The Marriage Deal. Sara Craven
them had left no mark on him as it had on her, but then why should it? she asked herself bitterly. No doubt he’d regretted the loss of Landons, but he was a success in his own right as Silas had always predicted. Ashley had been nothing more to him than a means to an end.
But it was unfair, she thought, digging her nails into the palms of her hands, that his physical appeal should not have diminished. Outwardly, he was still the man she’d fallen so helplessly in love with.
The lean, graceful body, the lightly curling brown hair, still worn rather longer than convention demanded, the cool, incisive lines of nose, mouth and jaw, had lost none of their impact, thrusting her into sudden unwelcome turmoil.
With a superlative effort she fought for control.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, forcing a little laugh, and inwardly thankful for the comparative seclusion of their table. ‘I—I’m jet-lagged still, I suppose. Perhaps I should have had a quiet evening at home.’
‘Well, you still can,’ Martin assured her promptly. ‘When we’ve eaten, I’ll drive you back.’ He smiled at her. ‘Some cosseting’s what you need.’
She doubted whether she needed anything he had in mind but now was not the time to be talking about that. She felt suddenly like an animal, caught in a snare with the hunter drawing closer …
Get a grip on yourself, she adjured herself, silently and savagely. So he’s here. It’s a public place, and he has as much right to use it as you. But there’s nothing he can do to you any more—nothing …
Martin said with a faint groan, ‘Oh, hell! One of the firm’s most important clients has just come in, and he’s heading this way. I shall have to be civil at least.’
Ashley knew with a sense of sick inevitability who it would be, and nerved herself, her hands clenching into fists in her lap, her face schooled to impassivity.
‘Good evening, Witham.’ Jago stopped beside their table. She made herself look up, her face stretched into a polite smile which felt like a grimace. He wasn’t alone, she saw. Erica was beside him, ethereal in black chiffon, clinging to his arm. The grieving widow’s first public appearance, Ashley decided ironically.
Jago was looking at her now, his brows lifting with faint cynicism as he assimilated her appearance.
‘Ashley,’ he said softly. ‘What a charming surprise.’
‘You know each other?’ asked Martin. ‘I was just about to introduce you.’
‘No need,’ Jago assured him. ‘Ashley and I are old—acquaintances, aren’t we, darling?’
‘You could say that,’ she said shortly. She looked past him to Erica. ‘Please accept my condolences on your sad loss, Mrs Marrick.’
‘Such a terrible shock,’ Erica sighed delicately. ‘But life must go on. That’s what dear Giles would have wanted.’
Remembering the big, bluff man with his booming laugh, Ashley thought this was probably true. At any rate, it absolved Erica from most of the conventions of mourning, she decided cynically.
‘Won’t you join us?’ Martin offered, to Ashley’s horror.
‘We’d be delighted,’ Jago said smoothly, and she had to bite back a gasp of sheer anguish. But nothing could be done; a waiter was already hurrying to lay two extra covers. Ashley’s sole consolation was that Erica seemed no better pleased by the situation than she was herself, judging by the expression she had seen fleetingly cross the widow’s lovely face, and the way her fingers were curving possessively on Jago’s sleeve.
Well, everyone looks for consolation in their own way, she told herself, and turned an artificially radiant smile on Martin.
The meal was a three-dimensional, Technicolored nightmare, with full stereophonic sound. The steaks, when they arrived, were excellent, but Ashley might just as well have been chewing her way through an old handbag for all the enjoyment she derived from hers. Tautly, she declined a dessert when it was offered, and coffee too, praying that Martin would take the hint, and whisk her away as he’d promised.
But Martin wasn’t in the market for hints. Oblivious to any undercurrents, he was leaning back in his chair, being expansive and thoroughly enjoying himself. Taking the opportunity to impress an important client, Ashley thought, then chided herself for being unkind.
She glanced up, and found Jago’s eyes on her. He, she realised resentfully, wasn’t even making an attempt at pretence. Openly and unashamedly, he was staring at her, insolently studying the shape of her breasts under the flimsy bodice, and to her shame and horror she found her body reacting to the calculation of his gaze, the nipples hardening and thrusting against the soft cling of the fabric. And, worst of all, she could tell by the slow smile curling his firm-lipped mouth that her involuntary arousal had not gone unnoticed.
Mortified beyond all bearing, she stared down at the table. What kind of person was she to allow herself to be excited by a look from a man who had treated her as badly as Jago had done? She swallowed, remembering that he had always had that effect on her, no matter how hard she’d tried to resist it. Even in company, one lingering glance from him had been enough to melt her bones, and send sweet fire coursing through her veins. It was only later, alone with him, that the problems had started, shame at her body’s own urgency freezing her into frightened rigidity when he tried to kiss and caress her.
But that was something she neither needed nor wanted to remember, and she tried to turn her attention elsewhere, gazing at the couples moving round the dance floor in time to the music.
Jago leaned towards her. ‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked courteously.
Her voice was stony. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Oh, go on, darling,’ Martin urged jovially. ‘You know you love this tune.’
Had she really admitted that to him? she asked herself despairingly. How could she—when it was a song she’d danced to with Jago over and over again in those first heady days?
‘Then that settles it.’ Jago was standing beside her chair, reaching for her hand, drawing her inexorably to her feet before she could utter any further protest.
She couldn’t free herself without making some kind of scene, and her spirit quailed at the thought of that, so numbly she allowed him to guide her through the encircling tables to the dance floor.
‘I’ll try not to touch any bare skin,’ he said sardonically, as he drew her into his arms. ‘But the design of your dress makes it rather difficult.’
She flushed angrily. ‘Don’t!’
‘Why so sensitive?’ he jeered. ‘You can’t help being the way you are, any more than I can. And you certainly never wanted to be touched—by me, at any rate.’
Ashley shrugged, trying not to flinch from the clasp of his cool fingers, making herself move to the music with him. ‘Why drag up the past?’ she asked shortly. ‘It was a long time ago. I’ve changed. Probably we both have.’
‘In your case, the change is formidable,’ he said softly. ‘What’s brought about this new sophistication? Witham?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ashley, lifting her chin. ‘If it’s any of your business.’
The tawny eyes glittered down at her. ‘Going to marry him, Ash?’
‘Now that really is none of your business.’ Ashley bit her lip. ‘I’d like to go back to the table, please.’
‘When the dance is over.’ He swung her round, gently but inexorably, making her realise it was impossible to be free without undignified hassle. ‘And isn’t it natural that I should be interested in your plans for the future? After all, they once involved me quite intimately, if you recall.’
‘I’m not likely to forget,’ she said scornfully. ‘I’d have said you’d totally forfeited any right to enquire