A Passionate Affair: The Passionate Husband / The Italian's Passion / A Latin Passion

‘We never were an “item”, Fuzz. We were married, remember?’ He didn’t sound quite so tolerant now. ‘Or should I say we are married.’

She did up the buttons on her jacket as swiftly as her trembling hands would permit, furious with herself for giving in so easily to what was clearly a ploy on his part. He thought he only had to turn on the charm and she would fall at his feet, she thought caustically, ignoring the little voice in her head which added nastily that he was quite right.

‘I think it’s high time I went home.’ She raised her chin as she spoke, desperate to hide the burning sense of shame that had flooded every part of her.

‘You are home.’

‘You know exactly what I mean.’

‘You mean you want to go back to that lonely little box you inhabit, right?’

She reared up like a scalded cat at the insult to the home she had so carefully put together. ‘You say the taxi is waiting?’ she asked, with a cool dignity she was very pleased about afterwards, when she thought about it.

‘That it is.’ The amusement was back in his voice, and nothing could have been more guaranteed to hit her on the raw.

‘Then thank you for dinner,’ she said icily, ‘but I really do have to leave now.’

‘I’ll tell Hannah you’re leaving. You were going to say goodbye to her, weren’t you?’ he added disparagingly.

‘Of course I was.’ She frowned at him, hurt that he could suggest otherwise. ‘I’ve no quarrel with Hannah.’

‘She’ll be most relieved to hear it,’ he drawled mockingly.

‘I hate you.’

‘That’s the third time you’ve said that today. Are you trying to convince me or yourself?’

CHAPTER FOUR

MARSHA awoke very early the next morning, before it was light, after a sleep which had been troubled and restless. After making herself coffee, she took a mug out on to the balcony along with her duvet, snuggling under its folds as she sat and watched the dawn break.

Taylor had insisted on accompanying her home in the taxi the night before, despite all her heated protests, but contrary to her expectations hadn’t done so much as hold her hand on the journey back to the bedsit. After telling the driver to wait, he had escorted her to the door of the building—again with her protests ringing in his ears—and then up the stairs to her floor.

She had faced him defiantly then, waiting for the move she’d been sure he would make after that scorching kiss back at his house in Harrow, but he had merely nodded to her without smiling once she had opened her front door, wished her goodnight and left.

Which left her where? she asked herself now, her tired eyes searching the pink and mother-of-earl sky in front of her as though it could provide an answer. Had he admitted defeat? Was he going to leave her alone now she had made it crystal-clear how she still felt?

She drained the mug, setting it down on the floor beside the chair before letting her head fall back against the cane as she shut her eyes. She was right about all this—him, their marriage, Tanya, everything—wasn’t she? But of course she was. She had to be. The misery of the last eighteen months couldn’t be for nothing. He had slept with Tanya in Germany, even if he hadn’t done so before, and from what Susan had said there had been a before. Several befores.

But he had seemed so…plausible. She opened her eyes again. The hum of traffic and sounds from the street beyond the cul-de-sac were louder now the city had begun to wake up and go about its business. But then he’d always been able to make anyone believe anything. That was one of the gifts he had which had shot him from obscurity to extreme wealth in such a short time.

She wriggled restlessly, drawing her cold toes into her hands under the duvet. The day was due to be another hot one, but the morning air was decidedly cool.

She still loved him. The truth which had haunted her sleep wouldn’t be denied in the harsh light of day. She would always love him. The love which had been such a blessing when they were together and happy would forever be a millstone round her neck. And because she loved him so much she could never go back to him.

She rose, her movements jerky with pain, and, leaving the duvet on the chair, strode back into the room to make herself another coffee.

She had been aware of Taylor with every cell in her body last night, and that alone told her she had to be strong. She had done her days and nights of weeping for what might have been. That was over. Maybe if she had been a different type of woman, one who was able to turn a blind eye to her man’s little liaisons, perhaps, or if she hadn’t loved him quite so much, things might have been different. As it was, he would destroy her.

She didn’t intend to live the rest of her life looking about her for the next notch on Taylor’s bedpost to emerge, or, worse still, become like one or two women she’d known in the past, who had gone through their partner’s pockets every night looking for signs that they were playing away from home.

She cupped her cold hands round the hot mug of coffee, inhaling its fragrance even as the chill within deepened. She had had her time of being naive and starry-eyed, of thinking that there really was such a thing as happy endings in this tough, dog-eat-dog world, but she knew better now. And she would not make the same mistake again.

Taylor had left her without a word last night, and that was for the best. She saw that now. He had got to her despite all her efforts to keep him at bay, he had breached the wall she had built around her emotions as easily as he had always done, but she would make sure it did not happen again. She wasn’t quite sure how she would manage it, but she would—if they met again, that was.

She drank the coffee scalding hot, sitting at the breakfast bar, before marching on to the balcony and retrieving the duvet from the chair.

Once the bedsit was put in order, she showered and washed her hair, making up her face quickly and expertly before dressing in a pale lilac cotton suit with a boatneck jacket and short pencil-slim skirt. She didn’t normally dress so formally for the office, but with the forthcoming meeting in mind she knew it would be expected.

It was still only half-past six when she left the house, but she wanted to clear her head by walking to work, and arriving so early would give her plenty of time to be word-perfect for the meeting at ten o’clock.

It was a beautiful morning, the streets already spangled by sunlight but the chill of the night causing the city air to smell clean and fresh for once. It was on mornings like these that she and Taylor had eaten breakfast in their bathrobes on the patio, the twitter of the birds and the drone of the odd aircraft overhead mingling with their laughter and the smell of warm croissants, fresh from Hannah’s oven. She hadn’t been able to enjoy a croissant since she had left.

She frowned, annoyed with herself for letting the memory intrude on the morning. She had to be focused on her work and nothing else, she knew that, so no more mawkish thoughts. She nodded determinedly at the declaration, striding out with renewed purpose.

Her steps slowed fractionally as she approached the television building, inner turmoil reasserting itself as she faced the prospect that her marriage would soon be the current news on the gossip grapevine. But she couldn’t worry about that, and it was no one’s business but hers after all. She would explain to Nicki, she owed the other woman that, but other than with her secretary she would not discuss the matter, should anyone have the temerity to raise it.

Once in her office she kicked off her high-heeled shoes, hung her jacket on the back of her chair, and within moments had become immersed in all the Baxter paperwork.

Nicki arrived prompt at eight-thirty, at which time Marsha suggested they lunch together and have a chat, but other than that she continued to pore over the files on her desk.

At ten she sailed into the meeting, looking confident and self-assured, and by half-past she knew she had won everyone over—everyone except Penelope, that was. The other woman’s cold blue eyes had been the first thing she’d seen when she had entered the boardroom, and after Penelope had cut her dead when she had smiled at her, Marsha knew she wasn’t the flavour of the month.

‘I just don’t know if we should take on a conglomerate like Manning Dale on such… scant information.’ Penelope looked round the table reflectively, her thin eyebrows raised. ‘We don’t want another lawsuit thrown at us so soon after the last one. I mean, how do we know the big boys stepped on Charles Baxter to make him sign away his business? And even if—if,’ she emphasised, her scarlet-painted lips lingering on the word for a moment, ‘they did, it doesn’t necessarily follow they’ve done the same thing before. What we have here is a number of statements, all from people with axes to grind.’

‘I disagree,’ Jeff North said firmly, his face rather than his voice expressing some surprise that Penelope was taking this tack on what to him was a cut and dried matter. ‘From the facts and figures Marsha has presented this morning it’s obvious dirty deals have shadowed Manning Dale’s success from day one, but this last scam with Baxter ended in a man’s death. We need to bring this into the public arena. That’s what we’re here for.’

‘Hmmm.’ Penelope glanced at the other top executive in the room, who was effectively Jeff’s boss. ‘Do you think Marsha has collected enough data, Tim? My fear is that her… enthusiasm for the story has made her a little slapdash.’

Timothy Cassell joined his hands in front of him on the table, studying them for a second or two before he looked up. He had worked with Penelope for more than a decade and knew her very well. For some reason she was gunning for Jeff’s assistant, and when she was like this she could be as awkward as blazes. The story was a good one, and they all knew it, but delaying it for a week or two on the pretext of collecting more information wouldn’t be the end of the world. Certainly he had no wish to get on Penelope’s bad side. They had a policy of ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’ which had worked exceedingly well over the years.

He cleared his throat, avoiding looking at Marsha’s burning face as he said, ‘See what else you can find out, by all means, and we’ll look at it again in a couple of weeks. Now, is there anything else while we’re all together?’

‘Well, yes, this new equipment we’ve been looking at? I’ve got the quotes in now, and one in particular is most attractive. Kane International?’ And then, as if suddenly realising she was speaking out of turn, Penelope turned to the others in the room, saying sweetly, ‘Thank you, everyone. I don’t think we need to keep you any longer.’

‘What was all that about?’ Once they were in the lift, returning to their more lowly floor, Jeff scratched his head in bewilderment as he glanced at Marsha’s hot face. ‘There’s enough information in this lot to satisfy anyone.’

‘I think it’s my fault.’ Marsha had decided that prevarication was pointless. ‘Penelope found out I was married yesterday, and was offended she hadn’t been informed of the full situation before.’

‘You told her?’

‘Not exactly.’ Marsha took a deep breath. ‘The Kane of Kane International is my husband, Jeff. He was here yesterday with Penelope.’

‘Ah…’

Much as she would have liked to say Penelope’s spite had not affected her, Marsha sat and seethed for the rest of the morning. She had been unfairly criticised and held up as negligent and it was all Taylor’s fault, she told herself furiously, refusing to acknowledge the little voice inside which said she was being a mite unfair. But if he hadn’t announced they were married yesterday to all and sundry Penelope wouldn’t be any the wiser right now and the Baxter story—the first project Jeff had given her sole responsibility for—would be in the bag. His pique at her attempt to cold-shoulder him at the cocktail party yesterday had resulted in her looking a fool this morning in front of everyone. It just wasn’t fair. But then when had fairness ever been in Taylor’s vocabulary? She loathed him, absolutely and utterly loathed him. Penelope too. If ever a pair were made for each other, they were.

By lunchtime Marsha had the beginnings of a major headache drumming away behind her eyes, and was as tense as piano wire. She was aware of the small hurried glances Nicki had been giving her ever since she and Jeff had returned from the meeting, but hadn’t given her secretary a chance to engage her in conversation once she had informed her that the Baxter story was not yet approved.