A Husband's Revenge. Lee WilkinsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
laughed, white teeth gleaming, charm momentarily banishing the hardness. ‘There are plenty of these carriages about. The only magic is in knowing where to find an empty one.’
The word ‘empty’ reminded her of the memory she had so nearly grasped. ‘The house I took you to see, was it—?’
‘No more questions for the moment,’ he broke in firmly. ‘Just relax and enjoy the drive. Don’t make any attempt to remember. Later on we’ll try a spot of therapy, but I was planning to have a meal out first, if you feel up to it?’
So that was why he’d changed into a suit and tie.
‘Oh, yes, that would be nice,’ she agreed.
The sun shone and, despite the traffic fumes, the balmy evening air fanning her face felt fresh and clean. As they clip-clopped along Jos pointed out all the things of interest, and after a while Clare found herself enjoying the leisurely drive.
It was well past seven when they crossed the Grand Army Plaza and their carriage stopped alongside some others. Beyond rose the pale marble and glazed brick, the richly ornamented mansard of the Plaza Hotel.
‘I thought we’d have dinner here tonight,’ Jos told her as he helped her down and paid the driver. ‘Tomorrow evening, if you like, we can go further afield.’
When he’d given her a glimpse of the celebrated hotel, with its fine shops, lounges and places to eat, he asked, ‘Which of the restaurants do you prefer, Clare?’
‘I really don’t mind. I’ll leave it to you.’
‘In that case...’ With a firm hand beneath her elbow, he steered her towards the nearest, where he appeared to be well known—the maitre d’ calling him by name and ushering them to a secluded table for two.
The very air breathed luxury—the rich aroma of smoked salmon and caviare mingling with expensive perfumes and the sweet smell of success. Above the discreet murmur of conversation and an occasional laugh, ice buckets rattled and champagne corks popped.
As they sipped an aperitif and studied the menu Jos made light conversation, giving Clare an opportunity to respond in kind.
She asked him what it was really like to live in Manhattan, and discovered that he was a born raconteur with a pithy way of expressing himself and a dry sense of humour.
‘A taxi had just dropped me at Madison and Sixty-third one evening,’ he told her, ‘when footsteps hurried up behind me and a tough-looking character grabbed hold of my arm. He was picking himself up from the sidewalk for the second time before he managed to explain that I’d lost my wallet and he was trying to return it. To add to my chagrin, when we had a drink together I discovered he was a fellow colleague in the banking business.’
‘Is New York a very violent city?’ she asked, when she’d stopped laughing.
‘There’s not as much violence as the media might lead you to believe. Though, as with most big cities, it has its share.’
The food and wine proved to be excellent, and the service first class, but it was the atmosphere that Clare found herself enjoying most, and she said so.
He nodded agreement. ‘That’s why I come here.’
‘Do we tend to like the same things?’
With a strange note in his voice, he said, ‘Oh, yes. Though we can disagree and have stimulating arguments, it’s been clear from the start that our tastes and minds mesh...’
For a moment she felt warmed, though common sense told her that as they didn’t love each other there had to have been something, apart from sex, to draw them together.
‘For one thing we both enjoy the good life and being rich.’
There was a bitter cynicism in his tone that chilled the warmth, and she recalled his certainty that she’d married him for what he could give her.
‘Who wouldn’t enjoy being rich?’ she asked wryly. ‘Though I doubt very much if money can buy real happiness.’
His brilliant gaze on her face, he enquired silkily, ‘Still, it must have its compensations? You were prepared to sell yourself...’
‘I’ve only your word that I did.’
‘Don’t doubt it.’
‘But, J—’ She broke off, biting her lip, somehow unable to call him by his name.
He reached across the table and took her hand, his thumb pressing menacingly against the soft palm.
‘Did I forget to tell you what I’m called?’
‘Wh-what?’ she stammered.
The green eyes pinned her. ‘Do you know what my name is?’
‘Of course I know what your name is.’
‘You seem unwilling to use it.’
She found herself scoffing, ‘Why on earth should I be?’
‘Then let me hear you say it.’
Reluctantly, and scarcely above a whisper, she said, ‘Jos.’
‘Again.’
When she hesitated, he lifted her hand to his lips, biting the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb.
‘Jos, please...’
His smile was sardonic. ‘That sounded more as if you meant it.’
That little show of dominance effectively spoiled the calm of the evening, and though he went on to prove himself an entertaining companion she was unable to relax.
They were sipping their coffee when, despite her long sleep, she found herself drooping, having to make an effort to sit up straight.
He noticed at once. ‘Getting tired?’
‘A little,’ she admitted.
He signalled for the bill.
Outside, the summer evening was clear and warm, making the prospect of a short walk back to the Ventnor Building a not unpleasant one. As they began to stroll Jos took her hand.
She shivered, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the little night breeze that had sprung up.
The scent of flowering shrubs drifted across from Central Park, perfuming the air, and far above Fifth Avenue and the lights of the city stars shone in a deep blue sky.
But Clare scarcely noticed the beauty of the night. Tense and aware, with her hand imprisoned in his, their arms occasionally brushing, all her attention was focused on Jos.
When they got back to the penthouse though the lights were on there wasn’t a sound, and the place appeared to be empty.
Confirming that, Jos remarked casually, ‘It’s Roberts’ night off.’
The realisation that they were quite alone made her feel distinctly apprehensive.
He slid aside the glass panels and led her onto the lamplit terrace to look over the glittering panorama that was Manhattan by night.
As they approached the balustrade she held back.
Feeling her instinctive reluctance, he stopped. ‘Have you always been scared of heights?’
‘I’m not sure...I don’t think so.’ She wrinkled her smooth forehead. ‘Maybe something happened that frightened me...’ As she spoke her skin chilled and a shudder ran through her.
‘What is it?’ he demanded sharply. ‘What do you know?’
‘It’s nothing... Just someone walking over my grave.’ She tried to speak lightly. ‘And all I know is, I feel safer back here.’
She was wearing her jacket draped around her shoulders, and as Jos slipped it off he brushed aside the dark silky cloud of hair and kissed her nape.
Feeling