His Wedding-Night Heir (Wedlocked!) Read online

  Cally groaned inwardly. ‘Why stop there?’ she said. ‘Why not march down the High Street and put a brick through Hartleys’ windows?’

  Leila’s eyes widened. ‘Hey, that’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Cally said shortly. ‘It’s more than bad. It’s appalling—and illegal as well.’

  ‘Well,’ Leila said defiantly, ‘so is what they’ve done to us.’

  ‘I was going to suggest a slightly softer approach,’ said Kit. ‘Why don’t a few of us go to the exhibition and actually talk to the developers? See if their scheme couldn’t be adapted somehow to include Gunners Terrace. Suggest it could show the human side of big business. After all, they may not even know we exist down here. I bet the Hartleys won’t have mentioned it during negotiations,’ he added grimly.

  There were a couple of upturned noses. ‘I’ve heard it’s all going to be yuppie flats and designer boutiques,’ someone said. ‘They won’t want the likes of us making the place look untidy.’

  ‘And won’t this Town Hall thing be invitation only?’ another voice asked.

  ‘Well, Roy could get us the invites,’ said Leila.

  ‘And it has to be worth a try, surely?’ added Tracy.

  Kit gave her a warm smile. ‘I certainly think so.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you should be part of the deputation, with Cally and myself.’

  ‘Just three?’ Leila queried with a touch of belligerence.

  ‘I think small could be beautiful under the circumstances,’ Kit said smoothly. ‘No use going in mob-handed. That could be seen as aggressive, and we want a discussion, not a confrontation.’ He paused. ‘Of course we’ll be relying on you for the entry passes.’

  There was a silence while Leila weighed her own disgruntlement against the good of the Gunners Terrace community as a whole. At last, ‘Not a problem,’ she said grudgingly, and there was a collective sigh of relief.

  ‘Is it really necessary for me to go?’ Cally asked later, when she and Kit were momentarily alone.

  Kit shrugged. ‘If we manage to talk to Eastern Crest’s big bosses, it would be useful to have an accurate note of what’s said.’

  ‘Tracy could do that.’

  He shook his head. ‘Tracy gets flustered, and she’s too involved to be objective anyway. She’ll hear what she wants to hear. Besides, she’s there for the sympathy vote,’ he added, grimacing slightly. ‘Pretty blonde single mother, whose baby used to be always ailing. That might tug at their hard heartstrings.’

  ‘Good PR—if slightly callous.’ Cally doodled aimlessly with a pencil. ‘What do you think the chances are?’

  ‘Of getting them to listen? Pretty good—especially without Leila threatening to kneecap them. Overall?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not hopeful. Major property companies are moneymakers, after all, not social workers.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cally said quietly. ‘They’re generally not famous for their humanitarian qualities. They tend to have their own agenda.’

  ‘Therefore,’ Kit went on, ‘we need to present our case in an articulate and reasonable way—and pray like hell.’ He paused. ‘Of course, what we really need is a deus ex machina—another rich philanthropist to make a counter-offer and save us all at the eleventh hour.’ He grinned at her. ‘Got many millionaires in your address book?’

  The pencil snapped suddenly in her fingers. ‘No,’ she said, her voice faintly hoarse. ‘Not many.’

  ‘Nor me,’ he acknowledged ruefully, and was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant. ‘After the meeting, we could maybe have some dinner—at that Italian place in the High Street. What do you think?’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Cally agreed. ‘But you’d better warn Tracy to get a babysitter,’ she added disingenuously. ‘It will do her good to get out for the evening.’

  Kit’s face fell a little, but he knew better than to argue.

  When she was by herself again, Cally wondered whether that would have been a good time to tell him she was leaving—if he hadn’t guessed already. After all, the Hartleys must have him under notice too, although they’d reluctantly agreed to let the Children’s Centre remain open for the time being.

  They’re thinking of nasty stories appearing in the local paper, Cally thought. Television cameras filming weeping children in pushchairs. The kind of publicity one’s friendly local department store needs like a hole in the head.

  The kids’ parents, of course, were a different matter. Not everyone had the same concern for the disadvantaged as Genevieve Hartley had had, or tried to do anything about it. They’d be counting on that.

  And the Gunners Terrace residents, once they were made homeless, would qualify for council housing anyway. That would be their argument, so how many people would really care if a small, struggling would-be community fell by the wayside?

  But Cally knew that real pride, real spirit was being engendered in this tiny part of town, where those qualities had long been absent. And that it mattered. But it would soon wane once the families were dispersed, as seemed inevitable.

  They deserve to survive, she told herself with sudden angry passion. They don’t need another defeat. If only—only—there was something I could do…

  But there could have been—once, a sly voice in her head reminded her. If you’d chosen another kind of life. If you hadn’t run away. You might have made all the difference.

  For a moment she was motionless, staring into the distance with eyes that saw nothing but pain.

  She said under her breath, ‘But I made the right—the only possible choice. I know that.’ And dropped the broken pencil into the wastepaper basket.

  She had no smart clothes, so she opted for another version of her working gear for their visit to the Town Hall.

  The exhibition, which included a video presentation as well as a scale model of the development, was being staged in the conference hall—which hadn’t seen many conferences, but was useful for antiques fairs and craft markets. Also for the flower show in its usual inclement weather.

  The Mayor and his entourage were clearly preening themselves because the place was living up to its grandiose title at last.

  There were a lot of people present, most of them clustered around the tables where the scale model was set up, and the remainder hovering near the lavish buffet.

  Waiters were going round with trays of champagne and heavy platters loaded with canapés, presumably all with the compliments of Eastern Crest. How to win friends and influence people, Cally thought cynically as she stood with Kit and Tracy, wondering whom they should approach.

  But in the end the decision was made for them when they found themselves caught in a pincer movement by Gordon Hartley and his younger brother Neville, their faces flushed and inimical as they strode across the room.

  ‘I wasn’t aware anyone had asked you here.’ Gordon addressed Kit, ignoring the two girls completely. ‘I’d like you to leave—now.’

  Kit held up three invitation cards. ‘Someone clearly has a different idea,’ he returned coolly. ‘I thought we should see what we’re up against.’

  ‘You’re up against nothing,’ Neville chimed in. ‘You’ve already lost, so what’s the point in coming here, making fools of yourselves? Our mother may have looked on you all as an act of charity, but we don’t.’

  ‘All the same.’ Kit was undeterred. ‘We’d like to have a look at the proposed development, and maybe speak to whoever’s in charge at Eastern Crest.’

  Cally found herself admiring his calmness. His refusal to be rattled. He had ‘We shall not be moved’ written all over him, in spite of the hostility he was faced with.

  Goodness, she thought, if Leila had come she’d have bitten someone in the leg by now.

  ‘Then you’re really out of luck.’ Gordon was speaking again, his tone curt, pushing his weight forward threateningly. ‘Because the chairman himself is hosting tonight’s presentation, and he plays in the big league. Get out now, before you become a laughing stock or he has you remove
d.’

  The brothers’ raised voices were attracting attention, Cally realised, with embarrassment. Curious glances from all over the room were coming their way, and even some of the crowd round the model were turning their heads to look.

  She realised that she wasn’t just uncomfortable, she’d actually begun to tremble inside. Even begun to be afraid in some obscure but compelling way.

  We shouldn’t be here, she thought, swallowing. We may have invitations, but there’ll be an official guest list somewhere, and we’re still gatecrashers.

  She touched Kit’s sleeve. ‘Listen,’ she began, ‘maybe we should…’

  But the sentence was never completed. Because she was suddenly aware that a hush had fallen. That someone was making his way across the room towards them between groups of people that obediently fell back at his approach.

  A tall man, she saw, with a thin tanned face under fashionably dishevelled hair, dark as a raven’s wing. A face marked by high cheekbones, a nose and chin almost arrogant in their strength, a mouth tough and unsmiling. And totally unforgettable.

  The muscularity of his broad-shouldered, lean-hipped body was emphasised by the elegance of his designer suit as he strode towards them with powerful, determined grace, purpose in his every line.

  He was someone, she realised, the breath catching in her throat, that she knew. Whose reappearance in her life she’d been dreading for over a year. And who was here now, almost within touching distance, when there was no time to run or place to go.

  All she could do was stand her ground and pray to whatever unseen deity protected fugitives.

  But as his eyes, grey and deep as a winter ocean, met hers, Cally felt the measure of his glance in the marrow of her bones, and knew that her escape had only been an illusion all along.

  ‘Good evening.’ The cool, crisp voice was like ice on her skin. ‘Is there some problem?’

  A game, Cally thought numbly. He was playing a game, with rules that he’d invented. But no one knew it but herself.

  ‘A few troublemakers have got in, Sir Nicholas,’ Neville Hartley said swiftly. ‘But we’re dealing with them. So if you’d like to go back to your guests…’

  ‘Presently,’ the newcomer said quietly. He looked at Kit. ‘May I know who you are?’

  Kit cleared his throat. ‘I’m Christopher Matlock, and I run the Children’s Centre, and the Residents’ Association down at Gunners Wharf. We face eviction because of your development, but I’m still hoping some compromise can be reached, and that you might spare me some time to discuss the matter.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The other man nodded. ‘This has been mentioned to me.’ He turned to Tracy, whose face had been blotched with nerves ever since their arrival. ‘And this is?’ His smile held a swift charm that softened the hardness of his face.

  ‘Tracy—Tracy Andrews,’ Kit said quickly, seeing that she was beyond speech. ‘One of the residents.’ He turned to Cally. ‘And this is my administrative assistant.’

  ‘Oh, but we need no introduction,’ the new arrival said with cold mockery. ‘Do we, Caroline, my love?’

  Before she could move he took one long step towards her, capturing her chin in his long fingers. He bent his head, and for a brief, hideous second Cally felt the sear of his mouth on hers.

  He straightened, his lips twisting. ‘They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I wonder if that’s true. Because you don’t seem very pleased to see me.’

  ‘Cally?’ Kit was staring at her, lips parted in shock. ‘You know this man?’

  ‘Yes.’ She forced her lips to move to make the necessary sounds. ‘His name is Nicholas Tempest.’

  ‘I’m the chairman of Eastern Crest.’ His smile did not reach his eyes. The gaze that held hers was a challenge, and a warning. ‘Now, tell him the rest, darling.’

  And from some far, terrible distance, she heard herself say, with a kind of empty helplessness, ‘He’s my husband.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  THERE was a moment when she thought she might faint. When she would have welcomed the temporary surcease to this intolerable moment that unconsciousness would provide.

  But she wasn’t that lucky.

  Instead she heard Nick drawl, ‘Will someone fetch a chair for my wife? She’s had a shock.’

  It was exactly the challenge she needed. I am not—not—going to fall apart, she told herself, her body stiffening. At least not now.

  She made her tone crisp. ‘Thank you, but I’m perfectly all right.’

  She turned to Kit, who was looking poleaxed, while Tracy was standing with her mouth open and her eyes out on stalks.

  ‘But please get Tracy a drink,’ she added. ‘She really needs one.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think it’s best if I leave.’

  ‘Not yet, darling.’ Nick’s voice was silky, but the fingers that closed on her wrist felt like iron. ‘After all, you went to the trouble of seeking me out tonight. So why don’t you say what you came to say?’

  Cally bit her lip. It was her left hand that he’d imprisoned. The hand that had once, for a few hours, worn his ring but was now bare—a fact, she could tell, that wasn’t lost on him.

  She wanted to pull free, but feared an undignified struggle which she might lose. She said brusquely, ‘Kit’s our spokesman. Perhaps he could make an appointment to see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Unfortunately I shall be leaving after breakfast.’ He paused. ‘But I could spare you all some time later, when tonight’s presentation is over.’

  ‘But we’re going out for a meal.’ The champagne she was sipping seemed to have loosened Tracy’s tongue. ‘An Italian meal. My neighbour’s looking after the baby,’ she added, beaming.

  ‘Then why don’t I join you?’ Nick suggested, smoothly and unanswerably. ‘You can put forward your point of view over veal Marsala.’

  Tracy stared at him. ‘But I was going to have lasagne.’

  ‘Then of course you shall.’ He was smiling again, using that charm of his like a weapon. Controlling the tense silence that had descended. ‘While you tell me all about Gunners Terrace.’

  ‘It was an idea of our late mother’s,’ Gordon Hartley butted in, almost desperately. ‘Sadly, she died while the scheme was in its infancy, so most of the houses are still untouched. They’re dangerous and insanitary, and they should be pulled down.’

  In spite of her mental and emotional turmoil Cally managed to give him a steady look. ‘That isn’t altogether true, and you know it. Half the terrace has been completed, and work has started on the others.’

  ‘But we won’t talk about it here and now,’ Nick cut in decisively. He’d released Cally’s wrist, but the pressure of his fingers seemed to linger like a bruise. ‘I still have things to do, so we’ll have to postpone the discussion.’

  ‘There’s really nothing to talk about, Sir Nicholas,’ Neville Hartley blustered. ‘I think we’ve made the position quite clear already.’

  ‘One side of it, certainly,’ Nick agreed. He looked at Kit. ‘What’s the name of the restaurant you’re using?’

  ‘The Toscana,’ Kit muttered awkwardly. ‘In the High Street.’

  Nick looked at his watch. ‘Then I’ll meet you there in an hour’s time.’ He paused. ‘All of you,’ he added softly, his gaze resting briefly on Cally. ‘I hope that’s clearly understood.’ Another swift, hard smile and he was gone, and the crowd seemed to close round him.

  There was a taut silence, and Cally could see the Hartley brothers exchanging wary glances.

  She could understand their problem, she thought wryly. Young Lady Tempest, wife of Eastern Crest’s dynamic chairman, would have been an honoured guest, overwhelmed with obsequious attention. Nick Tempest’s clearly estranged wife was a horse of a different colour, and they weren’t sure quite how to deal with her.

  To be civil to someone who’d encouraged Genevieve Hartley in her reckless foolishness and battled with them openly after her death would be anathema, but neither could they throw her bodily into
the street with her companions, as they obviously wished.

  After all, Gunners Terrace was supposed to be down and out, just waiting for the bulldozers to arrive. Now the residents had an unsuspected ace up their sleeve, and for the moment the Hartleys didn’t have a strategy to deal with it.

  In the end Neville Hartley said thickly, ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’ And they stalked furiously away.

  ‘Perhaps that should be our line,’ Cally called after them, her voice inimical.

  Then suddenly the tension went out of her, and she was gasping as if she’d been winded.

  Kit was staring at her as if she was a stranger. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘You are married—to him? It can’t be true.’

  ‘It’s perfectly true.’ Her voice was raw. ‘But not for much longer, I assure you. Once I’ve been separated from him—from Nick—for two years, divorce should be easy.’

  ‘Is that how he sees it?’ Kit asked sombrely.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You were the surprised one just now,’ he said. ‘If you ask me, your husband knew you were going to be here tonight, and he was waiting for you.’

  ‘He’s very dishy,’ Tracy said on a note of envy. ‘I wouldn’t mind him waiting for me.’

  Cally gave a taut smile. ‘Well, at the restaurant you can have him all to yourself. I’ve had enough surprises for one day, and I’m going home.’

  ‘But you can’t,’ Kit said, dismayed. ‘You heard him. He’s willing to listen to what we have to say—something we hardly dared hope for. But it has to be all of us or it’ll be no dice. Cally, you can’t walk away—not when we actually have a chance to put our case.’

  She looked down at the floor. ‘I think I’d be more likely to damage your cause than help it.’

  I should have listened to that dream the other night, she thought. Accepted it as a warning and gone while the going was good. But I was too complacent. I let myself think that he’d have stopped searching by now—if he’d ever begun.