Sara Craven - The Marriage Proposition

Or I might run away and never be found again …

‘Are you sure you’d rather be alone?’ He was doubtful—reluctant.

‘Absolutely. Anyway, Jack and Angie will be back in a minute.’ She smiled at him, willing him to walk away. ‘And when you come back I’ll be fine again. Rarin’ to go, in fact.’

She sounded hyper—like a crazy woman—but it seemed to work. She didn’t watch to see what table Brad was heading for, because she didn’t want to know.

She drank some more water, staring at the flicker of the candle-flame behind the glass. What was that old saying? ‘Speak of the devil and he’s sure to appear.’ Only a few hours ago she and Angie had talked about Nick Destry—and here he was.

Unless her imagination was playing tricks—had conjured him up to torment her. Her mind was spinning—in overdrive. Could it be that? Had the trauma of the past months caught up with her at last?

All she had to do was look up—look across the room—and she would know for certain if he was real or some hobgoblin of fantasy. Only she didn’t dare.

Under cover of the tablecloth, her hands clenched impotently into fists. What the hell was the matter with her? she railed inwardly. Why was she reacting like this? Nick wasn’t a mad axe-murderer, out for blood. He was the man she’d married for business reasons and whom she was planning to divorce as soon as it was legal. This was not a problem. Unless she allowed it to be.

It’s just shock, she told herself. All these months of studiously avoiding each other, and here they were in the same nightclub on the same small Caribbean island. Just one of life’s horrible coincidences.

And her secretly nurtured hope that she might never need to set eyes on him again had always been a non-starter—totally unrealistic.

I should have taken a leaf out of Brad’s book, she thought. Smiled and nodded, as if we were passing acquaintances. Instead I let him see me leave the floor in disarray.

She felt her chest tighten, and got to her feet. She hadn’t been serious about that walk along the beach, but it suddenly seemed like a good idea. And she wasn’t running away, she told herself. Just—regrouping.

Stone steps led down to the sand, bleached silver in the moonlight. Paige paused on the bottom step, slipping off her sandals. The warm night lay on her like a blanket, the palm trees that fringed the crescent of sand unmoving as she walked down to the curling edge of the water. Her breathing was still hurried and shallow. She had to fight to control it. To rein herself in to normality, and acceptance of the fact that fate had played her an unpleasant trick.

Although Nick wouldn’t be too pleased to see her either. He was the one who rubbed shoulders with millionaires. She was the wage slave back in England.

But that had been her own choice, she reminded herself restlessly. He’d offered a generous financial settlement in return for her compliance. She need never have worked again. But she’d refused his money.

All through those bitter days she’d kept repeating to herself like a personal mantra, I want nothing from him. Nothing.

When she’d reluctantly accepted the job at Harrington Holdings she’d done so at a reduced salary. After all, she was no longer living in London with its enormous rents. Her parents had wanted her to move back into the vast family home, as her brother Toby had done with his wife, but instead she’d found a small one-bedroomed cottage in a neighbouring village, feeling that at least a measure of independence was preferable.

And she’d managed to do some freelance magazine work, keeping the door open for her eventual return.

It had been a seriously difficult year in so many ways, she reflected. Quite apart from her personal wretchedness, her work with the company had been more like damage limitation than public relations. Since Toby had taken over the running of the organisation, following her father’s illness, there had been nothing but problems, it seemed. And as for that stupid girl he’d married …

She stopped right there. She was the last person in the world entitled to sneer at anyone’s choice of marriage partner after the mess she’d made of her own life.

An incoming wave splashed gently round her bare feet and she shivered slightly. But the chill of the water was nothing in comparison to the ice within her.

She felt blank—numb. But she had to think—decide what to say just in case Nick decided not to keep his distance. She supposed he was a passenger on Alain Froyat’s yacht. But he wouldn’t be there simply for enjoyment, in spite of the pretty blonde he’d been wearing as a scarf. Without doubt there was some big finance deal going down. Something that would make the Maitland Destry bank ever more profitable, and send Nick’s personal wealth soaring even higher.

Not that it was any business of hers, she reminded herself tautly. Neither Nick’s financial standing or his latest girlfriend could be allowed to concern her even marginally.

She’d kept her side of the bargain, and now she wanted the whole sorry charade brought to a conclusion.

Closure, she thought, on a marriage that should never have taken place. I must have been out of my mind to lend myself to such a farce.

Her footsteps slowed. It was time she was getting back to the restaurant. She would tell Angie she had a headache and wanted to go back to Les Roches. She certainly didn’t want Brad coming to find her and being carried away by the whisper of the waves, the moonlight falling across the water. He might even think she’d gone out on to the beach to lure him on.

She hadn’t heard him coming, but then he’d always had the ability to move like a cat.

Yet when she turned he was there, just as she’d known—she’d feared—he would be. Blocking her way. Bringing her to a breathless, tingling halt in front of him. With no means of escape.

He said softly, in that mocking drawl she hated, ‘Good evening, Mrs Destry. Or should I say, “Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania”?’ And he began to laugh.