Sara Craven - Thunder On The Reef

‘Not for you, perhaps,’ she snapped.

‘Or for you, my lovely hypocrite. ‘ A reminiscent smile played about the corners of his mouth. ‘We had our moments.’ He leaned forward, his eyes holding hers across the table. ‘Shall I jog your memory?’

‘No,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I don’t...’

‘That sexy French film we went to see,’ he said softly. ‘My God, you were so turned on, you practically dragged me back to the flat. We were undressing each other on the way up the stairs.’

‘Stop it,’ she hissed desperately.

‘And then there was that evening at the bistro round the corner,’ he went on relentlessly. ‘When the guitarist played all your favourite love songs, and a girl came round, selling roses.’

He touched the edge of one of the orchids with the tip of his finger.

She remembered the rose he’d bought her, crimson and long-stemmed. In bed that night he’d teased her nipples with its dusky velvet petals...

Her throat closed.

‘Enjoy your trip down memory lane,’ she said harshly. ‘It does nothing for me.’

‘No?’ His smiling gaze shifted again to the revealing outline of her breasts. ‘You don’t seem entirely unmoved, darling.’

‘You disgust me.’ She pushed her plate away.

‘Then I’ll try and control my baser urges for the rest of the meal, at least.’

He paused. ‘So—why Fortuna, Macy?’

Her heart jumped. She had not, she thought grimly, been expecting that. She swallowed. ‘Why not? I’ve been working very hard. As you say, I needed a break.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But unless you’re into big-game fishing, the island hasn’t a great deal to offer.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ I’m after a different kind of game, she added silently. Mr Boniface Hilliard himself. She shrugged, allowing herself a negligent smile. ‘But maybe I’m just easily pleased.’

‘No,’ he said gently. ‘I don’t think so.’ He sat back giving her a reflective look over the top of his glass. ‘You haven’t told me yet what you do to earn this arduous crust of yours.’

Macy hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to mention her connection with Gilmour-Denys.

‘I’m involved with the Landin Trust now,’ she returned neutrally.

‘A heavy responsibility, indeed.’ His tone was ironic.

‘As you, with your fondness for money, would be the first to appreciate,’ she bit back, and saw his mouth tighten.

‘You’ve always found cash the answer to everything yourself, my pet. Let’s not forget that.’ He paused. ‘I hope it hasn’t been your only means of fulfilment over the past years.’

‘By no means,’ she said sharply, and he lifted an eyebrow.

‘Why, Macy,’ he drawled. ‘Are you telling me you’ve been unfaithful?’

‘I’m telling you nothing,’ she said.

‘You’re denying my right to know?’

‘You have no rights where I’m concerned,’ she said. ‘Not any more.’

He looked at her bare hands, clenched in front of her on the table. ‘You seem to be overlooking one salient fact, darling,’ he said. ‘Whether we like it or not, you and I are still legally married.’

‘That is a mere formality.’ Her voice shook. ‘Which I intend to dispense with shortly.

Ross was silent for a moment, toying with the stem of his wine glass. Then he said mildly, ‘Do I take it you’re here to ask me for a divorce?’

‘I’m not here to ask you for anything,’ she said. ‘I don’t need to. In another year, I can end our so-called marriage, even without your consent.’

‘How convenient,’ he said. ‘I’m only surprised you didn’t set the ball rolling long ago.’

She looked down at the table. ‘You forget, I didn’t know where to find you.’

‘Of course not. But I imagine Daddy’s tracker dogs would have managed it without too much trouble.’

Macy moved quickly, restively before she could stop herself, and his voice sharpened. ‘Unless, of course, you still haven’t told him. My God, Macy, is that it?’ His laugh held disbelief. ‘You’ve kept our marriage a secret all this time?’

She said tightly, ‘Who wants to make public a serious error of judgement?’

‘Touché,’ he said drily. ‘Clearly your next choice will be based on sound common sense and good fiscal principles. I wonder if I can make an educated guess at his identity.’

‘There’s no one. I simply want my legal freedom.’

His brows lifted sceptically. ‘You mean Daddy hasn’t been able to persuade you to make Cameron Denys a happy man at last. You amaze me.’

Macy bit her lip angrily, aware of a faint betraying flush. Cameron’s unswerving pursuit of her, with her father’s encouragement, had been a bone of contention between them particularly in the last year. ‘Don’t be snide about my father,’ she said curtly. ‘He managed to see through you without much difficulty.’

‘And I found him equally transparent. Not that it matters. I never gave a damn what he thought of me. The only opinion I cared about was yours.’

For a moment, she was very still.

She said, ‘That must be one of the most cynical statements I’ve ever heard. You—walked out of my life with a golden handshake of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. That’s how much my—opinion mattered. That’s how much I was worth to you.’

Ross’s mouth twisted. ‘It seemed a pre-emptive offer,’ he said, ‘leaving no room for negotiation. You have to want to be rid of someone very badly to put up that kind of money.’

‘Or have a fairly accurate assessment of their level of greed.’ She waited for an explosion of anger, but none came.

Ross merely shrugged. ‘They say everyone has their price,’ he countered. ‘Why argue?’

For me, she thought in sudden, swift agony. You could have argued for me—fought for me—told my father to go to hell and take his insulting offer with him.

But you didn’t, Ross—you didn’t...

Aloud, ‘Why indeed?’ she said calmly. ‘As a matter of interest, would you have gone for less?’

‘Probably, in the circumstances.’ He sounded almost casual, she realised, pain slashing at her. ‘I hope you’re not expecting a refund, Macy.’

‘Certainly not,’ she retorted briskly. ‘It was money well spent.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ he said evenly, signalling to the hovering George to bring their main courses. ‘If they ever have to open you up for surgery, darling, they’ll find a bank statement where your heart should be—and showing a credit balance.’

Macy digested that, smarting, while they were being served.

‘So—what did you do with your own credit balance?’ she asked, once they were alone again. ‘Waste it—gamble it away?’

He was silent for a moment. ‘I made good use of it,’ he said at last.

‘To further your career as a photographer?’ She despised herself for asking.

‘No.’

The flat monosyllable was uninviting, but she persisted. ‘Do you still take photographs?’

‘Yes, but I’m commissioned these days. Thanks to you, I don’t need to pursue the precarious freelance existence your father objected to so strenuously.’ He drank some wine. ‘I’m obliged to you.’

‘Don’t be.’ Her bitten lip felt raw. ‘All the same, I’m glad for you.’

‘Are you?’ He sounded sceptical. ‘Why?’

She put down her fork. ‘Because you were good,’ she said slowly. ‘I always thought you’d be in some wilderness, making a record of it before the bulldozers moved in and spoiled it. Just as—you always planned.’

She’d nearly said ‘we’, she realised with a pang. Because it had been a mutual and cherished dream, or so she’d thought. One of the many, she reminded herself, that had died when he’d walked out on her.