The Price of a Wife Read online

  The other three executives were in their seats by eight-thirty, and as the meeting commenced and the ideas flowed Josie tried to relax. But it was no good. That big, dark, masculine figure on the other side of the room was stilling her normally vivacious tongue and paralysing her thought process. She knew Andy and Mike had glanced at her more than once, clearly expecting something from her, but she was quite incapable of responding to the silent order.

  It was her own fault, she thought desperately. She knew all this was her own fault, but did Luke Hawkton have to be so… so satisfied about her predicament? He had her on the end of a hook, he knew it and she knew it, and every time she nerved herself to meet the silently superior narrowed gaze she knew he hadn't forgotten or forgiven her for yesterday's confrontation.

  So what was he going to do about it? she asked herself helplessly. Tell her bosses she had messed up? Denounce her in ringing tones and watch her squirm? Well, whatever he was going to do she wished he would just get on with it, that was all. She couldn't take much more of this nightmare of a meeting without disgracing herself still further.

  And then, almost as though he was receiving her unspoken thoughts, he leant across the large desk around which they were clustered and spoke directly to her, his voice deep and soft. 'Miss Owens? Perhaps you would like to show us your ideas now?'

  No—no, she wouldn't, but she couldn't very well say so. She knew he was going to pick them all to pieces, exact a revenge that would be satisfying for him and painful for herself, but there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She was in the ultimate catch-22 scenario, and the most galling thing of all was that she had put herself there.

  'Certainly.' She avoided his intent eyes as she lifted her briefcase onto her lap and extracted the night's work. 'I've tackled the concept from several different angles, actually, as I wasn't sure how formal or glitzy you wanted the launch to be. Now, this was the first idea I had…'

  As she talked the different possibilities through her enthusiasm for the work she loved took over, as always, her voice steady and firm now and her face animated.

  'And this is my last thought…' She lifted her eyes for a moment as she spread the papers out in front of Luke Hawkton and her gaze met the piercing force of his. She faltered slightly before quickly recovering herself. 'I wasn't sure if there would be children present, or whether you wanted an evening reception strictly for adults, but this idea could encompass both if you so wished.'

  'I thought a play on old and new might capture jaded imaginations better than a straightforward diamonds and fur occasion, and with that end in mind I considered going back a hundred years or more for the day. Perhaps an old-fashioned fair, complete with rides and swings and so on, and a constructed ice-rink with braziers and roasting chestnuts?'

  'Everyone invited could wear clothes suited to that era, the children could have hoops and kites to play with, and the climax to the launch could come at the end of the afternoon, before the formal dinner dance planned for later, with several small boats in the harbour providing coloured smoke to form a veil through which the new yacht can sail, beautifully streamlined, utterly gracious—the present in all its glory…'

  'The dinner dance later could either be a seventeenth- or eighteenth-century ball, complete with crinolines, or an up-to-date affair to allow the women to show off their Diors and so on—with, of course, champagne on the yacht first for the selected few.' She nerved herself to glance up and look directly at Luke Hawkton as she finished speaking, but the cold, rugged face was completely expressionless, the silver-grey gaze hooded and remote.

  As the seconds ticked by she was aware that everyone was waiting for some sort of reaction from the man himself, as was she, but nearly a full minute passed before he broke a silence which had become electric.

  'Excellent.' The glittering gaze lifted from her rough sketches and calculations to fasten with steel-like firmness on her face. 'We'll go with that last one.'

  He had risen, pushed back his chair and was halfway across the room before anyone moved, and then Mick and Andy shot out of their chairs like startled rabbits. 'Luke, do I take it we've got the promotion?' Mike asked breathlessly, his voice a tone higher than normal, and the other men rose from their seats like obedient marionettes, leaving only Josie sitting in stunned silence at the deserted table.

  'No.' Luke turned, his silver gaze flashing over his old college friend like liquid steel. 'Miss Owens has.' He smiled directly at her now, the hard face mellowing for a moment. 'I like the general theme you've suggested—it's both unusual and imaginative—but I want to be kept closely involved with this—you understand me?'

  She nodded dumbly, unable to believe that Top Promotions had just scooped what must be the prize of the year.

  'And I don't want other ideas fuzzing the edges.' The gimlet gaze returned to Mike. 'No interference from other ambitious avenues, right? I'm aware you work as a team here on most projects, but not this one. I will provide Top Promotions, and Miss Owens, with both the finance and resources to give me exactly what I want. The launch will be at the end of October, which is two months later than I would have liked, but our team of craftsmen ran into difficulties with the original superstructure moulding and it needed modifying.'

  As Mike and Andy's heads moved in unison Josie wondered, for a split second, exactly what Luke Hawkton was thinking as he watched them all. He was powerful, hard, ruthless, wealthy; he had just given their company an enormous shot in the arm and he must be aware of the fact, and of the exalted position that put him in in her two bosses' eyes. Did he expect obsequiousness, servility from his employees? She had dealt with enough egomaniacs in her time to know that some men looked on such things as their right.

  'Today is the second of June.' The deep voice brought her fully alert. 'That means you have almost five months to pull this off. Can you do it?'

  He was looking directly at her again, and she nodded tightly without a shred of hesitation. Either that or die in the attempt!

  'Good. And can I also take it that you will obey any instruction I give you regarding the project without question?'

  This time her hesitation was marked, and she nipped at her lower lip for a moment before finding the nerve to speak the truth. 'No, not if it isn't in the best interests of the launch or if I think you're wrong,' she said honestly. 'In those circumstances I would want to discuss things with you and see if we could arrive at a mutually agreeable solution.'

  She saw Mike and Andy, who were standing just behind Luke now, close their eyes for a split second, but in spite of their horrified faces she continued to stare into the silver-grey gaze without flinching. She had never toadied to anyone, man or woman, and she was blowed if she was going to tell Luke Hawkton a pack of lies. She wasn't a boot-licker or a bosses' lackey; she had a mind of her own and knew how to use it, so he might as well know now.

  'Daunting…' The word was breathed on the air but she read his lips, and the memory of her rebuff the day before brought vivid scarlet into her cheeks. 'I would like you at my office on Monday morning with some relevant facts and figures,' he continued immediately, his voice cool, as though his reference to her gaffe had been incidental. 'If you have any other projects under way you delegate them to one of these gentlemen. You can agree with that, Miss Owens?' he added with heavy mockery.

  It clearly didn't make any difference whether she was happy with his orders or not, but she nodded anyway, her large honey-gold eyes still faintly dazed by the suddenness of it all. 'Thank you.' She hadn't meant the words to sound so small or so breathless, but somehow the sheer presence of this man had drained all her normal vivacity into a small, trembling lump in the middle of her chest, although there was no reason for it, or for the hostility that flared into life every time she so much as laid eyes on him. And she was grateful for this wonderful opportunity. 'Thank you, Mr Hawkton.'

  'You're welcome.' He walked back to shake her hand, and as he did so he spoke swiftly and softly in her ear, his voice inau
dible to the others. 'And you've managed it without having to use that couch at all. Unfortunately.'

  He had turned and left before she could pull herself together sufficiently to think, and then, as the door closed behind him with Mike and Andy glued to his heels, her colleagues were congratulating her somewhat grudgingly and the remark had to be put on the back-burner of her mind.

  'So Mike was at uni with the esteemed Luke Hawkton, was he?' Mitchell was obviously put out that his ideas hadn't had a mention. 'Think that's why he's going with Top Promotions?'

  'I think Josie's proposal had something to do with it,' one of the other men remarked drily. 'Don't be a sore loser, Mitch; it doesn't suit you.'

  But Mitchell's comment, along with Luke's parting shot, were in the forefront of her mind that afternoon as she sat in her comfortable, bright lounge with the full-length windows to the balcony wide open and Mog lying in purring ecstasy in a spot of blazing sunlight with a whole celebratory tin of red salmon in his stomach.

  It was Luke's 'unfortunately' that bothered her, more than the fact that he had referred to her stupid gibe to Charlotte. He surely hadn't taken her seriously, had he? She bit on her lower lip anxiously as she went over and over the intonation of his voice in her mind. But so what if he had? She could handle that sort of hassle; she'd been doing it for ten years or more, since she'd first stepped out into the big bad world. But she wouldn't like to think she'd got the job because Luke happened to know her boss.

  She frowned into the thick warm air. He either genuinely liked her ideas or he didn't. And if he didn't… She shook her head slowly. How did you know with a man like him? He wasn't like any other man she had ever met in the whole of her life… except one. The thought jumped in from nowhere but once in her mind it stuck.

  Yes, there was something about him that reminded her of Peter Staples, something…something she couldn't quite put her finger on, and it had caused an instant and probably unfair antagonism that was as fierce as it was illogical. She thought back to her behaviour of the evening before and winced at her barely concealed hostility to the man who was now, in effect, her bread and butter.

  'Oh, Mog…' She sighed as she spoke but Mog was too full of salmon and too comfortable to respond to the naked appeal in her voice. He cast her a long, considering glance from large, slanted green eyes before the express train in his chest resumed its rumbling journey, the sunlight turning his brindled fur into a mass of shimmering colour.

  This was the chance of a lifetime, an opportunity to nail her colours well and truly to the career mast and cement her credibility into place with unshakeable firmness, and she wasn't going to let Mitch's spitefulness or Luke Hawkton's innuendoes spoil things. She narrowed her eyes determinedly, pushing back the riot of tiny auburn curls that fell about her shoulders. She could do it. She knew she could pull this off; that wasn't in question. The only thing was…

  Her mouth hardened. Could she tolerate Luke Hawkton in her life for any amount of time? The thought was stupid and she knew it. Of course she could; she would have to. And he wasn't Peter Staples; he wasn't even remotely like him.

  Peter had been wild and dark and fascinatingly handsome to the young fifteen-year-old Josie Owens, with his long jet-black hair and slanted ebony eyes that danced wickedly as they promised the moon. He had been ten years older than she and quite out of her orbit, with his flashy red sports car and his succession of tall, model-type girlfriends that he seemed to change with each passing month.

  Their parents had been friends, but then everyone was friends with everyone else in the tiny Sussex village where she had grown up. And so she had loved him from afar, utterly tongue-tied if they ever happened to meet at one of the numerous social gatherings the middle-aged community loved so much and which the younger folks tended to endure, watching him with huge doe eyes and hanging on his every word.

  Quite when he had started to flirt with her she wasn't sure. She had heard rumours that his last girlfriend, a sophisticated, leggy blonde with the face of an angel and the figure of a goddess, had thrown him over—an unprecedented occurrence—and that he was upset about it, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to believe the hearsay. Who in their right mind would reject Peter Staples? He was… just perfect. And so when he'd told her to keep their dates secret she hadn't asked him why. One didn't question a god.

  They had seen each other three times before he had made the pass at her which had ended in an undignified fight for her virginity. She could still hear the caustic, ugly words he had shouted at her in the heat of his temper when he'd realised his crude seduction attempt had failed, the foul language as he had pulled her back into the car, furious that she had refused him and was demanding to go home.

  And then he had driven like a madman, the more so when he had seen her fear, and the car had seemed to fly down the narrow, high-bordered lanes with their tight curves and bends, its expensive tyres screaming and the world outside a green blur. He had been laughing when the car turned the corner and hit the farm tractor.

  It had been the first thing she remembered when she had finally come out of the coma—that spiteful, malevolent laughter ringing in her ears and the crash of grinding metal against metal.

  The young eighteen-year-old farmboy had been killed instantly; Peter had walked away from the crash with nothing more than cuts and bruises. And she…? She had had a fractured skull, two broken legs and a crushed pelvis that had necessitated an operation. An operation that had robbed her of the chance of ever being a mother.

  'Stop it, Josie.' She spoke the words out loud and this time something in her voice brought Mog to his feet, and he stretched comfortably before sauntering over and rubbing against her legs. 'Good boy…' She spoke automatically, her hand stroking the sleek fur as she gave herself silent orders to pull herself together.

  Trips down memory lane were futile and destructive; she knew that. She knew it. And it was rare for her to indulge in them these days. The ringing of the telephone at her elbow interrupted her self-admonishment.

  'Miss Owens?' Luke Hawkton's voice was unmistakable.

  'Yes?' Her heart stopped, and then raced on like a runaway train.

  'This is Luke Hawkton. I'm sorry to bother you at home like this but I have a problem.'

  'You do?' Oh, for goodness' sake say something businesslike, something that will impress him, she thought disgustedly as she heard her faint, breathless voice.

  'I have to fly to Germany tonight—an unexpected business complication that may well necessitate my spending several days out there.' The firm, controlled voice wasn't unfriendly, but nevertheless she found herself holding her breath as she listened to him. 'I don't want any further delay on the Night Hawk project, Miss Owens; there has been enough already. The thing seems to have picked up problems like a cat picks up fleas.'

  'Oh.' She glanced down at her feet to meet Mog's bright green gaze, which she was sure had darkened with disapproval at his simile.

  'I would like you to get all the relevant data sorted out over the weekend and bring it out to me. I will arrange for a car to pick you up at eight on Monday morning and my secretary will be waiting for you.'

  'I…' She took a deep breath and tried again. 'Are you saying you want me to fly out to Germany, Mr Hawkton?'

  'The name's Luke, and, yes, that's exactly what I'm saying,' he said coolly.

  'But I could fax you—'

  'No, that would not be satisfactory.' He cut across her protest immediately. 'I want you in front of me, where we can discuss things properly and get everything ironed out,' he continued firmly. 'Your plane leaves Heathrow at nine-thirty, so I understand, and my secretary will give you the tickets and all the necessary information concerning your hotel and so on. A car will be waiting on your arrival in—'

  'Hang on a moment, did you say hotel?' She found her voice along with her wits, and at the same moment it hit her why Luke Hawkton reminded her so strongly of Peter.

  They were the only two men she had ever met
who were completely and totally sure of themselves and of their ability to command, to subdue, to dominate. It sat on them like a live aura and both repelled and fascinated those unfortunate enough to come within striking distance—or at least it repelled her now, she thought bitterly. Thirteen years too late.

  She would always believe it had been Peter's utter lack of remorse, his unwillingness to accept any blame for the accident or her injuries, that had caused her father's massive heart attack. In the two months before he died her father had been eaten up by bitter pain and resentment that his only daughter had been treated so badly, and he had felt her desperate anguish and primitive blind despair as though it were his own. On the day before she'd finally come out of hospital he had collapsed in the street just outside the main doors and died moments later.

  'Just an overnight stay, Miss Owens—or may I call you Josie? As we are going to be working pretty closely over the next few months I think a less formal approach is called for, don't you?' The deep, faintly husky voice broke into her thoughts, commanding her concentration.

  'Yes, of course.' She forced a pleasant tone that was in direct contrast to her feelings. 'But with regard to the hotel I'm sure that isn't necessary. I can easily catch a night flight. In fact, I'd prefer to do that,' she added firmly. 'I have things to do here—'

  'Which I am sure can wait twenty-four hours.' There was a touch of steel in the pleasant tone now, only the merest intimation that his words were an order and not a suggestion, but it was enough to make the hand holding the phone clench tightly round the inoffensive instrument as she glared at it angrily.

  'I'm not sure exactly when I will be free to talk to you, so it makes sense to allow a little leeway into the evening.' His voice was reasonable—too reasonable, as though he were explaining something obvious to a recalcitrant child. 'You do understand the enormity of the job you have taken on, I trust?'