she had married Zeke.
She forced herself to eat all of her lunch with every appearance of enjoyment, and although she didn’t glance over at the other table again her heightened senses made her aware of each time Liliana looked their way.
By unspoken mutual consent she and Pat lingered over their liqueur coffees—Marianne hadn’t relished the thought of passing Zeke’s table on their way out—and so it was that Zeke left first. She acknowledged his raised hand of farewell with a nod and a cool smile, and then tensed as she saw Liliana reach up and speak in Zeke’s ear before beginning to make her way over.
‘Liliana’s coming.’
It was all she managed to say to Pat before the redhead came within earshot, and then in the next moment she was engulfed in a cloud of expensive, sultry perfume as Liliana bent to brush her cheek with cool lips, gushing, ‘Sweetie, how lovely to see you. We didn’t know you’d be lunching with your little friend today.’
‘Hallo, Liliana.’ Marianne was eternally grateful for the fortifying effects of the excellent meal—not to mention the wine and liqueur coffee—as she looked up into the redhead’s ice-blue eyes. ‘This is Pat, by the way. Pat, Liliana.’
The ‘little friend’ didn’t smile, neither did she bother to speak as she inclined her head, but the green eyes narrowed with such naked feline coldness that it actually seemed to take Liliana aback a little. She wasn’t used to such overt honesty.
‘I must dash.’ Liliana turned back to Marianne, her exquisitely creamy skin—which went with her vibrant hair—flushed from the effect of Pat’s scrutiny. ‘Zeke and I have heaps to discuss. We’re going to be tied up for days on this project, so you’ll have to be brave in doing without him, sweetie.’
‘Will I?’ Marianne called on all her father’s stoical, imperturbable genes and her mother’s poised, self-possessed ones as she smiled with a serenity she was far from feeling and said, ‘I’ll have to make sure we spoil each other when we’re together, then, won’t I, Liliana?’
The cruel, self-assured smile that had been hovering on the red-painted lips vanished for a second before it was immediately brought back into play, and Liliana slanted her almost colourless, opaque blue eyes at the two women as she said, ‘I mustn’t keep him waiting; patience has never been one of Zeke’s attributes,’ in a way that suggested the redhead was only too knowledgeable about the man in question.
‘What a truly horrible woman,’ Pat murmured as they watched the slim, elegant figure weave her way out of the restaurant. ‘She wants a good slap, if you ask me.’
‘Probably.’ The down-to-earth comment brought a reluctant smile to Marianne’s lips. ‘But she’s incredibly good at what she does and she knows it.’
‘I just bet she is.’ Pat’s sober words had a dual meaning, and the two women stared at each other in perfect understanding for a long moment before Marianne caught the young waiter’s eye and gestured that she wanted the bill.
CHAPTER TWO
MARIANNE got back to the apartment at six-thirty and the Mortons were due to arrive at seven. Zeke met her in the cream-and-grey hall, its immaculate walls devoid of any pictures that would deflect from the gracious lines of the curved moulding at the junction of the ceiling and wall, and he was angry. Very angry. As she had expected him to be.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he bit out tightly, his mouth a thin line.
‘With Pat.’ She walked past him towards the bedroom, praying that the trembling in her stomach wouldn’t communicate itself in her voice.
She had made some serious decisions this afternoon—somehow seeing Pat again had crystallised so many things in such a short time—and she had to be calm and composed when she discussed them with Zeke. Anything less and he would accuse her of running on nothing but emotion again.
‘With Pat.’ Zeke was white with rage, his eyes charcoal with the temper he was trying to contain. ‘And you didn’t think to call and say you’d be late? It didn’t occur to you I might be worried something had happened to you?’
‘What?’ She swung round as she reached the walk-in wardrobe at the far end of the room and her eyes were wide with shock. It hadn’t occurred to her he would be worried, she realised with some dismay, merely that he would be angry she wasn’t waiting at home with his pre-dinner cocktail ready as usual and a welcoming smile on her lips.
‘It didn’t, did it?’ He had read the answer in her guilty face, and his voice had a harsh, gritty sound. ‘Dammit, Marianne, what’s the matter with you!’
‘Me?’ The resolve to remain equable and dispassionate was being put severely to the test.
‘Yes, you,’ he barked furiously. ‘We’ve got the Mortons arriving any moment and as far as I can see nothing is ready—’
‘I couldn’t care less about the Mortons!’ That was all that concerned him at heart, she told herself silently. He hadn’t really been worried about her, just his precious dinner party.
‘Obviously.’ It was bitingly cold. ‘I, on the other hand, do.’
‘Of course you do,’ she agreed bitterly. ‘They come under the heading of “Work”, don’t they? Which takes them into a completely different category to the rest of us poor mortals.’ Like Liliana. He needed her expertise for the new project and so the redhead was important to him—far more important than a stay-at-home wife with no career or obvious virtues Buchanan Industries could use.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He strode over to her, whisking back the door of the wardrobe and gesturing violently at the contents as he said, ‘Get changed quickly and compose yourself.’
‘I’m perfectly composed, thank you very much.’ She drew herself up to her full five feet six inches, her voice icy.
‘Then get this off and do something with your hair.’
It was his disparaging voice as he glanced at her hair—which admittedly was windswept and tousled from the blustery, cold October evening outside the central heated cocoon of the warm apartment—rather than his hand flicking at her jacket which caught Marianne on the raw.
‘Don’t do that,’ she snapped tightly, her own hand pushing his away. ‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Don’t touch you?’ He was astounded; it showed in his dark face and the flare of colour across the hard chiselled cheekbones. It was probably the first time the great Zeke Buchanan had ever had that said to him by a woman, Marianne told herself with a touch of silent hysteria. It was certainly the first time she had ever said it.
‘Yes, don’t touch me,’ she repeated grimly. ‘I’m not one of your possessions, Zeke, whatever you might think. I’m your wife.’
If she had thought he was angry before he was livid now, and as Marianne watched his eyes become coal-black with fury she felt frightened of the demon she had unwittingly unleashed. ‘Dead right you’re my wife,’ he grated slowly. ‘So why don’t you start acting like it and do what you’re damn well told?’
‘You arrogant—’ As her hand came up to strike him he caught her wrist in one swift movement, and then, without warning, he pulled her
