The Valentine Child Page 5

  'I could say the same,' she teased back, confident in his love. 'You never mentioned that the luscious Janet was invited.'

  His grin vanished, his face going peculiarly rigid. 'I did not invite the lady. I ruined your eighteenth party by inviting that woman—do you really think I would be so unthinking as to repeat the mistake?'

  Inexplicably she shivered.

  'Zoe, you're cold. It's that damned dress.'

  'No, no. A ghost walking over my grave.' She tried to smile. Or was it an omen? she wondered.

  'Bob invited Janet as his partner. Do you mind?' Justin bit out, his dark gaze intent on her upturned face.

  'No, of course not, silly.' She shrugged off her fanciful thoughts. 'Come on, let's dance.' And, curving her slender arms around his waist, she swayed in towards him.

  Justin needed no second bidding, and she hid a secret smile as she noted his muffled sigh of relief when he urged her on to the dance-floor. Poor man! He was obviously afraid that she would take offence and sulk as she had three years ago.

  They danced, Justin stroking one hand up her bare back while the other rested lightly on her hip. She flattened her palms on his shirt-front and gave herself up to the dreamy music, swaying to the rhythm of the golden oldie 'As Time Goes By'.

  His hand moved from her hip to her buttock as he pulled her closer, one long leg edging between hers. She felt him stir against her, his hold tighten, and the familiar heat flowed through her. His dark head bent; his lips brushed lightly over her brow. She tilted her head back; their eyes met and desire lanced between them, as sharp and piercing as a laser-beam.

  'How long will this damn party last?' he muttered as his hand moved up her back, his fingers spreading to clasp her nape while his other hand dropped to stroke her thigh.

  She made no response; instead she simply gazed dazedly up at him, her pulse racing. Her husband's control was slipping, she thought bemusedly. They were lost in a world of their own; the crowd, the laughter faded away, and there was only passion and need. Then Justin kissed her. . .

  It was the cheers of the guests and the heavy beat of a rock and roll number that brought them back to their senses.

  Justin's head jerked back, his dark face flushed with passion and a good deal of embarrassment as he shot a frustrated glance at the assembled throng. 'I need a drink. We need a drink,' he muttered, his arms falling to his sides. 'I knew that dress was a disaster area. I should never have allowed you to wear it,' he growled angrily.

  She regained her composure—for once, before her dynamic husband—and her lips twitched in the beginningsof a smile. 'Why, I do believe, Mr Gifford ' she held his gaze, fluttering her long eyelashes like some Southern belle '—your behaviour is most unbecoming for a barrister and soon-to-be judge,' she drawled in mock-horror, and then spoilt it by giggling.

  'Witch!' Justin chuckled. 'I'll get you later; meanwhile I think we should circulate. It will be much easier on my libido.'

  She glanced around the dance-floor, rubbing one foot against her ankle: four-inch heels gave her height, but they played havoc with her feet. She had danced with dozens of men, including the Lord Chief Justice. She had done her duty, and with a cheerful smile to everyone in general she escaped out into the hall, and went on through the garden-room, where a few close couples were in conversation, and into the old-fashioned Victorian conservatory.

  Good! She was alone. She sank down on to a bamboo chair—part of a group placed around a centre table. She slipped off her shoes, put her feet inelegantly on the glass table in front of her and let her head fall back against the soft cushion. Five minutes' rest and then back to the fray, she promised herself.

  It was a beautiful summer night and through the glass roof a million stars glittered in the midnight-blue sky. She sighed deeply, contentedly. Twenty-one on the twenty-first of June—there must be a lucky omen in there somewhere, she mused, not that she needed luck; she had it all. . .

  'Hiding, Zoe.' A feminine voice interrupted her reverie. She glanced up and muffled a groan as Janet swayed unsteadily before her.

  'No. Simply resting for a minute or two.'

  'I don't blame you.' The redhead collapsed in the opposite chair, a glass in one hand and a half-full bottle of champagne in the other.

  Zoe thought, So much for my five minutes' peace. 'I hope you're enjoying the party,' she prompted with a tinge of sarcasm. The woman was obviously three sheets to the wind.

  'Great party.' Janet giggled and took a swig of the champagne, ignoring the glass and drinking from the bottle. 'But, parties aside, I can understand your needing a rest. Just—Justin is one dynamic lover—a tiger in bed.' She took another swig of the champagne.

  Zoe didn't want to hear any more. It was one thing to accept that your husband had had lovers in the past, but quite another to have one of the same describe his powers in bed. 'Yes, well. . .' she mumbled, praying that the other woman would leave or pass out. But her wish wasn't granted.

  'Def-f-f. . . Definit-t-t. . .' Janet slurred the words. 'A three-times-a-night man, and day, and anywhere.' Her high-pitched laughter grated across Zoe's nerves like a dentist's high-powered drill.

  '"A three-times-a-night man". . .' Zoe whispered, shocked to the core. She knew what it meant, and could not believe they were talking about the same person. They made love most nights but Justin was always in control, and they never did it more than once. Well, except for the night of the funeral, she qualified in her mind.

  Suddenly her confidence in her husband's love took a nosedive. She remembered the conversation she had overheard—Sara Blacket's opinion that Justin preferred large, luscious women.

  She looked across at Janet. Had she been the redhead at the dinner Mrs Blacket had mentioned? It was possible. Janet was a very attractive, very well-endowed sexy woman of about Justin's age; add to that the fact that they had once worked in the same chambers and three years ago they had arrived as a couple at her eighteenth birthday and it made sense. Justin and this woman had been lovers not for a few weeks, as Zoe had mistakenly imagined, but for years. . .

  'He's not the sort to go without, not our Justin.'

  Zoe raised huge blue eyes to the other woman's face; she was still talking, but Zoe felt as if she had been hit by a truck. 'No?' she queried numbly.

  'Even the night before he got married I had to throw him out of my place at two in the morning—couldn't have him exhausted for his wedding. . . No, sir. . . So keep your strength up, girl; you'll need it.' And, leaning across the table, she held out the bottle of champagne. 'Have a drink. . .'

  Zoe blindly shook her head. She could not believe Janet. She didn't want to, but as Janet rambled on she was filled with a certain dread.

  'Don't get me wrong, I like Justin.' Janet fell back against the seat. 'He's ambitious; he could have stayed with our firm—become a top international lawyer, loads of money. But he preferred the establishment. He wants the prestige of the ermine. Already head of your late uncle's firm, he will be a faithful husband. He has no choice if he wants to make judge. You have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. . .'

  Deep inside Zoe something shattered—something rare and pure, an intrinsic part of her—her faith and love in her husband. She sat as though carved in stone, robbed of her pride and self-respect by the casual words of a drunken woman. She bit her lip to prevent the scream of anguish that was filling her head; she could almost hear the dull beat of her too trusting heart echoing in a black void.

  'There you are, Janet. I've been looking all over for you.' Bob's voice intruded in the silence. His handsome, boyish face wreathed in smiles, he took the bottle from Janet's hand and placed it on the table, and, grabbing her arm, pulled her to her feet. 'You've had enough.'

  Only then did he see Zoe.

  'The party girl, having a breather.' He put a finger to his lips. 'Shh. We'll leave you to it.'

  Bob's smiling face swam before her eyes, and she tried to smile. 'It's OK Bob; I just have to put my shoes on and I'll be back insid
e.'

  The effort it took her to get the words out was more than she could stand. She slid her feet off the table and bent over, her head almost in her lap, more to hide the tears in her eyes than from any real desire to find her shoes.

  She heard the other two depart, and her arms fell towards the floor, her hands shaking; she felt around in the semi-darkness for her sandals.

  Slipping her feet back into the sandals, she stood up. The faint noise of the party filtered through her stunned brain. Her party. Her twenty-first, on the twenty-first. . . So much for lucky omens! If twenty-one was coming of age, she had come of age with a vengeance in the last ten minutes, she thought bitterly, dashing the tears from her cheeks with an angry, shaking hand.

  Janet's revelation and all Zoe's niggling doubts and fears of the past few weeks coalesced into one absolute certainty: whatever reason Justin had for marrying her, it had not been love. . .

  She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath; she could hear her name being called. Now was not the time to give way to the pain gnawing at her heart. Instead she smoothed the soft silk of her dress down over her hips, adjusted the bodice and, with head held high, a smile plastered on her face, walked back into the garden-room.

  'There you are, Zoe. I was looking all over for you.'

  It was Wayne, thank God! Right at that minute she didn't think she could have faced Justin.

  'Sorry to be a party-pooper, but I have to get back to London; I have a breakfast meeting in the morning. But I would like to arrange a meeting with you, Zoe. We have a lot to discuss—the trust, the transfer of the cash.

  And I want to fly back Thursday; I must be at the studio on Friday.'

  'Wayne, please.' The idea came to her in a flash. She glanced up into his tanned, attractive face. She could trust this man—that much she was sure of. She placed her hand on his arm, her wide blue eyes, unbeknown to her, betraying her pain and anguish. 'It was lovely to see you, but there's no need for us to meet in London. Don't transfer anything. I'll be in the States in a few days and I'll call you at the studio.'

  'Zoe, what's wrong?' The Texan's tanned hand touched her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. 'You're shivering—something has upset you. I know I haven't seen you in years, but you can trust me; your parents were my friends. If anyone has hurt you, tell me, and I'll punch their lights out.'

  His kindness and insight were almost her undoing. 'Please, Wayne, don't ask questions, and promise you won't mention any of this to. . .to—' she couldn't say his name '—to my husband.'

  'You've got it, honey. I'll wait for your call.' And, bending down, he planted a swift kiss on her cheek. 'Chin up, kid. Remember your parents were great actors; you can do it.'

  'Wayne, you're wonderful. Come on, I'll see you out.' And with her arm linked in his she made it to the hall and the front door. They said goodbye with another brief kiss, and she was just about to turn around when Justin's voice reached her.

  'Zoe, darling, I was beginning to think I had lost you.'

  You have, you bastard! Pain and rage almost blinded her, but she bit her tongue and said nothing, suffering Justin's hand on her arm as he turned her around.

  'The Lord Chief Justice and his wife are about to leave; they want to say goodnight.'

  'But of course. You can't afford to upset Justice Speak,' she said with biting sarcasm.

  'Zoe. . .' Justin began.

  'Lovely party.' Justice Speak strolled up, his wife clinging to his arm. 'Sorry to leave, but at our age we need our rest.' He chuckled.

  'Thank you for coming, and for the wonderful present—I shall cherish it always,' Zoe responded politely, and she wasn't lying. She did love the exquisite gold miniature they had given her.

  'Glad you like it, my dear. Your uncle Bertie advised me—rang me the week before he died and told me you loved art. Great friend, sorry to lose him.' The old man's voice was gruff. 'He was so proud of you, young woman, and so pleased he had got you and Justin together; he could die content.'

  Moisture filled her eyes—for her uncle, but also for herself. Dear heaven! Even Justice Speak knew her marriage had been arranged. Did everyone? Was she the only idiot who had not seen the truth?

  'There, there, girl, don't upset yourself. Bertie would have loved to have seen the old house lit up and full of laughter again. I don't suppose you knew his wife, but she was a wonderful woman—loved entertaining on the grand scale; after she died Bertie rather let the place go.' The old man chattered on. 'Can't say I blame him— different era, don't you know! But you gave him a new lease on life; he adored you.'

  Justin's arm curved around her waist and she stiffened immediately. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she forced a smile to her lips. 'Yes, I know; this party was his idea. So thank you once again for coming,' she managed to say firmly.

  The goodnights said, a steady stream of guests began leaving until by two in the morning only her friends from Magnum Advertising were left. Zoe was reluctant for them to go and insisted on sharing another couple of bottles of champagne. The idea of getting drunk held great appeal. It might anaesthetize her feelings, so that she would not feel the pain she knew was waiting for her the moment she relaxed.

  She was sitting on the sofa listening to one of Nigel's shaggy-dog stories—something he was renowned for— and sipping her drink, when Justin walked into the room, having dismissed the band.

  He took in the scene at a glance—Zoe and Nigel on the sofa, two of the girls sprawled on the floor at their feet. Pat and Pam, Zoe's luncheon friends, were almost asleep on the other sofa. His dark gaze sought hers but she avoided his eyes. She couldn't bear to look at him. She sensed him move towards her, and only looked up when he spoke.

  'Sorry, folks, the driver is insisting on leaving. Time to go.'

  'We have the room. They can stay the night.'

  'I don't think so, Zoe. They have to work tomorrow.'

  "The master has spoken,' Nigel quipped, getting to his feet and performing a rather drunken salute. But the rest followed suit.

  Zoe smiled grimly, her gaze colliding with her husband's and moving as quickly away again. Nigel was closer to the truth than he knew. 'Yes, indeed,' she concurred, standing up, and, ignoring Justin's narrow-eyed scrutiny, she followed the last of the guests to the hall and bid them goodnight.

  'What was all that about?' Justin demanded hardly, catching her arm when she would have walked straight past him to the stairs.

  She glanced down at his long fingers curled around her arm, and then tilted back her head to stare a long way up into his harsh face. 'I don't know what you mean,' she said flatly, proud of her self-control when really she felt like tearing his eyes out. 'I'm tired; I'm going to bed. Lock up, won't you?'

  'Zoe, don't lie to me. Something is wrong.' He moved closer and she flinched.

  'You're being ridiculous,' she snapped; she could not stand his questioning much longer.

  'I think not.' He was inches away, his tall figure dwarfing her. She could almost see his analytical mind going over the events of the evening. 'The party was great, you were enjoying yourself, and then I lost sight of you for a while. When I saw you again you were kissing Wayne, and then you could barely speak to me, and for the rest of the night you flirted with Nigel while treating me as if I were some kind of ogre. What happened, Zoe? Did someone say something to upset you?'

  She could have wept. 'Upset' wasn't the word. 'Destroyed' maybe! She glared at him, hurt and fury warring within her. He looked so cool, so in control, even concerned! Uncle Bertie had once told her that the truly great barristers could just as easily be actors, the court the stage, and the judge and jury the audience, and, by God, Justin should have received an academy award for the part he had played for years!

  'Answer me, Zoe.' His fingers tightened on her arm.

  'No one upset me; I had a wonderful evening and you have an over-active imagination,' she declared flatly. She had to get away; his closeness, the subtle scent of him were draining her will-power. 'Y
ou're also hurting my arm.'

  His hand fell away immediately. 'Sorry,' he apologised and, stuffing his hands in his pockets, his voice terse, he added, 'Perhaps you're right. Go to bed; I'll be up in a minute.'

  Glad to escape, she kicked off her shoes and ran up the stairs. She closed the bedroom door behind her and quite deliberately locked it. She tore off her clothes and left them where they fell; her jewellery she dropped in a heap on the dressing-table along with the key and then she dashed into the bathroom and locked the door to Justin's room before stepping into the shower.

  She lifted her head and allowed the fierce pressure of the water to wash over her, in the vain hope that it would wash away her tormented thoughts. Her tears mingled with the spray and, hating her own vulnerability, she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. She wrapped a large soft towel around her naked body, sarong-style, and sank down on the small bathroom stool, burying her head in her hands. Her long, wet hair, hanging in tangled rats' tails down over her shoulders, dripped, unnoticed, on her rapidly cooling flesh.

  Sara Blacket had been right all along. Justin had married her to please her uncle and further his career. His real preference was for large, luscious ladies and Janet Ord had confirmed the fact in a few short sentences.

  Zoe groaned out loud. Justin! 'A three-times-a-night man'. How could she have been so naive? The pain in her heart was worse than any knife wound—it went through flesh and blood to her very soul. Justin—her husband, her lover, who had only spent the whole night with her once since their wedding night—the night of the funeral—and even then she had had to beg him to stay and comfort her. She felt so stupid. So used. . .

  With hindsight it was all so obvious. Justin made love to her with a skill and sophistication she was helpless to resist—had never wanted to resist. But now she realised how naive she had been. She had thought the fact that Justin always brought her to a shattering climax before finding his own release was the ultimate act of love by a considerate husband. Now she saw it for what it was— a clinical manipulation of her body and her love for him, while never losing his own iron control.