Liz Fielding: The Marriage Merger

She frowned. Despite the man’s fawning welcome, it was clear that something had happened since she’d spoken to him on the phone and agreed to write the article.

She found herself clenching the hand that Bram had taken in silent warning, reliving the moment when their minds had had but one single thought. It had made them—for a heartbeat—partners, allies, on the same side against the world.

She rubbed her palm over her fist, as if to eradicate the memory of his touch. It had been too familiar. Everything about him was too familiar. As was her reaction to him. But then women always fell in love with the same man, over and over again. They never learned, so it was said.

Perhaps she was smarter than most women. Or maybe her lesson had been harder taught. Because she’d put up her defences and now neither her famous name nor her money was sufficient inducement to tempt a man to look in her direction twice. And, if he did, it simply proved he had ulterior motives. A lose-lose situation for any man who bothered.

Bram Gifford was different, though. He didn’t want her money: he had more than enough to last several lifetimes. Nor did he seek the cachet of her famous name. He had his own, right there between the Bram and the Gifford. He was a Farraday to his fingertips.

He only wanted one thing from her. To discover her weaknesses and use them against her and her family.

With her mind quite straight on that point, she reached for her keyboard, setting the search engine to hunt for any reference to Saraminda, hoping to find some clue as to what on earth was going on.

Bram felt almost human. All he needed was coffee and food and he’d make it through the day.

Probably.

He dressed quickly in a pair of comfortable shorts and a faded T-shirt that had been washed duster-soft. Then he padded barefoot out onto the veranda and stretched out on a cane armchair, where the waiter found him when he brought him a light breakfast.

He signed the chit and thanked the young man, who continued to hover a little anxiously. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Sir—madam is sleeping.’

She’d finally wound down and gone for a nap, had she? He was relieved to hear it. She must have been running on empty. He’d done that in the past, just kept going, his body clock all over the place, his brain running on pure adrenalin. There was always a payback.

‘Don’t worry. She’ll have tea later.’

‘No, sir. Madam sleeps in her chair.’ He crossed his arms and lowered his head on them in a mime to show exactly how she’d gone to sleep, with her head on her arms at the desk.

‘Oh, I see.’ Not so good. He’d done that too, and he knew from experience that when she woke it would be with muscles screaming and her neck in urgent need of an osteopath. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

He walked along the veranda to the living room and paused in the doorway, grinning despite himself. She must have crashed out over the keyboard not long after he’d left her. The laptop was switched on. It was still connected to the Internet: her head was pressed against the keyboard and the screen was going crazy.

He touched her shoulder lightly. She didn’t stir. He gave it a little shake. She grumbled and turned her head away from him so that he could see the imprint of the keys at her temple. And carried on sleeping.

Her mind, after running almost continually for twenty-four hours, had finally shut down on her.

He didn’t blame it.

He closed the Internet connection, switched off the laptop and then addressed the problem of getting her to bed. She was tall, and far from stick-thin. Beneath the shapeless suit she had an old-fashioned quantity of figure which was made for body-hugging dresses and high-cut one-piece bathing suits.

The downside of that was the risk of putting his own back in traction if he wasn’t very careful how he lifted her.

But he couldn’t leave her slumped in the chair. She’d wake with every muscle screaming in protest.

Or course if she woke up in his arms it wouldn’t be just the muscles that screamed.

He shifted his attention to her ear, stroking the tips of his fingers over the warm outer edge in a manner guaranteed to wake all but the soundest of sleepers. No earrings, just tiny gold studs, he noticed. She wore no jewellery of any kind. Wasn’t that odd in a woman whose life apparently revolved around the stuff?

All that stirred was a comb, which slipped from its tenuous mooring.

He caught it and stuffed it in his pocket. Then, telling himself he’d undoubtedly be sorry for this later, he bent down and, with one arm beneath her knees and the other round her waist, picked her up.

Her head rolled against his shoulder, combs and pins falling in a noisy shower so that her hair began to fall in loose skeins around her shoulders, catching the light. It was a lot longer than he’d realised.

Why?

Hair was sensuous, almost erotic stuff. Man-bait.

Why would a woman who cared so little about her appearance cling to something that she didn’t use to enhance her appearance? Hair that appeared to cause her endless bother?

Why, when on the surface she appeared such a straightforward, uncomplicated woman, were there so many curious contradictions?

Shifting her dead weight so that he took some of the strain against his chest, he took a cautious step, biting back a harsh expletive as one of his bare feet found the upturned teeth of a comb.

Flora didn’t stir. She was dead to the world. Out of it.

As he carried her into her bedroom he began to wish he’d succumbed to temptation and hit the sack himself.

But it didn’t last for ever and he finally put her down on the bed as gently as he could. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering. She probably wouldn’t have woken up if he’d just dropped her on it. And she wouldn’t thank him for his trouble anyway.

She’d just look at him with those wary eyes that gave away nothing, absolutely nothing, and tell him he shouldn’t have bothered.

What was it with her anyway? He wasn’t a monster. Women usually liked him. He had a lot of friends who were women. And a lot of ex-girlfriends who would be happy to see him in hell, he acknowledged. The ones who’d banked on something more permanent.

Maybe Flora was saving time by cutting out the fun bit in between and going straight for the second option.

He’d already decided that she was clever.

He took off her shoes. She had long, narrow feet. Elegant, he thought, although the blue nail polish came as something of a surprise. What kind of woman painted her toenails when no one was going to see them? And didn’t paint her fingernails, which they would?

What kind of woman kept long, difficult hair, and then stuffed it up in an untidy bird’s nest on top of her head?

One with pretty feet. And a pair of very classy ankles.

He put her shoes beside the bed and set about removing her jacket. It was already creased beyond any remedy other than a very hot iron, which proved the linen was the genuine article. No surprise there. But she’d sleep more comfortably without it, in the jersey silk tank she was wearing beneath it.

He sat on the bed and pulled her up into a sitting position. She slumped against him like an exhausted child, her face squashed against his neck. She’d probably kill him if she woke up now, he thought. But he eased off the jacket and dropped it on the floor and didn’t rush to let her go.

If he was going to die, he might as well do something worth dying for. And, with her head still resting against his shoulder, he carefully removed all the pins and combs from her hair.

It descended, heavy and dark, the colour of bittersweet chocolate, over his hands and down her back. He shook it loose, spreading its astonishing silky length through his fingers before he laid her gently back against the pillow and stood back.