Sara Wood - Husband By Arrangement

‘No, I’m not trying. Comes naturally,’ she cooed.

He looked down his nose at her in disgust.

‘Unlike your hair colour.’

She smiled and batted her eyelashes in response.

‘Do you think it suits me?’ she asked coyly.

And, to her astonishment, she found herself holding her breath, hoping he did.

‘You’d look better blonde,’ was his laconic verdict.

Her natural colour! She decided to be blunt in return. He’d clearly scrubbed his hands and had tried to brush the dust out of his hair but he still looked grubby.

‘Why don’t you bother to keep yourself clean?’ she ventured curiously.

His frown deepened, the hard line of his mouth unutterably grim.

‘Don’t have time. Stopped work, drove to Faro, rushed to the builders’ yard, then the airport.’

‘You could have set the alarm earlier,’ she said, realising to her horror that she was unconsciously echoing her grandfather.

Before she could apologise profusely, she saw that the dark eyes suddenly looked tired and that there was a deeper tightening of the muscles around his mouth.

‘Four o’clock’s early enough for me,’ he growled.

‘Four…!’ She planted her hands on her hips indignantly, faintly conscious of a swell in the murmuring of the village men around them as she did so. But she was annoyed with the autocratic Fitzgeralds for taking advantage of their employee. ‘That’s outrageous!’ she declared hotly, totally forgetting who she was supposed to be. ‘I’ll speak to Dexter and tell him to stop exploiting you—’

‘You’ll be wasting your time. I have to get through the work somehow,’ he said tersely.

Her tender heart was touched. She imagined that he had a family to support. A dark-haired wife—very pretty but careworn—and four children, she imagined. Perhaps a widowed mother.

‘I must do something!’ she declared anxiously.

He frowned excessively. ‘Maddy—’

‘Sardinhas, aguardiente.’

The barman put two huge plates in front of them and a tot of rough brandy which she knew was strong enough to strip paint.

She felt disappointed. It had seemed for a moment that the truck driver was going to confide in her. Instead, he belligerently tucked into the sardines, not even looking up when the barman brought her coffee and a bottle of water.

It didn’t matter, she thought sympathetically, watching the driver decapitate the first sardine with the skill of an executioner. She’d take up his cause, even if he didn’t have a wife and kids.

Her expression grew sad again and she attacked the fish, doggedly determined to blank out the thought that she would never have a family of her own.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked irritably.

Furious with her uncharacteristic self-pity, she kept her head down and scowled. What was the matter with her? Being in Portugal had really unleashed her emotions! ‘Nothing,’ she muttered, munching suddenly dry bread.

A large, work-roughened finger and thumb gently tipped up her chin but still she wouldn’t look at him.

‘Your lashes are damp,’ was his damning verdict.

‘Must be the humidity.’

She heard him chuckle and flicked her misty eyes up in surprise. Her stomach turned over and she forgot her sorrow. He looked absolutely drop-dead gorgeous when he laughed, his white teeth good enough for a toothpaste ad.

‘The air is dry,’ he reminded her.

‘All right. I was thinking of something sad,’ she amended sheepishly. And, to divert his intense and unnerving interest, she said, ‘My parents died here.’

His hand released her chin, the shadows beneath his strong cheekbones deeper now.

‘Is that why you left for England?’ he asked tightly.

‘My grandpa fled from Portugal with me in tow,’ she admitted.

There was a long silence. ‘Tough,’ he said eventually.

Maddy shrugged. ‘We managed, between us.’

‘Different climate, culture—and you grieving—’ he began.

‘When you have things to do, day by day, hour by hour,’ she broke in hastily, not wanting to remember her immense loneliness and sense of loss, ‘it helps you to get through difficulties.’

There was an expression resembling grudging admiration in his eyes. ‘And yet the memories have upset you.’

‘Only for a moment. I’m fine now,’ she said firmly. ‘I—I hadn’t realised that coming here would bring it all back so forcefully.’

‘Life’s hell enough as it is without actively encouraging sad thoughts,’ he muttered.

Maddy felt an overwhelming sense of melancholy on his behalf.

‘Tell me what’s so awful about your life and I’ll see what I can do,’ she said earnestly, leaning forward in her eagerness to help.

When he frowned and narrowed his eyes speculatively at her, she realised she’d made a big mistake. The new, revised Maddy wouldn’t show her emotions. She wouldn’t have a tender heart, either.

Worryingly, her carefully constructed façade was crumbling away and she was revealing the caring person beneath. She was jeopardising her chance of success before she even met Dexter.

Some extrovert behaviour was needed rather urgently. And just as she was beginning to panic beneath the driver’s puzzled gaze, someone rescued her by striking up a tune on a tinny piano.

Delighted, she breathed a sigh of relief. Yes. That would do. Not the cancan perhaps, but something like it. She bestowed a creamy smile on the driver and sought to allay his suspicions that she might be a tart with a heart.

‘You look surprised. But I enjoy the power I get from twisting men round my little finger,’ she murmured, inventing rapidly. ‘So you tell me what you want and I’ll work on Dexter till you get it. Think about it. In the meantime, ’scuse me. Girl’s gotta dance.’

And she leapt to her feet, calling for a salsa, indicating with her body what she wanted. The pianist came close to the right rhythm, near enough for her to display a talent that even she didn’t know she had. But she’d watched enough TV to know how it was done and thought she managed very well.

So did the villagers. Soon she was being whirled around from man to man and was thoroughly enjoying herself. Every now and then she caught a glimpse of the truck driver, who wasn’t amused at all.

Suddenly he rose, knocked back the last of his brandy and inhaled sharply as the raw alcohol hit his throat and shot through his system like a rocket. But he was perfectly sober, she could see that, his eyes hard and clear, his body rock-solid in its aggressive stance.

He jerked his head. It was the age-old chauvinist’s interpretation of Shall we go? and just one step up from a caveman grabbing his woman’s hair and dragging her off. In true macho style and without caring whether she followed or not, he made his ill-tempered exit.

Breathless and bright-eyed from dancing, she ran out after him.

‘Wait!’ she gasped, afraid he’d leave her behind. When he turned, his angry expression almost crushed her, till she remembered who she was and stood up to him. ‘I was having fun!’ she complained.

‘Do it in your own time,’ he growled, and climbed into the cab.

She had no option but to follow.

‘Spoilsport,’ she grumbled, playing her role to the full.

He looked furious.

‘There are more important things in life than having fun,’ he snapped in disgust.

Once she would have agreed. Now she knew that fun was part of life. Without a sprinkling of laughter and enjoyment, the world could be a dark and dreary place.

In the short time she’d been prancing about in her eye-catching get-up, she’d seen loads of people smiling—sometimes at her, sometimes with her. It didn’t matter. Only that for a while she’d been surrounded by happy faces instead of gloomy ones.