is what it might have been like, she thought suddenly, if we’d had a real marriage. I’d have been making dinner just like this, while I waited for him to come home.
Then jeered at herself for her own sentimentality. Their first home together would have been the penthouse in the glamorous apartment block which Daniel had already occupied, which had its own restaurant, with a delivery service. She wouldn’t have been expected to lift a finger. And when they’d eventually set up house, that would have come with a full complement of staff too. Something that would no doubt apply to the house he’d just bought.
She found herself wondering a little wistfully what had happened to the penthouse, recalling how she’d roamed around it open-mouthed the first and only time he’d taken her to see it.
She remembered the sofas like thistledown, the Persian rugs that gleamed like jewels from the vast expanse of polished floor in the living area. She thought of the gleaming bathroom, tiled in a magically misty sea-green, with its enormous tub and the equally spacious shower cabinet. Big enough, she’d told him rapturously, to hold a party in, and had seen his lips twitch.
And most of all she remembered the bedroom. How she’d stood in the doorway, not daring to venture further, and stared speechlessly at the huge bed with its gold silk cover, her mind going into overdrive as the actual implications of being Daniel’s wife came home to her as never before.
Because, up to then, physical contact between them during their brief engagement had been almost minimal, she’d realised with bewilderment. He’d held her after—after Simon, but that had been to comfort her. And he’d kissed her when she’d said she’d marry him. There’d been other kisses since—of course there had—but they’d invariably been light—even teasing. Yet she’d found them intensely disturbing nonetheless.
At no time, however, had there been any real pressure from him to change their relationship to a more intimate level. And, in spite of her happiness and longing, she’d been too shy of him, and too conscious of her own inexperience, to initiate any deeper involvement herself.
It had suddenly occurred to her that they were completely alone together, without fear of interruption, and she was sharply, achingly, aware of him standing just behind her.
Her body had tingled as she’d felt the warmth of his nearness, the stir of his breath on her neck, and she’d wished—desperately—crazily—that he’d turn her into his arms and kiss her with passion and desire, as he’d done so often in her imagination. And that he’d lift her and carry her over to the bed, silencing all her doubts and uncertainties for ever as he made love to her.
Maybe that was why he’d brought her there? Because he didn’t want to wait any longer. He wanted all of her. Everything she had to give.
And maybe he was only waiting for some sign from her.
She had half turned towards him when she realised just in time that he was moving, stepping backwards away from her. He’d said quietly, almost casually, as he glanced at his watch, ‘We should be going.’ He’d paused. ‘If there’s anything about the décor you want to change, you only have to say so.’
And, wrenched by something deeper than disappointment, she’d stammered something inane about the flat being beautiful—perfect. That she wouldn’t want to alter a thing.
She supposed he must have sold it at some point after their separation, but why hadn’t he acquired something similar—with its own gym, swimming pool and every other convenience known to the mind of man—instead of slumming it here?
So he didn’t want to be tied into a long lease? But Daniel Sinclair was a multimillionaire, and could surely dictate his own terms. It made no sense for him to opt merely for this fairly ordinary two-bedroomed job.
She bit her lip. But then Daniel’s motives for doing anything would always be a mystery. And she really had to remember that this was none of her business, anyway.
He was here, and he obviously intended to stay, so her reluctant task was to establish some kind of working neutrality. And speculation would simply cloud the issue.
Besides, if she didn’t ask any questions she could free herself from any obligation to answer them either.
And maybe the whole wretched subject of the marriage that never was could be finally laid to rest.
Maybe.
Could it really—ever—be that simple? she wondered. And told herself that her eyes were suddenly blurred because she was chopping onions. No other reason could be permitted—or even be possible.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WASN’T an expensive wine. Neither Jamie nor she had aspired to acquiring a vintage collection, even if they could have afforded it. But it was chilled and crisp, and it soothed the dryness of her throat as Laine, curled up in a corner of the sofa, waited for Daniel’s return.
He’d said two hours, but it was now over three. That was, of course, if he planned to return at all. Because it had occurred to her that maybe he’d decided that sharing a roof with her wasn’t worth the hassle, and that he was, even at that moment, arranging alternative accommodation somewhere as far away from her as possible.
Which, in the short term, would solve some of her problems, but inevitably create others in their place.
Practically, she could not afford to occupy the flat alone—unlike Jamie, who’d always earned a much larger salary than she’d done, or at least while he’d still been working at Cowper Dymond.
And right now she couldn’t actually afford to live in the place at all, she reminded herself unhappily. Thankfully, there was no mortgage to pay, but there were plenty of other bills looming large on the horizon, and if she didn’t start earning at once she was going to find herself in real difficulty.
She sighed. As she’d headed home the flat had seemed like a safe refuge. But then investing in Andy’s boat had also appeared to be a good deal.
And there had even been a time when the prospect of becoming Daniel’s wife had been the answer to her prayers—the fulfilment of her most treasured hopes and dreams.
Oh, God, she thought with sudden anguish, the muscles tightening in her throat. How wrong is it possible to be in one short lifetime?
The sound of his key in the door brought her sharply back to the here and now. She leaned back against the cushions, trying to look perfectly relaxed, but realised at the same time that she was clinging to the stem of her glass as if it was a lifeline.
‘Hi.’ She forced a smile as he came in, attempting the nonchalant approach, as if she was quite accustomed to his returning from the office for dinner. As she would have been, of course, if their marriage had ever become a reality.
Don’t think like that—even for a moment. Don’t go there.
‘Good evening.’ He halted for a moment, studying her, his brows raised sardonically. ‘I was quite expecting to find you’d barricaded yourself in during my absence.’
She shrugged, pretending ruefulness. ‘The furniture was just too heavy for me to move.’ She paused. ‘Besides, I talked to Jamie. Found out what had happened.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe he could be such an utter fool.’
‘Isn’t
