His Marriage Ultimatum. Helen BrooksЧитать онлайн книгу.
smart and rigidly formal Miss Fox of daytime hours. She rarely let her hair down—both metaphorically and literally—but, ever since a pair of granite-grey eyes had given her a cool once-over, a spirit of rebellion seemed to have taken hold. And the Phoenix did require something that bit special.
Her normally sedate hair was now framing a fully made-up face in a silky shoulder-length bob, the classic black evening dress she was wearing giving the illusion of restraint until one noticed the thigh-length slits either side of the pencil-slim skirt. Gerard had urged her to buy the dress for a forthcoming dinner-dance they had been supposed to attend before his liaison with the kittenish Alexia, and she was glad now she had insisted on paying for it herself. It would have been a shame to get rid of such a gorgeous gown but she would have if he had contributed so much as a penny towards it.
There was a lump in her throat as she checked her reflection one last time as the taxi hooted again. And then she swallowed it away, her brown eyes darkening to ebony as she lifted her chin. Gerard wasn’t worth one tear. He was a liar and a cheat and she was well rid of him.
Once in the taxi she pulled her coat more closely around her and tried to ignore the fact that everyone outside the window seemed to be in twos. It must have rained a little while she was getting ready because the pavements were glistening and wet, circles of muted gold here and there where the street lights banished the darkness.
She’d been so stupid to let Gerard Bousquet become more than a casual acquaintance, to let him persuade her that she didn’t have to be alone in the years ahead and that she could share her life with someone else. Although he hadn’t quite convinced her of that, if she was being truthful. She had never been able to fully believe in the plans for their future on which he’d waxed eloquent now and again.
Liberty gazed out into the swirl of activity outside the window but without really seeing it, lost in her thoughts. She had berated herself often in the months she’d been seeing Gerard for her lack of faith in the permanence of their relationship, telling herself the years of seeing her mother go from man to man had made her cynical, but it hadn’t been that.
She frowned slightly as her mind searched for the key to her scepticism and doubt. Gerard was undeniably handsome, sexy, amusing, wealthy and fun to be with, but he had a weak mouth, a mouth that suggested life had been one easy ride for him. It hadn’t dawned on her until this moment but now she realised the knowledge had been at the back of her mind for the last few hours, ever since she had gazed into Carter Blake’s ruthlessly hard face, in fact. The two men were poles apart.
She twisted on the seat, suddenly immensely irritated with herself. Was she going doolally here? What on earth was she doing, comparing the one with the other anyway? Carter she didn’t know from Adam, and Gerard was simply a socialite first and foremost. They both might be socialites for all she knew. Maybe Carter Blake hadn’t done a day’s work in his life either. Anyway, she certainly didn’t want either one of them in her life and why she was wasting one thought on them she didn’t know. This night belonged to her father and Joan.
There was even a buzz on the pavement outside the Phoenix; it was that sort of place. A great nightclub with wonderful food, dancing and a floor show—the Phoenix got everything right. Liberty had been to plenty of nightclubs in the past but all too often she found if the band and floor show were good, the food was mediocre, and vice versa.
She had only put one foot onto the pavement when her father appeared like a genie beside her, his face flushed with excitement and his eyes bright. He looked ten years younger. ‘Wow!’ He took her into his arms, hugging her tight for a moment. ‘You look beautiful.’
‘You look pretty good yourself,’ she said once he had let her breathe again. It was true, he did. The hair which had once been brown was now completely grey but just as thick as ever, and the tall broad-shouldered body was slim and fit. The sum of money her mother had spent to remain looking young and attractive must be into six figures by now, but her father was just getting better and better naturally. Like fine wine.
‘Come and meet Joan,’ David Fox said after he had paid the taxi driver and taken Liberty’s arm in his, leading her through the open front door of the Phoenix with a nod to the two doormen on duty there.
Joan was sitting at the cocktail bar situated just outside the main eating and dancing area, and she left her seat as she caught sight of them. Liberty had almost persuaded herself that her recollection of the woman who had stolen her father’s heart must be clouded by a child’s vision, but no. Joan was still small, dumpy and ordinary, her rosy cheeks free of make-up and her hairstyle dated. Her father was looking at his old love as though she was Julia Roberts, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Gwyneth Paltrow rolled into one. Suddenly Liberty had a lump in her throat.
‘Hello, Liberty,’ Joan said quietly.
Joan’s wide smile couldn’t quite hide the anxiousness in her soft brown eyes, and on the spur of the moment Liberty ignored the other woman’s outstretched hand and hugged her instead, her voice warm as she said, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you again, Joan, especially now I know what you mean to Dad.’
‘You…you don’t mind?’ It was wary.
‘Mind?’ Liberty smiled, her gaze including her father as she said, ‘You’re just what he needs. It’s high time he had a little happiness.’
‘Thank you, Libby.’ Joan had taken her hands and now pressed them, tears glittering in her eyes. ‘I can’t tell you what it means for you to say that.’
It set the tone for the evening. By the end of the first course of a meal which was truly superb, Liberty found she had totally relaxed and was enjoying herself. She had forgotten—or perhaps, as she’d only been a child when she had first known Joan, she hadn’t realised—that Joan had a terrific sense of humour along with a wit that was positively wicked at times. Within a few minutes of being in the other woman’s company Liberty could perfectly understand why her father was so captivated by her. And she was the absolute antithesis of Miranda.
It was as Liberty was finishing the last mouthful of her baked scallops with cured back bacon and thyme that her attention was drawn to a table a short distance away. She didn’t know quite what had attracted her gaze—maybe it was because the four people about to be seated had caused something of a minor stir, one of the women being a well-known supermodel—but as her mildly enquiring eyes met grey-granite she felt the impact down to her fragile but wildly expensive silver sandals.
Of all the people to see tonight—Carter Blake! As he smiled at her she managed to force a fairly normal smile in return, glad of the three or four tables between them as her heart pounded so hard she was sure he would have noticed if he’d been a little nearer. The contact only lasted a moment or two and Carter was the one to break it, turning to the elegant woman at his side and saying something as they all sat down.
Liberty took a hefty gulp at her wine before she became conscious that her father—in the gregarious way he had with people—was speaking in an undertone to a man at the next table who had also been looking across the room. ‘Should we all know who they are?’ David Fox asked mildly as the head waiter appeared at Carter’s table with a distinctly ingratiating smile.
The other man grinned at him, clearly amused. ‘The woman in the red dress is Carmen Lapotiaze,’ he said softly, ‘the famous—or perhaps it should be infamous—model, and the other woman is an actress, quite well-known.’
‘Not by me,’ David Fox said cheerfully. ‘And the men?’
‘The good-looking brute with Carmen is Carter Blake; he owns this place and half of London. The other guy I don’t know.’
‘He owns this nightclub?’ It was Joan who was speaking now and she leant forward interestedly. ‘That explains all the scurrying about of the staff then.’
The other man nodded. ‘He’s one big fish,’ he said quietly. ‘Rumour has it he has his thumb in umpteen pies; not bad for a man who started with next to nothing a decade or so ago, eh? That’s if all the gossip about him can be believed, of course.’ He smiled again before turning to the woman with him, a