HELEN BROOKS - The Price Of A Wife

And then he had driven like a madman, the more so when he had seen her fear, and the car had seemed to fly down the narrow, high-bordered lanes with their tight curves and bends, its expensive tyres screaming and the world outside a green blur. He had been laughing when the car turned the corner and hit the farm tractor.

It had been the first thing she remembered when she had finally come out of the coma—that spiteful, malevolent laughter ringing in her ears and the crash of grinding metal against metal.

The young eighteen-year-old farmboy had been killed instantly; Peter had walked away from the crash with nothing more than cuts and bruises. And she...? She had had a fractured skull, two broken legs and a crushed pelvis that had necessitated an operation. An operation that had robbed her of the chance of ever being a mother.

‘Stop it, Josie.’ She spoke the words out loud and this time something in her voice brought Mog to his feet, and he stretched comfortably before sauntering over and rubbing against her legs. ‘Good boy...’ She spoke automatically, her hand stroking the sleek fur as she gave herself silent orders to pull herself together.

Trips down memory lane were futile and destructive; she knew that. She knew it. And it was rare for her to indulge in them these days. The ringing of the telephone at her elbow interrupted her self-admonishment.

‘Miss Owens?’ Luke Hawkton’s voice was unmistakable.

‘Yes?’ Her heart stopped, and then raced on like a runaway train.

‘This is Luke Hawkton. I’m sorry to bother you at home like this but I have a problem.’

‘You. do?’ Oh, for goodness’ sake say something businesslike, something that will impress him, she thought disgustedly as she heard her faint, breathless voice.

‘I have to fly to Germany tonight—an unexpected business complication that may well necessitate my spending several days out there.’ The firm, controlled voice wasn’t unfriendly, but nevertheless she found herself holding her breath as she listened to him. ‘I don’t want any further delay on the Night Hawk project, Miss Owens; there has been enough already. The thing seems to have picked up problems like a cat picks up fleas.’

‘Oh.’ She glanced down at her feet to meet Mog’s bright green gaze, which she was sure had darkened with disapproval at his simile.

‘I would like you to get all the relevant data sorted out over the weekend and bring it out to me. I will arrange for a car to pick you up at eight on Monday morning and my secretary will be waiting for you.’

‘I...’ She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Are you saying you want me to fly out to Germany, Mr Hawkton?’

‘The name’s Luke, and, yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,’ he said coolly.

‘But I could fax you—’

‘No, that would not be satisfactory.’ He cut across her protest immediately. ‘I want you in front of me, where we can discuss things properly and get everything ironed out,’ he continued firmly. ‘Your plane leaves Heathrow at nine-thirty, so I understand, and my secretary will give you the tickets and all the necessary information concerning your hotel and so on. A car will be waiting on your arrival in—’

‘Hang on a moment, did you say hotel?’ She found her voice along with her wits, and at the same moment it hit her why Luke Hawkton reminded her so strongly of Peter.

They were the only two men she had ever met who were completely and totally sure of themselves and of their ability to command, to subdue, to dominate. It sat on them like a live aura and both repelled and fascinated those unfortunate enough to come within striking distance—or at least it repelled her now, she thought bitterly. Thirteen years too late.

She would always believe it had been Peter’s utter lack of remorse, his unwillingness to accept any blame for the accident or her injuries, that had caused her father’s massive heart attack. In the two months before he died her father had been eaten up by bitter pain and resentment that his only daughter had been treated so badly, and he had felt her desperate anguish and primitive blind despair as though it were his own. On the day before she’d finally come out of hospital he had collapsed in the street just outside the main doors and died moments later.

‘Just an overnight stay, Miss Owens—or may I call you Josie? As we are going to be working pretty closely over the next few months I think a less formal approach is called for, don’t you?’ The deep, faintly husky voice broke into her thoughts, commanding her concentration.

‘Yes, of course.’ She forced a pleasant tone that was in direct contrast to her feelings. ‘But with regard to the hotel I’m sure that isn’t necessary. I can easily catch a night flight. In fact, I’d prefer to do that,’ she added firmly. ‘I have things to do here—’

‘Which I am sure can wait twenty-four hours.’ There was a touch of steel in the pleasant tone now, only the merest intimation that his words were an order and not a suggestion, but it was enough to make the hand holding the phone clench tightly round the inoffensive instrument as she glared at it angrily.

‘I’m not sure exactly when I will be free to talk to you, so it makes sense to allow a little leeway into the evening.’ His voice was reasonable—too reasonable, as though he were explaining something obvious to a recalcitrant child. ‘You do understand the enormity of the job you have taken on, I trust?’

‘I think so, Mr—’ She stopped abruptly. She couldn’t call him Luke, she just couldn’t, but he would think she was being awkward if she insisted on Mr Hawkton. ‘I think so,’ she repeated carefully. ‘And of course if you’d prefer me to stay over then I will. You’re the boss.’ She had wanted the last three words to sound light, but they had merely sounded petulant.

‘That I am, Josie,’ he said quietly, his voice very dry. ‘Now, a car will be at the entrance to your block of flats at eight on Monday morning with my secretary, Emma, inside. All you need to bring is your passport, an overnight bag and, of course, the details on the project. I have informed Mike and Andy of the arrangements, incidentally.’

I just bet you have, she thought tightly, before giving herself a mental slap on the hand. What was the matter with her, for goodness’ sake? The man was going to spend a small fortune on this damn launch; he had every right to expect her one hundred per cent commitment. ‘That’s fine.’ She injected a note of enthusiasm into her reply. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, then.’

‘Goodbye, Josie.’ Was that thread of sardonic amusement always in his voice, or had he guessed the extent of her reluctance? she thought tightly. If he had, he had clearly taken great delight in commanding her obedience. Oh, stop it, stop it, she told herself desperately. She had to take hold of this unwarranted hostility to a man she knew nothing about and bring logic and reason to the situation.

Luke Hawkton was a respected, powerful multimillionaire, with business interests in more concerns than most of London put together. He had chosen her proposal, hers, not Mitchell’s or one from the other firms he had checked, and there was everything to thank him for. That was fact. These...feelings of hers were irrational, unjustified and in the circumstances downright dangerous if they began to jeopardise her professionalism.

With the benefit of hindsight she could see that Peter Staples had been a wastrel of the first order, a spoilt, vain megalomaniac with something base and vile at the bottom of him—a man who was actually unable to feel any sense of remorse or contrition. He had stood in court after the accident and lied so convincingly, and with such conviction, that if she hadn’t been in the car herself she would have believed every word he’d spoken. He’d got off scot-free, or as near as dammit, and had walked away from the whole mess without a thought for the two dead men and the ruined life—hers—that he’d left behind him.