Convenient Brides Read online

  ‘If she would just give one interview, the gossip would go away and—’

  ‘No.’ His tone was adamant. ‘I won’t allow it.’

  ‘You won’t allow it? But what about what Rose wants?’

  ‘I speak to Rose every couple of days. I know exactly what she wants.’

  Emily got to her feet and put her half-finished wine on the table. ‘I think I’ll go to bed now,’ she informed him curtly. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘I’ll be up in a few minutes,’ he said, draining his glass.

  She hesitated. ‘Do…do you want me to—?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said emphatically, his eyes burning into hers. ‘I do want you.’

  She left the room on unsteady legs, her heart thumping in her chest. What had she agreed to? Six weeks of pleasure for what price? Her peace of mind or her heart?

  She turned to the big bed and slipped in beneath the covers, burrowing herself into a tight ball. The linen smelt of his aftershave and she suppressed a tiny shiver of apprehension as she curled into the nearest pillow, willing her eyelids to close in instant slumber.

  No chance. She tossed and wriggled, trying to find a comfortable spot in the huge bed, but it was impossible for her to relax. The light coming from downstairs annoyed her. The firmness of the pillow annoyed her. The thought of Damien joining her terrified her. How could she hold back her response to him? As much as she claimed to detest him, her body had other ideas. It craved him. Even now, in anticipation of him joining her in the big bed, she could feel the betraying moisture pooling in secret. Within minutes he would reach for her, his own body ready, poised for possession, and she would have no choice but to respond to its urge.

  She clamped her eyes shut when she heard his footsteps. She turned her back and rolled into a tight little ball, willing herself to ignore the opening of the door; fighting against the desire to spring out of bed and escape to the other room, safe from the temptation of his touch. Her chest felt tight with the effort of controlling her erratic breathing. She felt like screaming, but still she lay silent, all her senses on full alert, waiting, both dreading but craving his presence in the bed beside her.

  She felt the depression of the mattress as he lay down. He readjusted the pillow under his head with an audible grunt and she felt one of his legs touch hers as he stretched out his length. She held her breath, tensely poised in read-iness for his hands reaching for her.

  ‘You can relax, Emily,’ he said as he pulled the covers towards him. ‘I’m bushed and so are you.’

  Emily let her breath out gradually. She lay in the dark and listened to his steady breathing, hardly daring to move in case she stirred him.

  ‘By the way—’ she felt him turn towards her ‘—you’re lying on my side of the bed. It was the right side you were so particular about, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I…it doesn’t matter,’ she said lamely, burrowing down amongst the pillows, pulling the covers back over her skimpy nightwear.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because I’m too tired to fight you for it, but, believe me, if I wasn’t I’d win, hands down.’

  Emily didn’t argue. She simply curled even more tightly on the left-hand side of his bed and shut her eyes, willing herself to oblivion.

  It was impossible for her to sleep. She lay there fuming that he could drop off so easily while she was tossing and twitching with tension. How dare he? Wasn’t he the least bit affected by her lying next to him? She turned her pillow over one more time, laying her head back down on the cooler linen, but within minutes it again felt too warm for comfort. She considered getting up to open a window but didn’t want to risk waking him.

  She sneaked a look at him in the soft glow of the moonlight but he appeared to be sleeping soundly. His face was relaxed. Gone were the deep lines of tension that had earlier been etched around his mouth. Emily wondered what sort of worries put them there. She realised with a pang of shame she’d asked him nothing of his work, what pressures he had to cope with each day. All she’d done was fight with him and try to get the upper hand.

  She sighed and lay back to stare sightlessly at the ceiling. She wondered what it would be like to be really married to him. Not just on paper, and not just because he wanted to stop her writing her book, but because he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. She wondered what it would feel like to be loved so much, to have someone to lean on through life’s difficult passages, someone who’d always be there to talk to.

  She shut her eyes against the sting of tears. Was it so much to ask to be loved? Especially when her life had always short-changed her in that department? She thought of her father, who’d left when she was four; and of her mother who’d been unable to cope and had taken out her rejection and hurt on Emily and her brothers. Her various stepfathers had joined her mother’s mission of bitterness against her children. Emily’s childhood had been about survival, not love.

  She had read somewhere how unmet needs in childhood could influence some of the mistakes adults make in later life. Marrying Damien had been one of those mistakes, but she could see now why she’d done it. For so many years she’d lived on her wits, alone and struggling to keep her head above water. Damien had offered her a solution and she’d jumped at it, not thinking of the long-term implica-tions of such an arrangement. She hadn’t even stopped to give thought to protecting herself from pregnancy, which was an ever-increasing worry in the back of her mind. She couldn’t imagine what Damien would say if she were to tell him of her suspicions. He’d no doubt accuse her of setting him up for child maintenance, believing her to have deliberately orchestrated it to ensure a steady income for herself for the next eighteen or so years.

  She felt sick. A wave of panic swept over her. Surely it was too early for morning sickness?

  ‘Will you stop wriggling and kicking me in the shins?’ Damien growled beside her, startling her out of her wretched reverie. His arms came around her, and before she could speak he lifted her over himself and repositioned her on the right-hand side of the bed, where his body had just been lying. ‘There, is that better?’

  Emily was still lying in the circle of his arms, his long legs entwined intimately with hers.

  ‘Yes,’ she croaked.

  ‘Good.’ He shifted slightly and she felt the unmistakable heat of his arousal against her. ‘It feels much better for me too.’

  His mouth came down and covered hers, his arms pulling her even closer to the warmth of his body. Emily sighed and opened her mouth to the urge of his tongue, her smooth thighs sliding apart to allow him to settle between them with his pressing need.

  What was the point in crying for the moon when at least she had this paradise in his arms, even if it was only for another six weeks? Some people spent their lifetime without ever experiencing the completeness she felt as Damien’s lover.

  Damien’s lover. How strange that sounded to her ears. She was his lover, and she loved him. There was no point denying it to herself any longer. She didn’t know quite how it had started; perhaps that first night when he’d tried to keep Danny’s perfidy away from her by accompanying her to the awards night. Or maybe it had been on the evening of their wedding day when he’d tended her injured hand with hands so gentle it had made her cry. Or was it because of this pleasure she was feeling even now in his arms? This mindless, frantic, all-encompassing pleasure that rocketed through her body in waves so strong she wondered if she would faint with the sheer sensuality of it all.

  Chapter Ten

  EMILY woke up alone. There was a note on the pillow next to her face. She sat up and, pushing the curtain of hair out of her eyes, began to read it.

  Emily,

  I have an early meeting. Some delegates from the firm are arriving from interstate. There’s a dinner scheduled for this evening. I’d like you to be there. I’ll pick you up at seven. D.

  Emily stared at the strong handwriting, the clipped, efficient words that bore no resemblance to the passion and intimacy they’d shared just hours earlier.<
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  She sighed. Fool! she remonstrated with herself as she flung back the bed covers. What had she been expecting? A declaration of undying love? She stubbed her toe on the bedside table and swore. Tears welled in her eyes, not from the pain in her foot but from the empty ache in her heart.

  The telephone was ringing as she stepped out of the shower and she hastily draped a towel over her dripping body to answer it.

  ‘Emily? It’s Maisie McCrae.’

  Emily clutched the slipping towel and tried to cover the surprise in her voice. ‘How are you, Mrs McCrae? I was going to visit you, but I thought—’

  ‘Please call me Maisie,’ she said. ‘I was wondering if you had anything planned for today?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ Then, remembering Damien’s note, added, ‘I do—I mean we have a dinner on tonight, but I’m free all day.’

  ‘A romantic dinner for two?’

  ‘No. It’s a work thing.’

  ‘You sound disappointed,’ Maisie said.

  Emily didn’t know how to answer.

  ‘Well, I didn’t phone you to talk about your husband,’ Maisie continued, regardless. ‘I phoned because I was hoping you could visit me today.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Emily said, thinking of the long, empty day ahead. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  Maisie came to the door dressed in a dark blue trouser suit that looked comfortable rather than fashionable. Her thick blue-grey hair was tied back with a scarf and her pale face was unadorned except for a soft pink lipstick. She gasped in pleasure at the bunch of flowers Emily had brought her.

  ‘How delightful.’ She buried her face in the bouquet before turning to her with a smile. ‘I haven’t been given flow-ers for years. Come in and sit down. I’ll make us some tea.’

  Emily followed her into the neat sitting room off the hall. The view over Double Bay and out across to Point Piper was breathtaking.

  ‘How beautiful!’ she exclaimed, going to the window.

  ‘I sit and look out there for hours,’ Maisie said. ‘I’m sure if I didn’t have such a marvellous view I wouldn’t be quite the hermit I’ve become.’

  Emily turned to look at her. There was something about Maisie that was different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she sensed it all the same.

  ‘Are you really a hermit?’

  Maisie sighed and handed her a china tea cup.

  ‘Some would describe it as such. I suppose some would even say I’ve become agoraphobic, but I don’t see it that way. If I have to go out I will, but I don’t choose to unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t like people staring at me, wondering what’s wrong with me.’

  Emily lowered her gaze and concentrated on the border of roses running along the rim of the cup in her hand. ‘Have you had a stroke?’ she asked gently.

  ‘No.’ Maisie answered. ‘I’ve got Parkinson’s Disease.’

  Emily’s eyes sought the older woman’s. ‘I’m so sorry. It must be difficult for you.’

  ‘I manage,’ Maisie said. ‘But enough about me. What do you do? Do you still work now that you’re married? I don’t suppose you have to with that rich husband of yours.’

  ‘I used to be a writer,’ she said despondently.

  ‘Used to be?’

  ‘I’ve been dumped by my agent. I had some trouble over my latest project.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Emily hesitated briefly before confessing, ‘I was all set to write a biography on…someone famous, but a relative put the brakes on.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘I couldn’t risk being sued. I was up to my eyeballs in debt anyway. I took the easy way out instead.’

  ‘What was the easy way out?’

  Emily found it hard to meet the other woman’s eyes. ‘I accepted a payout.’

  ‘A generous one?’

  ‘From some angles, yes.’

  ‘But not yours?’

  Emily put the cup she was cradling down.

  ‘I don’t know what to think any more,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think he—’ she checked herself ‘—the relative was right. It must be hard to be in the public eye all the time. The person I was writing about decided to remove herself from it for whatever reason. I guess she had the right to do so. But then, how can such a celebrity turn her back on the very people who put her on the public pedestal in the first place?’

  Maisie sipped her tea thoughtfully before responding. ‘It’s a difficult choice. I suppose it’s one of priorities and motivations. People have their reasons for their actions. We might not always agree, but each of us has to do what is right for us at the time.’

  ‘Yes, I guess you’re right,’ Emily said. ‘I just wish I could meet her and get to know her as a person.’

  ‘I take it you’re referring to your husband’s aunt?’

  Emily privately marvelled at Maisie’s perception.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No doubt she’ll want to meet you eventually,’ Maisie reassured her.

  ‘Not as yet.’

  ‘Give it time,’ Maisie said. ‘You’ve only been married a short time, lass. Things can change.’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ Emily said.

  ‘You’re not happy, are you, dear?’

  She shifted uncomfortably under the black-button gaze. ‘I find happiness elusive at times.’

  ‘Do you love your husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Maisie seemed satisfied with her answer and passed her a plate of shortbread. Emily took one and bit into it absently as she thought about what she’d just confessed to. Every breath she took was to keep her alive until the next time she was in his arms.

  ‘You seem a little troubled, Emily,’ Maisie said.

  Emily lifted her distracted gaze to the woman in front of her. Maisie was looking at her intently, her probing gaze threatening to see through to the very fibres of her soul.

  ‘I’m a little on edge,’ Emily admitted at last. ‘Because I think my husband’s having an affair.’

  Maisie examined the tea leaves in her cup before putting it down with a trembling hand.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve been told.’

  ‘You can’t believe everything you’ve been told,’ Maisie said. ‘Sometimes you have to learn to trust.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Emily said desperately. ‘I haven’t loved anyone since I was four years old. What am I supposed to do?’

  Maisie took one of Emily’s hands in her own and began to stroke it soothingly, her dark, intent eyes holding hers.

  ‘Tell your husband how you feel.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’ Emily lifted her tortured gaze to Maisie’s.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he…’ She abandoned her sentence and stared once more at the rim of roses around her cup.

  ‘Just be yourself,’ Maisie said after a long silence. ‘He couldn’t possibly fail to love you. Just allow him to see you for who you really are.’

  The pattern of roses beneath Emily’s gaze blurred. What was it about Maisie McCrae that saw through to her very soul? How had this old lady seen through her carefully constructed disguise of worldliness and I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude?

  She hunted for a tissue under her sleeve to no avail.

  ‘Here.’ A soft pink tissue appeared as if by magic in her hand. ‘I’m a great believer in tears. God knows, I’ve cried enough of them in my lifetime.’

  Emily sobbed into the quickly drenched tissue. She blew her nose and tried to get herself under some sort of control. ‘I never cry,’ she gulped. ‘I hate crying. Once I start I can’t stop.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Do you?’ Emily lifted her face from the shield of her hands. ‘Do you really?’

  Maisie McCrae nodded.

  ‘I’ve cried buckets over the years about all the things I should have done but didn’t. About all the things I did but shouldn’t have.’

 
Emily sensed a wealth of wisdom behind the older woman’s words.

  ‘What have you regretted the most?’ she asked, scrunching up the sodden tissue in her hand.

  Maisie looked at her for a long moment.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t fallen in love with the wrong man. If only that hadn’t happened so many people’s lives wouldn’t have been affected.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  Maisie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Oh.’ Emily looked at her hands.

  ‘Life doesn’t always go according to plan,’ Maisie said. ‘It has a habit of twisting and turning when you least expect it.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Tell me about your family,’ Maisie said.

  Emily tensed. ‘My father left when I was four.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘My mother remarried four times. Each time her choice was worse than the previous one.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I hated all of them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they didn’t love me for who I was.’

  ‘That’s very important to you, isn’t it, Emily?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even after all these years it still matters to you what people think of you?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone worry about that?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Only the very insecure worry about what others think,’ she said. ‘Those who are truly happy in their own skins don’t give a damn.’

  Emily picked up her tea cup and pretended to drink the remaining dregs. She was beginning to think Maisie McCrae saw far too much.

  ‘I have to tell you something,’ Maisie said after a small silence.

  Emily scrubbed at the last of her tears and lifted her gaze to the dark intense one opposite.

  ‘My name isn’t Maisie McCrae,’ she said with absolutely no trace of a Scottish lilt. She lifted a hand to her head and, to Emily’s amazement, removed the grey hair to reveal dark curls lightly peppered with silver. ‘I’m Damien’s aunt, Rose Margate.’

  Emily gaped at the other woman in shock, her tea cup clattering into its saucer. Rose had the grace to look a little shame-faced.