name, so you’ll be Sam Alexander instead, and we’re going to alter your appearance too. Anyway, the women you meet will be eager—hopeful, not suspicious.’

‘I think the whole thing stinks,’ Sam said tersely.

Cilla regarded her manicured crimson nails. ‘Are you refusing the assignment? I’d have thought it was ideally suited to your—peculiar talents.’

No, thought Sam, you know as well as I do that it’s sleazy, and probably unethical, and you’re waiting for me to say so. The trap’s open and waiting. You want me to tell you to go to hell and walk out. Well, tough.

He shrugged. ‘I can see problems.’

‘There wouldn’t be a story without them.’ She leaned back in her chair, her gaze sweeping him. ‘Just be certain none of them are of your making. It goes without saying that all these meetings take place in public.’

‘Cilla,’ Sam drawled, ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. When do I start?’

He’d thought he was ahead on points—until he’d seen the clothes she’d chosen for him to wear—and the glasses—and also what the barber she’d summoned was doing to his hair.

‘Sam isn’t short for Samson, I hope,’ she’d said gloatingly, as he was sheared. ‘I wouldn’t want you to
lose your strength, darling. All that wonderful male potency I’ve heard so much about.’

He’d smiled at her in the mirror, his face aching with the effort. ‘Keep listening, Cilla. I’ll live to fight another day.’

Now, halfway through the assignment, he wasn’t sure the battle was worth it. He was ashamed of what he was doing. He’d pick another civil war any day above those anxious, hopeful eyes looking at him across restaurant tables.

Maybe he should have cut his losses and gone, he brooded. Especially as instinct told him that ‘Lonely in London’ might be a picnic compared with other things Cilla Godwin could be cooking up for him.

He finished his coffee and asked for the bill. At least his expenses would give her a bad few minutes, but he needed to justify them by writing a really good piece on Janie Craig. And he wasn’t sure that he could.

Back at his flat, he worked on his laptop for an hour, making notes about his meeting with her, but, as he’d feared, she remained totally elusive. He knew little more than she’d mentioned in her original letter—except that she blushed easily and wore a scent called Organza. And that her lips had trembled when he kissed them.

Not details he would put in his report, he decided sardonically.

Nor could he mention what had surprised him most about the evening—the moment when he’d asked her to stay—and found he meant it.

Sam snorted in self-derision, and switched off the computer.

The traumas of the past few weeks must have softened my brain, he thought, and went to bed.

Gardening, Ros thought crossly as she attacked the roots of a particularly hostile dandelion, was not having its usual therapeutic effect.

This should have been a really good day for her. After all, she would have the house to herself for the whole weekend, and the problem with Janie had been dealt with and could be put safely behind her.

She wasn’t too optimistic about the future of this rushed engagement to Martin, but if it all ended in tears Molly and her father would be back by then, and could cope.

All in all, she should have been as happy as a lark. Instead, she felt thoroughly on edge—as if a storm was brewing somewhere.

The fact that she’d slept badly the previous night hadn’t helped, of course. She’d been assailed by vague, tormenting dreams, none of which she’d been able to remember when sleep had finally deserted her altogether just after dawn.

Lying, staring into space held no appeal, so she’d done all the right, practical things. Made herself tea, showered and dressed in leggings and a big sweatshirt, eaten croissants with cherry jam, and started work.

Vivien had been quite right, she’d realised unhappily, as she’d put down the script a couple of hours later. A lot of the book seemed to have been written on auto-pilot. Yet the basic idea of two strangers thrown together in marriage for dynastic reasons was a strong one.

Normally she’d have revelled in every minute of it. Now she could see she’d just been going through the motions. The chemistry—the danger was lacking.

It was more than a question of a few alterations.
Her best bet would be to junk the whole thing and start again.

And she’d made a new beginning. In fact she’d made several. But when the only words she’d wanted to keep had been ‘Chapter’ and ‘One’, she’d decided to have a break and do some tidying in the garden.

She knew exactly what was to blame for this cranky restlessness. Last night’s ill-judged rendezvous with Sam Alexander, that was what, she thought grimly. And let it be an everlasting lesson to her not to interfere.

Because he seemed to have taken up residence in a corner of her mind, and she couldn’t shift him.

And the most disturbing thing of all was that she kept remembering him in ways that made her skin burn, and an odd trembling invade her limbs.

All things considered, she was quite glad she couldn’t remember her dreams.

But nothing happened, she thought, irritably shovelling the defeated weeds into a plastic sack. We had dinner—and he kissed me. But that’s no big deal. I should have seen it coming and dodged. My mistake. But there’s no point in making a federal case out of it.

I’d be better off deciding what to say to Colin when he comes back tomorrow, she told herself, as she stripped off her gardening gloves.

Because she knew now, without doubt, that there was no longer any future in their relationship, and she would have to tell him so.

At first she thought she’d say it when he rang that evening. But that would be the coward’s way out. The relationship might be irretrievably stale, but after two years he deserved an explanation face to face.

She wondered how upset he would really be. It had occurred to her some time ago that anyone who seriously wanted to marry Colin would have to get past his mother first. Colin’s flat might be self-contained, but he was still where Mrs Hayton wanted him—on the other side of the wall—and she wouldn’t let him go without a struggle.

The fact that this didn’t bother me unduly should have warned me that things weren’t right, Ros told herself. If Colin was really the man for me, I’d have fought for him tooth and nail.

She went indoors and made herself a sandwich lunch. She’d just sat down to eat it when the phone rang, making her jump uneasily. Just as she’d done with every other call that morning.

‘Oh, pull yourself together,’ she adjured herself impatiently. ‘It can’t possibly be Sam Alexander. You’re being paranoid.’

‘Ros?’ It was Janie. ‘I’ll be back on Sunday night—probably quite late.’

‘Everything’s going well?’

‘Ye-es.’ Janie hesitated. ‘Martin’s parents are really nice, but I think I was a surprise to them. And they say it’s too soon to be making wedding plans,’ she added glumly.

‘How does Martin feel?’

‘Well, naturally he doesn’t want to go against his family,’ Janie said defensively. ‘But we’re trying to talk them round.’ There was a pause, then she said in a lower voice, ‘Did you contact “Lonely in London” for me?’

Ros swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I did. I—I think he got the message.’

‘You’re a star,’ Janie said. ‘Must dash. We’re taking the dogs for a walk.’

I don’t feel like a star, Ros thought as she replaced the receiver. More like a black hole.

And why didn’t I tell her the truth? I could have made a joke of it. Hey—I checked him out personally, and you had a lucky escape. A haircut from hell, and he buys his clothes from a street market.