it’s not important? They are married—everything they have is divided equally anyway.’
Zoë heard Mary Master reply. The woman’s voice was fading—they were obviously leaving the room—but Zoë could not move; she was frozen in shock.
‘Exactly my point.’ Sara Blacket’s piercing voice echoed in the room as she closed the door. ‘Gifford is a very ambitious man and by doing what the old man wanted and marrying the American girl he has made doubly sure of getting control of virtually everything. I can’t see young Zoë being involved in finance at allshe’s the arty type.’
Zoë stared at the heart she had drawn on the glass; the mist was fading, the shape disappearing—a bad omen! Don’t be stupid! she told herself, and quickly raised her hand and rubbed the window clean. But she could not clean the doubt in her mind away so easily. Could it be true? Had Uncle Bertie insisted that Justin marry her? No, of course not, her common sense told her. Justin loved her, didn’t he?
She slid off the seat and stood up. She was overreacting. Sara Blacket was a nosy, overbearing old gossip whose husband, as the most senior in chambers, had wanted to be head himself. Justin had told her as much. Obviously it was pure sour grapes on Sara’s part.
‘Zoë? Zoë?’ Justin’s voice broke into her uncomfortable thoughts, and, smoothing the plain black jersey shift down over her hips, she moved towards the door. It was flung open and Justin walked in, his dark eyes full of concern.
‘Ah! There you are. I saw Mary and Sara leave. I take it you didn’t get the peace you were looking for,’ he said lightly, casually slipping an arm around her shoulders. ‘Judge Master is waiting in the study, darling. It’s time to say goodbye to the guests, and then the will will be read. Are you up to it or would your rather wait? There’s no hurry.’
‘Why? Because you know what’s in it?’ The curt words had left her mouth before she could stop them…
‘No. No, I don’t.’ Justin turned her around to face him, his arms encircling her waist, holding her loosely, his dark eyes scrutinising her pale face. ‘I was thinking of you; you look tired. It’s been a long day.’
Held in his arms, conscious of his warmth and the tender care in his expression, Zoë hated herself for doubting him for a minute, but she could not control her wayward tongue. She loved Justin, and she needed his reassurance.
‘You do love me, Justin?’ she asked softly, her eyes catching his, a pleading light in their sapphire depths.
‘Of course I do, silly girl; I married you, didn’t I?’ And his dark head lowered, blocking out the light as his mouth moved over hers in an achingly tender kiss.
She moved closer into his embrace and curved her slender arms around his neck; she felt his arms tighten and she opened her mouth, inviting the kiss to deepen. She sighed into his mouth, their breath mingling there, tongues entwining; she ran her fingers through his thick black hair, her heart pounding. Justin loved her; he was her husband, her love, her life.
Justin slightly parted his long legs, one strong hand curving down over her bottom and urging her between his muscular thighs. She curved into the hot, hard warmth of his body, her breasts flattened against his rihcage, her nipples tingling with the contact then hardening as his other hand swept up to cup possessively over one high, firm breast through the soft wool of her dress.
He broke the kiss long enough to nuzzle her throat, his mouth covering the madly beating pulse in her neck then trailing back to her softly parted lips; a low moan escaped her just as his mouth found hers once more.
As always she trembled, melting against him, her blood pounding through her veins, but suddenly he was easing her away. ‘Justin,’ she murmured.
‘Easy, Zoë. Now is not the time.’
She raised passion-hazed eyes to his rugged face; she recognised the dark blush of desire staining his taut features at the same time as she saw the familiar iron control reassert itself in the black depths of his eyes.
‘You’re right, as usual,’ she agreed, and was swept into a gentle hug, his large hand stroking the back of her head as he pressed her to his broad chest, easing the sexual tension surrounding them into something more manageable.
‘Come on, Zoë; the quicker we say goodbye to the guests, the sooner we can get this day over with.’
He was right, but sometimes, just sometimes, Zoë wished that he would get swept away by passion. But the great Justin Gifford, renowned for his cool, lethal voice, his absolute control of any jury, never, ever lost control.
Now, where had that unkind thought come from? Zoë mused as she saw the guests depart. Justin was British and restraint was an accepted characteristic of the people, and she should know! On first arriving here, a typical American teenager, she had found it difficult to adjust to the more formal way of life.
Half an hour later she followed Justin into the study and sat down beside him on the black hide sofa. Mrs Crumpet, the housekeeper, Jud, her husband—also the gardener—and John Smith, the chauffeur, plus the two daily women, stood around in a rather embarrassed silence as Judge Master sat down in the chair behind Uncle Bertie’s desk.
It soon became apparent that Bertie hadn’t changed his will in years. All the staff were left generous amounts of money and there were pensions for Mr and Mrs Crumpet and the chauffeur. His law books were to go to Justin and the remainder of the estate was left to Zoë, with the proviso that Justin be her guardian until she was twenty-five.
‘You—my guardian.’ She smiled at Justin. ‘It sounds slightly kinky as we’re already married.’
Judge Master laughed. ‘Bertie made this will when you were sixteen; he did think about changing it, but, as you and Justin married, there was no real point. It’s all in the family anyway.’
The staff left the room, and then Judge Master revealed the extent of the estate. It was not a great deal of money but, with the house, a very nice legacy. She felt Justin tense beside her, and she shot him a puzzled look, but he ignored her, his gaze fixed on Judge Master.
‘With the house included, if he didn’t make prior arrangements, the death duty will be quite considerable.’ Justin was all business, and Zoë felt oddly excluded as the two men talked literally over her head.
‘Yes, I did warn him,’ the judge responded.
‘But you know Bertie—he refused to admit he was dying right up until the end.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about the tax, though. Zoë is twenty-one in a month, when she will obtain control of her trust fund from her parents. I was talking to the lawyer in New York only a few days ago, and, with the reissue of an old film of her father’s about dinosaurs, apparently her trust fund is quite healthy.’
‘How healthy exactly?’ Justin asked quietly.
‘Double what Bertie left, so the tax should not be a problem. Mind you, I would advise you to sell this place; it’s far too big for this day and age. Maintenance alone was always a drain on Bertie’s funds.’
‘Do you mind, gentlemen? I am sitting here,’ Zoë intervened, and wanted to laugh as the two males in the room turned to look at her as though she were some apparition.
Judge Master was the first to
