A Husband's Price

Claudia stepped aside at the doorway to allow the housekeeper passage, wincing as the older woman put the tray down on the long, polished table, a huge smile splitting her rosy face as she marvelled, ‘Well, and isn’t this a turn up for the books, young Adam? Who’d have thought—?’

‘Thank you, Amy,’ Claudia interrupted smoothly. Amy had had a soft spot for the young Adam Weston all those years ago, making sure he was lavishly supplied from the kitchens, that the old caravan he was living in was packed with creature comforts. He’d had the useful ability to charm just about anyone who could do him any good!

Pointedly, she began to pour coffee, both cups black and sugarless because that was the way she liked it and he could do what the heck he wanted with his. Amy suggested, ‘Should I put a match to the fire? It’s a bit nippy, don’t you think?’

She was already bustling towards the wide stone hearth, but Adam’s smile stopped her. His smile, Claudia remembered, could stop a runaway train. No problem. ‘We’re fine, Amy. Truly. Besides, after we’ve had coffee, Mrs Favel and I will be going to find a quiet pub for lunch, but thank you for the offer.’

This man had acquired authority, Claudia decided acidly as Amy melted away. Lashings of it. But nothing would induce her to have lunch with him. As soon as Amy had closed the door she said, ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time, but I’ve decided not to do business with your company after all.’

‘Cutting your nose off to spite your face?’ The slight smile he gave her as he picked up his coffee was a patronising insult. Claudia felt her entire body seizing up, every bone, every muscle going rigid with tension.

Over the past six years she’d really believed she had come to terms with what he had done, with his wickedly cruel betrayal. If anyone had told her that seeing him again would affect her like this—as if he still had the power to give her pain, to make her go weak and boneless with one look from those smoke-grey eyes—then she would have laughed until her ribs cracked.

He drained his cup, his eyes assessing her over the rim. ‘I’ve had a shock, too, Claudia. You were the last person I expected to see this morning.’ He put the cup back on its saucer with a tiny click and suggested, ‘So why don’t we both take a deep breath, put on our business hats, and start again?’ He made a small gesture with one lean, strong-boned hand. ‘Won’t you, perhaps, sit down?’

She ignored the seamless way he was taking over, her brows frowning above her thickly lashed eyes as she picked up her cup and carried it over to one of the deeply recessed window embrasures—because her legs felt distinctly shaky, and for no other reason at all. Sitting down on the padded cushion, she tilted one interrogative brow.

‘Who else would you expect to see? Widow Twanky? You can’t have forgotten who owns Farthings Hall.’

‘Six years ago Guy Sullivan, your father, owned the property. I hadn’t given the place a thought until the impending sale was brought to my attention. The name Favel meant nothing to me. Your father...’ For the first time he looked unsure of himself, as if he had only just realised that the change of ownership might mean Guy Sullivan was no longer living. ‘Your father always treated me fairly,’ be said quietly.

Sarcastic swine! He’d been long gone, on that rattletrap old motorbike of his, well before her father had returned that day, so he had no way of knowing what Guy Sullivan would have said and done had he been told—as Helen had threatened—what had been happening in his absence.

He’d got the treatment he deserved from her and from Helen. Had it given him pleasure to hammer home the fact that he hadn’t given her a moment’s thought in six long years?

But she put him out of his misery in one respect. ‘Dad’s visiting a friend for the day.’ She saw the slight tension drain from his face and knew with a small shock of surprise that he was actually relieved.

‘But you are the present owner?’ He was leaning back against the table, half sitting, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes narrowed as if he was weighing up everything she said.

‘Yes.’ She didn’t have to tell him any more.

‘Sole owner?’

She dipped her head in acknowledgement and he drawled, as if the prospect didn’t much appeal, ‘Then you and I do business. At this stage, there’s no need for me to view the property; I remember as much as I need to right now.’

Claudia forced herself not to flinch at that callously casual reminder. He might have been able to wipe her from his memory banks with no trouble at all but during his time here he’d surveyed every inch of the property, so no, he wouldn’t have forgotten what he’d seen, and decided to have.

They’d roamed every inch of the acreage together, the formal gardens, the paddocks, the headlands and the lovely unspoilt valley that led down to the cove, following the well-trodden path meandering beside the clear, sparkly waters of the stream, hand in hand, blissfully happy. Or so she’d thought.

And he’d obviously known enough about the interior of the house to go straight to Helen’s bedroom the moment a suitable opportunity arose. He had never troubled himself to find out where her, Claudia’s, room was. He’d made love to her in many places: the soft, moonlit grass of the headlands, the silky sand of the cove, even in the caravan on that claustrophobic bunk bed; but never here in the house.

Had he had too much respect for Helen, been too overawed by her golden, sizzling sexiness, to believe he had any hope of seducing her at all in the great outdoors or the mouldering old caravan? Had he decided his chances would be greater in the comfort of her own suite of rooms, between the luxury of satin sheets?

‘So, since the restaurant here is closed at lunchtime during the off season, I suggest we find a quiet pub and discuss generalities over lunch.’

Claudia blinked herself back to the here and now. He seemed able to operate as if there had never been anything between them in the past, or as if what had happened between them was not worth remembering, she thought resentfully, beginning to burn with a slow, deep anger. Perhaps the only way a person could live with the memory of their own despicable behaviour was to ignore it, as he seemed to be doing with great success.

Claudia rose and returned her cup and saucer to the tray. Her face was calm, icily controlled, hiding the raging inner turmoil. She was about to repeat forcefully her earlier statement that no way would she do business with him but, before she could get the words out, he stated coolly, ‘You’re married.’

That had to be obvious, of course, from her change of surname and, of course, he looked and sounded utterly detached. Why should he look anything other? His emotions had never been engaged where she was concerned, only his greed.

‘So?’ Her mouth was trembling. She thinned her lips to make it stop. ‘Are you?’

‘No. But that’s hardly relevant. Your husband isn’t a joint owner of the property?’ The grey of his eyes was, if anything, even more austere, his mouth twisting in a parody of a smile. ‘Don’t look so defensive, Mrs Favel. My interest in you and your husband isn’t personal. On a professional basis I need to know exactly who I have to deal with.’

He was astute, she had to give him that, Claudia acknowledged shakily. He could tell she felt threatened—her body language must have given her away. And, truth to tell, she had been threatened ever since she’d walked into the kitchen gardens six years ago and feasted her eyes on the stunning perfection of him.

He had threatened her happiness, her innocence, her unquestioning belief in the intrinsic goodness of human nature. Threatened and destroyed. So she had every right to look defensive.

‘I’m the sole owner.’ She could see no reason to tell him of Tony’s death, to tell him anything other than, ‘However, it’s entirely academic. Maybe you weren’t listening, but I distinctly remember telling you I’d decided not to deal with your company.’

She swung round on the low heels of her court shoes, facing the empty hearth rather than see him watching her with those chilling, empty eyes.

‘And I said you’d be cutting off your nose to spite your face,’ he reminded her dryly. ‘However, if you prefer to take your chances on the open market, and keep your fingers crossed that whoever fancies taking this place on has got the necessary financial backing to deliver the asking price, rather than consider the obvious advantages of dealing privately with a successful outfit like the Hallam Group, then that, of course, is your prerogative.’

He’d followed her. He was standing right behind her. She could smell the cool, lemony scent of his aftershave, the rugged undertone of dominant male. It flummoxed her, made her feel disorientated. She despised him totally yet could understand completely why her younger self had fallen for him, had gladly given all she had of herself, would have unhesitatingly given her life for him had it been required of her...

Claudia swallowed roughly, her movements jerky as she put distance between them. She really hated to admit it, but he was right. A private deal between her and the Hallam Group would save a lot of grief. A company as secure as his wouldn’t haggle over a fair price. She needed the best deal she could get to pay off those massive debts.

A quick, private sale would be easier on her father, too. He wouldn’t have to suffer the local speculation that would precede a public auction. Having to sell up at all would affect him badly—he could do without the added stress of having to explain why to anyone who felt inclined to ask.

The book she’d been reading recently was lying on a side table. She hadn’t been enjoying it. She picked it up because it was something to do, and hopefully it would make him think she was perfectly composed, unaffected by having to share room space with him.

But her fingers were agitated, clumsy, as she tried to slot it into a vacant space on the packed bookshelves. It fell, spine up, to the floor, the snapshot of her and Rosie, taken earlier this year, the one she’d been using as a bookmark, landing on the soft, jewel-coloured Persian carpet.

He had picked the book up before she had time to think, handing it to her but keeping the snapshot. Claudia felt physically sick, her hand going up to cover her mouth. A dull flush mounted his jutting cheekbones, his eyes glittering hotly as he raised them to meet hers.

‘You have a daughter?’ he asked harshly, glancing down again at the two grinning images and swiftly back up at her, forcing her to nod the affirmative.

‘Look—about lunch. I agree. We can discuss business in neutral surroundings. I might as well hear what you have to offer.’ She would have said anything—anything at all—to change the subject, to take his mind off that photograph. She swept past him, plucking it from his fingers with a murmured, ‘Thank you,’ as she went. She felt his eyes boring into her back, right between her rigid shoulder blades, as she made for the door. ‘I’ll collect my handbag and let Amy know I’ll be out. I won’t keep you waiting more than a minute or two.’

Back in her bedroom, she pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples. If the past six weeks had been a nightmare, then Adam Weston’s appearance put the tin lid on it! After her meeting with the bank manager she had foolishly imagined that nothing very much worse could happen.

How wrong she had been!

Stifling a groan, she surveyed her image in the dressing-table mirror. She looked haggard, middle-aged, careworn. She shrugged, turning away, taking her bag from the top of the chest of drawers where she’d left it earlier and tucking the photograph safely inside.

So what did it matter if she looked like death warmed up? He wasn’t interested in her, in the way she looked. He never had been. All he’d been interested in was her prospects.

Nor did she want him to be interested in her. Of course she didn’t. She was no longer a silly teenager who thought the world a beautiful place and the people in it perfect angels. She knew better now. And she could hack it; she could face having lunch with that snake. For the sake of her father and her child, she could endure it and would, she determined grimly, stick out for the best price she could possibly get.

Business, it seemed, wasn’t on his mind. And it had fled from hers as soon as they’d realised where they were.

The Unicorn. A mythical beast, which was fitting because it had been here that he had declared his mythical love all those years ago, she thought bitterly as she eyed the tiny, stone-built pub from the side window of Adam’s Jaguar.

‘Remember it?’ he asked now, removing the key from the ignition, and she gave him a blank-eyed stare.

‘Should I?’ She exited the car.