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‘No?’ His voice was too innocent to be taken seriously.
‘You know it isn’t. Where...where are we going?’ she asked nervously, real fear in her voice as she realised her vulnerability.
‘Relax, Annie.’ The stone-grey eyes flashed over her face for one piercing moment as he caught the panic she couldn’t hide. ‘I’m not into abduction, or rape, or any one of a number of variations on those themes. I see the misery caused by those sorts of abuses of strength too often in my work to indulge personally,’ he said drily. ‘You’re quite safe.’
Safe? With Hudson de Sance? Never, she thought wildly.
‘You said we were going back to the hotel,’ she accused, once she could trust her voice not to shake. He would just love to think she was quivering in her shoes! ‘Didn’t you?’
‘And so we are.’ He paused for a moment, and then added, ‘Eventually,’ his voice full of dark mockery.
‘Eventually?’ She glared at him, her eyes flashing.
‘It means finally, in the end, ultimately,’ he said helpfully.
‘I know what the word means.’
Her voice was too shrill, and she was furiously angry with herself for not matching his cool control, especially when the grey eyes moved over her face in another lightning glance and the black eyebrows lifted in indulgent disapproval. ‘Don’t screech, Annie; it’s most unbecoming,’ he drawled easily.
She mentally counted to ten—slowly—and then said, in as even a tone as she could manage, ‘I just want to know where we are going. I think that is reasonable enough—to any normal person.’
‘Reasonable doesn’t enter into it.’ Now his voice was clipped, and for the first time she saw his knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel. His control wasn’t as real as he’d like her to believe, she thought nervously as fear engulfed her again. ‘You, of all people, should know that.’
‘Hudson—’
‘You walked out on me two years ago without so much as a by-your-leave,’ he bit out tightly. ‘You call that reasonable?’
‘I left a letter to explain why,’ she protested quickly.
‘The original “dear John”. Yes, I read it,’ he said icily. ‘And yet the evening before that you had agreed to become my wife.’
‘I explained—’ She stopped abruptly as they turned a corner and almost collided with an aged donkey bearing bales of merchandise on its back, his owner having stopped to carry on a conversation with a vendor selling pomegranates from an old pushcart at the side of the road. It was charming and picturesque, but quite how the accident claim form would have read was another matter.
Hudson swore angrily under his breath, sounded his horn and continued down the dusty road leading away from the modern European section of the city they had been in earlier.
‘I explained about that,’ Marianne said weakly after a moment or two. ‘Our lifestyles were too different—I had only recently finished university and I’d never even been to the States. Everything had happened too quickly. We...we didn’t really know each other.’
‘Rubbish,’ he said with ruthless honesty. ‘That’s rubbish and you know it. If it had just been that, you wouldn’t have dropped off the face of the earth. I came looking for you, but of course you know that. Your aunt and uncle were very shocked by it all, but your stepfather not so much. It was he who told me the truth.’
‘The truth?’ She was losing it, she thought frantically as her mind raced and spun. He had seen Michael? That had been the one thing she’d been trying to prevent by leaving France in the middle of the night without a word to anyone. What had Michael told him? She wouldn’t put anything past her stepfather.
‘What was his name, Annie, this guy from university?’ Hudson asked coldly. ‘And why the hell didn’t you tell me about him yourself instead of getting your stepfather to do your dirty work and tell me you were engaged? You didn’t go back to Scotland, did you? The pair of you simply vanished off the face of the earth.’
‘I...I went to London,’ she admitted through stiff lips.
‘And Harding? Is that your married name?’ he bit out tightly.
‘No, I...I didn’t get married,’ she said flatly. ‘I changed my name from McBride, that’s all. Harding...Harding was more suitable in London.’
‘You didn’t get married?’ She felt the penetrating gaze sweep her face again but forced herself to stare straight ahead, her eyes seeing the hot street outside the car, with its veiled women, energetic little children and robed men, as though she were in a dream. ‘But I thought—’ He paused. ‘Was that anything to do with the car crash?’ he asked softly. ‘Or a separate decision?’
‘You know about the crash?’ She did turn to look at him then, but the dark, tanned profile was giving nothing away. ‘How?’ Scotland was a long way from America.
‘Let’s just say I kept tabs for a while,’ he said smoothly. ‘You didn’t go to the funeral of your mother and stepfather. Why?’
‘Reasons.’ This was becoming too hot to handle. ‘Look, Hudson, the past is the past—can’t we just leave it at that? And where are we going anyway?’ she asked nervously as they joined a road that began to curve upwards. ‘I need to get back—’
‘A friend of mine has invited me to stop by this evening.’ He had known how she would react, and his voice was dry and cool as he said, ‘Don’t look so surprised, Annie. I do have friends, you know. Or is that too difficult for you to believe?’
‘I’m sure you do,’ she said tightly. ‘But won’t they be surprised to see you turn up at the door with a strange woman?’
‘The “strange woman” is your terminology, not mine,’ he mocked softly. ‘I would have said unusual, extraordinary perhaps, but strange is going a little too far.’
‘You know what I meant.’ She’d hit him in a minute—she would!
‘So ...’ The cool voice was thoughtful. ‘Where did you go when you ran away from me, if not to marry your lover?’
‘I’ve told you—London,’ she said shortly.
‘And you changed your name and cut off all contact with your family, even to the extent of not attending your parents’ funeral.’ He was talking as though to himself. ‘What made you contact your aunt in France after two years?’ he asked suddenly, his voice sharpening into cold steel.
‘How did you know—?’ She stopped abruptly, her face going white as reality dawned. ‘You knew I would be here, didn’t you?’ she said dazedly. ‘This is not a coincidence.’ He had known her name earlier at lunch. He had called her Marianne Harding.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’ The cool mockery was back.
‘You haven’t answered mine either,’ she shot back quickly, his cold, faintly drawling voice incredibly irritating when she was as tense as a tightly coiled spring. ‘You knew I’d be here, in this hotel in Tangier, didn’t you? You planned all this.’
‘You really think I would chase across half the world because I’d discovered your whereabouts?’ he asked contemptuously, and at the same moment, with a flash of mortifying and hot humiliation, she remembered the stunning redhead. He was here with her. Of course.
‘I...I didn’t mean that.’ She didn’t really know what she had meant, she admitted to herself painfully. But that wasn’t surprising—Hudson had always had the power to send her senses into overdrive and her mind spinning. She hadn’t looked at another man—hadn’t had the slightest interest in one—since she had left France two years ago. Left him two years ago. How he’d laugh at that.
‘Here we are.’ As the car passed through a great archway covered in traceries so delicate and intricate that they looked like lace, Marianne saw they were in the courtyard of what was obviously a very wealthy family, the low, sprawling white house in front of them decorated in the Moorish style with fine carvings in stone and wood. The air was heavy with the perfume of banana trees, bougainvillea vines and other flowering tropical plants. Several sparkling fountains murmured in the vegetation beyond the courtyard. It was tranquil, serene and very beautiful.
‘My friend’s name is Idris,’ Hudson said quietly as he brought the car to a quiet standstill in the warm, scented air, the sound of droning insects in the vegetation meeting their ears. ‘He and his family are very westernised, but he is a Berber through and through and proud of it We will be expected to eat with them.’
‘But...’ It was as though she had been transported into another world, swept along in the dark aura of this man who had dominated her life since the first moment she had laid eyes on him—the intervening years since she’d last seen him accentuating, rather than diminishing, his fierce appeal. ‘I can’t... They don’t know me. Hudson, you must see I can’t stay; it’s presumptuous—’
‘They expected me to bring a friend.’ The glittering grey gaze fastened on her alarmed green eyes with their deep gold flecks, and then he uncoiled himself from the car, walking with cat-like litheness round to the passenger door.
A friend? The redhead, no doubt, Marianne thought silently as a rapier-sharp stab of jealousy replaced the desperate panic. Why hadn’t she come? Was she ill? Indisposed in some way? But that still didn’t explain why he had appeared on the quayside like that.
‘Come along.’ His deep, smoky voice interrupted her frantic thoughts, and as she slid out of the car his hand on her arm seemed to burn like fire. She didn’t want to obey, but there was nothing else she could do, after all.
This was crazy, surreal—it couldn’t be happening, Marianne told herself as she stood dazedly in the shaded warm air. She should be back at the hotel, getting ready for dinner in an environment that was familiar and safe and controlled. How had she got here anyway? She had only agreed to have a lift with him.
‘Hudson...please—’
“‘Hudson...please”.‘ He mimicked her voice softly and cruelly, his face mocking and his eyes narrowed. ’You used to say that in the old days—“Hudson, oh, Hudson, please...please”—remember? When you were in my arms, when I was kissing you—holding you. Did your young English lover take you into the world we inhabited, Annie? Did he make you feel like I made you feel? Did he?‘
‘You’re hurting me.’ His hand on her arm was vicelike.
‘Am I?’ He released her immediately. ‘I want to hurt you, my inconsistent little siren,’ he said with such matter-of-fact coolness that it took a moment for his words to sink in. ‘I want to see you suffer, like I suffered two years ago. Not in any physical sense—that would be too easy, too simple. But I would like to get inside your head—like you got inside mine—and watch while I slowly drain the very essence of you into my control. Does that shock you?’ he added with a marked lack of expression.
She stared at him, quite unable to speak, her mind frozen.
‘But we are civilised people, are we not?’ He smiled, but it was a mere twisting of the firm, sensual mouth, and chilled her still further. ‘And civilised people play games, have fun, flit from one partner to another if they get bored—’
‘I’m not like that.’ Her words were a trembling whisper, but he heard them. ‘I’ve never played those sorts of games in my life.’
‘No?’ The grey eyes flickered briefly. ‘Forgive me, but I’m not convinced. My mother’s father, a tough old Texan with a hide as thick as a rhinoceros—from whom I got my Christian name, incidentally—always used to say that actions speak louder than words. It used to irritate me as a boy as he invariably hammered it home when I was guilty of some fall from grace. But he was dead right, Annie. And your actions to date are somewhat—forgive me—frivolous, to put it mildly,’ he added with deadly sarcasm.
‘Hudson—’
‘Or do you consider a breach of faith between lovers as par for the course?’ he asked with lethal softness. ‘Part of the fun?’
‘No, of course I don’t. I didn’t... It wasn’t like that.’ She didn’t want to cry—she couldn’t cry—it would be the final humiliation, she told herself desperately as tears burnt fiercely at the back of her eyes, and she lowered her gaze quickly in case he saw the betraying sheen that was splintering the sunlight into a thousand glittering fragments. But not quickly enough.
‘And that old feminine ploy of tears won’t work either,’ he drawled nastily. ‘I’m too long in the tooth for that For someone to behave like you did takes something the average person hasn’t got, so don’t try the weak, trembling female approach now. There’s steel under that beautiful exterior—I know; I’ve felt it.’
‘You know nothing about me,’ she said shakily, keeping her face turned from him and her eyes downcast.
‘Oh, I’d agree with that, sweetheart.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Now that is the truth.’
‘Then why not just leave me alone?’ she muttered painfully. ‘I didn’t ask to come here with you; I don’t want to be here with you. It was you who instigated this.’
‘I’ve no doubt at all you would rather be back at the hotel enjoying a cocktail or two before dinner with the reputable Keith,’ Hudson said sardonically. ‘But unfortunately here you are and here you will remain until I choose to take you back.’
‘And this satisfies some twisted idea of revenge? Is that it?’ She raised her head now, her face fiery. ‘What sort of person are you, Hudson?’
‘I rather think that should be my line in the circumstances,’ he said with a silky coldness that told her her shot had hit home. ‘But if you’d like me to show you what sort of man I am, Annie...’
He had taken her in his arms before she had any clear idea of his intentions, his embrace crushing her into him as his mouth took hers in a kiss that was meant to punish and subdue. For a moment the shock of being held by him was overwhelming, the touch and taste of him achingly familiar, and then, as the tempo changed and he began to cover her face in burningly hot kisses that made her limp and fluid beneath his mouth, she strained into him, hardly aware of what she was doing.
How long the embrace continued she didn’t know; the magic of his kisses, the sheer sensation that was flowing like fire between them, wiped all coherent thought clean away. She could hear herself moaning his name, and she thought she heard him groan against her throat but then, in the next moment, he had thrust her away from him so violently, she almost fell.
‘How can you do that—kiss me back like that—when it doesn’t mean a thing?’ he snarled bitterly, his eyes blazing. ‘Who, what are you, Marianne McBride—or Harding—or whatever it is you call yourself?’
CHAPTER TWO
MARIANNE had never been more relieved in the whole of her life than she was when a childish whoop of glee sounded from the house behind them, and a small body hurtled over to wind itself round Hudson’s legs, drawing away his attention and breaking his furious gaze.
‘Abdul, my little friend...’ Hudson immediately became the benevolent uncle figure, bending down to lift the small boy into his arms as he spoke. And almost in the same instant a man and a woman, the former in westen dress and the latter in a long, flowing jellaba but without a veil, appeared in the open doorway.
The following minutes of greetings and introductions took them into the house—which was as beautiful inside as out. It was wonderfully cool with its marbled floors and shaded inner courtyard complete with tinkling fountain and huge, leafy palms. Admiring their surroundings and making small talk with their hosts, and their small son, Abdul, eased the tension between her and Hudson.
Idris and his wife, Fatima, didn’t appear to think it at all odd that Hudson had brought her along; in fact such was their open-handed hospitality and genuine delight that Marianne began to feel like an old friend, rather than a stranger in their midst.
‘Have you known Hudson long?’ She was sitting with Fatima on a long, low sofa in a shady part of the courtyard, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice flavoured with limes and lemon. The men had departed to Idris’s study to see his new computer set-up, with Abdul still in Hudson’s arms.
‘Idris has known him since they were students together in the States,’ Fatima answered quietly. ‘But I first met Hudson on the day I married Idris, five years ago.’
‘They seem very good friends,’ Marianne observed, taking another sip of the deliciously cold drink. ‘They’re obviously very fond of each other.’
‘This is true.’ Fatima spoke perfect English with a quaint preciseness that was charming. ‘Hudson helped Idris on the death of his first wife—you know Idris was married before?’
Marianne shook her head quickly. ‘No, no, I didn’t.’
‘She was killed in an automobile accident,’ Fatima said quietly, ‘with their two children. The chauffeur also was killed. It was very hard for Idris, and Hudson—how do you say it?—dropped everything. Idris often says he does not know what he would have done if Hudson had not been there. He stayed with him many weeks. Hudson is a very compassionate man, yes?’
‘Yes...’ Compassionate? He might be; she really didn’t know, Marianne thought numbly. Their whirlwind romance had lasted almost two months, and from the day they’d met they had barely been apart for more than a few hours. But...she hadn’t got to know him—not really—not properly. It had been crazy, unreal—they had been locked into their own little world where everything had been vibrant and vivid and magical, and where one glance, one lingering look, had had the power to send her into the heavens. They had barely talked about their respective pasts, and the future had been nothing more than a rosy dream. It was the present that had been real, and they had known their immediate time together was limited.
Hudson had taken a three-month sabbatical from his law firm and had already used a month of that time before he had met her, and Marianne had had a new job waiting for her in Scotland. But on the night he had asked her to marry him—and she had accepted—she had known she would follow him anywhere. It had made the next few hours all the harder.
‘Is it not...?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Marianne came to with a jolt to realise Fatima had been speaking and she hadn’t heard a word. She blushed hotly, forcing herself to give all her attention to the Moroccan woman.
‘I said your job must be very interesting, Marianne.’ Fatima was too sensitive and far too well-bred to show open curiosity, but it was clear she was wondering where Marianne fitted into Hudson’s life, and after a somewhat cagey conversation Marianne was relieved when the men returned and they all went through to the dining room to eat.
The meal was in traditional Moroccan style—everyone seated on sofas around a low table—and before they ate they were given towels and rose-water in order to wash their right hands—the hand Moroccans used to eat from the communal dishes they favoured. Marianne had heard of the custom, but only having eaten at the hotel—which was distinctly European—had never seen it in action.
She found it fascinating to watch the others reaching into a big bowl of couscous, picking up olives and raisins with three fingers, twirling them round in the creamy mixture and then popping them into their mouths. Normally she would have thoroughly enjoyed the experience—the table was full of mouth-watering dishes that smelt divine—but her stomach was so knotted with nerves, she could barely force anything past the constriction, and each mouthful was an effort of will.
Why had Hudson brought her here? The question was drumming in her head all through the meal and the subsequent conversation over coffee. She hadn’t seen him for two years. They both had separate lives now—and if the tall, elegant redhead was anything to go by he hadn’t exactly pined away for her, she thought with a touch of bitterness. He must hate her—he did hate her; he’d made that plain—so why bring her to his friend’s home and act as though she was with him? Why put them both through such torment?
She didn’t understand it and she didn’t understand him, but he made her nervous—very nervous. She had never imagined he was a man who would forgive easily, but this—there was no rhyme or reason to it.
It was after eleven when they left Idris and Fatima, and the soft indigo dusk had given way to a black velvet sky pierced through with hundreds upon hundreds of bright, twinkling stars, the darkness perfumed with the heavy, rich scent of magnolia flowers.
It was a beautiful night—romantic, gentle, the full moon silhouetting the eastern horizon of flamboyant mosques and towering minarets with ethereal charm—but Marianne had never felt so tense and nervous in her life. Just sitting beside Hudson made her as jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof, and she knew he sensed her agitation. Sensed it and was satisfied by it.
‘You are frightened of me?’ The dark, deep voice was silky-soft, but caused her to straighten her backbone as she glanced at the ruthlessly cold profile.
‘Of course not,’ she lied tightly, her voice cold and even.
‘No?’ The query was soft, charged with dark emotion.
‘No.’ She forced her hands, which had been clasped in tight fists on her lap, to relax before she said, her voice as steady and unemotional as she could make it, ‘Why? Should I be?’
‘Most certainly.’ It wasn’t the reply she had expected, and as her eyes widened with the shock of it her heart went haywire.
‘You walked out on me, Annie, and no one had ever done that to me before. I didn’t like it.’ It was the understatement of the year, and delivered in such an expressionless voice that her blood flowed cold. ‘I didn’t like it at all.’
‘I... I explained—’
‘We had an agreement, Annie.’ He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘An agreement you welshed on. How do you think I should deal with that?’ he asked coldly, his eyes on the road in front of them.
She stared at him warily, quite unable to gauge anything from the cool mask he could don at will and which proved so formidable in the courtroom. He was formidable, terrifyingly so.
