The Engagement Effect: An Ordinary GirlA Perfect Proposal Read online

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘No, one of his partners…’ For a moment she’d thought it might have been him…hoped it might have been. But when she’d turned to look up at him, it had been obvious he was as surprised as she was. ‘This is Charlie Young’s idea, I imagine.’

  By way of confirmation the man himself called for order. ‘Jane, Mark—I know you both thought you were going to have a quiet romantic lunch together and are probably horrified to discover you’re going to be sharing your special day with this unruly bunch. But we couldn’t let the moment pass without letting you know how happy we are for you both.’ There was a hum of approval. ‘And maybe pick up a few hints on how to keep an office romance that quiet.’ Amidst the laughter, he raised his glass. ‘To Jane and Mark.’

  ‘To Jane and Mark.’

  Then someone called out, ‘Well, go on, Mark, give her a kiss.’

  Beside her Jane felt him tense, and instinctively she reached for his hand. One thing to kiss her at the register office, witnessed by strangers. Quite another in front of people who knew them both. Who’d known Caroline.

  For a moment he gripped her fingers, then he turned to her and, with his eyes fixed upon hers, lifted her hand to his lips. And the only sound in the room was a soft sigh from the women.

  The party broke up just after four, when an exhausted Shuli dropped asleep on Mark’s shoulder.

  He leaned back against the soft leather upholstery of the limousine and said, ‘That was surprisingly good fun.’

  ‘Yes, it was kind of them. I’ll write thank-you notes to Charlie and everyone for the presents tomorrow.’

  ‘Totally efficient as always?’

  She turned sharply, but he was teasing. ‘Not totally efficient. That would suggest I’d discovered some way of telling my mother about today and surviving.’

  He looked perplexed. ‘You didn’t tell your mother that you were getting married?’

  ‘Did you tell yours?’

  ‘Well, no. But she’s at an environmental conference in New York. And Portia’s deeply involved in some legal wrangle at the European Parliament.’

  And it wasn’t as if he was marrying a glittering society beauty this time round. Just good old platonic Jane. Nothing to get excited about.

  ‘It’s a pity they don’t make cards,’ Jane said.

  He frowned. ‘Cards?’

  ‘Greetings cards. “Just to let you know that blank and blank were married on the blank.”’

  ‘Maybe they do.’ Then, when she gave him an old-fashioned look, ‘No, I don’t suppose there’s much call for that sort of thing. Do you want me to ring her? Explain—?’

  ‘No!’ Explanations were the last thing she wanted.

  ‘Explain why we didn’t wait and do the whole banns and church bit,’ he finished gently. ‘Because of Shuli.’

  And have her mother speculate on whether she’d married for Mark’s convenience rather than her own? Besides, that wasn’t why they’d opted for the fast-track wedding and he knew it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Really. I can handle it. But not until tomorrow.’

  The evening, which she’d been so certain would be full of awkward moments, passed in a whirl of Shuli’s needs. Exhausted, it was a relief for Jane to stretch out beside the child, cuddling up to her as she read her a long fairy story. She was in no hurry to go downstairs and face reality.

  Shuli had been insistent that Jane bath her, so Mark had changed into a pair of comfortable chinos and a polo shirt, opened a bottle of wine, looked at the labels on the wedding presents and eventually, when he’d been able to wait no longer, had gone to look for her.

  He found her, fast asleep and curled up beside Shuli, looking like a child herself in soft grey sweats. He picked up the book she’d been reading, put it on the night table. Then he carefully picked up Jane and carried her to the guest room, removing her shoes before covering her up, the way he’d done for Shuli more times than he could remember.

  She didn’t stir. Probably hadn’t slept a wink the night before. Well, neither had he. But he was used to it.

  He drew the curtains, then lingered, not wanting to leave, reliving that astonishing moment when his lips had touched hers. It had been the barest touch and yet, like the touch of her hand against his in the jeweller’s, the heat lingered. And on an impulse he bent to kiss her again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JANE woke with a start and sat up in the dense dark, not knowing where she was. Then it all came back to her with a rush. The wedding, the reception, the champagne. The guest room.

  She fell back against the pillow. Then she sat up again as it occurred to her that maybe Shuli had cried out, her sleep disturbed by too much excitement. She hadn’t been plied with champagne, but she had eaten an awful lot of ice cream.

  She reached for the bedside lamp, missed and knocked it flying. ‘Oh, sugar…’ If the child wasn’t already awake she soon would be. She crawled about on the floor until she found the lamp, then switched it on. That was when she realised she was still wearing the clothes she’d changed into before she’d bathed Shuli.

  She sat back on her heels and frowned. The last thing she could remember was reading Shuli a bedtime story. The combination of a sleepless night, stress and vintage fizz had clearly knocked her out as effectively as a sleeping pill. She had the headache to prove it.

  Great start. So much for totally efficient, totally in control Jane Carmichael.

  The light caught the diamonds on her hand and they flashed a reminder that it wasn’t only the calm and order that were things of the past. She was no longer Jane Carmichael, but Mrs Mark Hilliard.

  She gave a little shiver, not from cold, but apprehension. The word ‘home’ had come naturally to her thoughts, yet as she put the lamp back on the table and looked around the exquisite suite she knew she could never call it that. Not while she stayed in the guest room.

  This was Caroline’s house: every perfect inch of it. She’d chosen the furniture, the wallpaper, the colour of the paint. There were even some of her clothes, still in dry cleaners’ bags, hanging in the guest room wardrobe where someone had put them, out of the way.

  She was here on the sufferance of a ghost. Feeling suffocated, choked, she pulled back the curtains to breathe in the sweet fresh air pouring in at the window.

  The sky was the pearlescent grey of the pre-dawn, and she glanced at her watch to check the time. Not quite five. She’d heard no sound from Shuli, but she checked anyway. Anything to get out of that room. The child was fast asleep, her curls a tumbled halo on her pillow.

  It must have been her own uneasy thoughts that had disturbed her, then.

  She’d allowed Laine to believe that she had everything under control, that marriage had simply been the first step in her master plan. Ha! Some plan.

  Here she was on the first morning of her married life, alone in the guest suite and still wearing the clothes she’d changed into when she’d gone to bath Shuli. It had been her wedding night, and the seductive nightgown that had been Laine’s gift was still packed up in a suitcase somewhere; the only clothes she’d shed had been her shoes.

  That was no way to set about reminding a man that he was made of flesh and blood. No way to infiltrate herself into his mind, exorcise the past.

  Not that she’d have lingered on the landing to flash a bare shoulder as Mark followed her up the stairs—Laine’s parting suggestion. Like the bad-girl underwear, it just wasn’t her.

  No, she’d had it all worked out. She was going to be the perfect wife, taking the strain, easing the burden. And hopefully reminding him that he could still laugh. And, starting as she meant to go on, she’d stocked the fridge in readiness to cook a perfect wedding-night supper.

  Talk about falling asleep on the job!

  But now, at five in the morning, her alter ego was wide awake and whispering sedition, suggesting that he’d got it made, but questioning what was in this marriage for her.

  Confused, but certain that she wasn’t going to get any
more sleep, she decided to go downstairs and make herself a cup of tea.

  Mark, used to sleeping with one ear listening for Shuli, woke on full alert. It wasn’t Shuli, but something had woken him, and after a moment straining to identify any unusual sound he heard a door being opened with infinite care.

  Jane. As he lay there, listening to her move quietly across the hall to look in on the sleeping child, he felt an unexpected surge of pleasure in the realisation that he was no longer on his own. That for the first time since he’d become a father he had someone to share the responsibility, the broken nights when she had a cold, the fear that he wouldn’t be good enough.

  Someone who cared.

  Not wanting her to think he was abandoning all responsibility for Shuli to her, he swung out of bed and headed for the door. Then, realising that he probably needed to be wearing more than a pair of boxers, he picked up a robe and tied it about him.

  He was too late. Shuli was fast asleep and Jane had returned to her own bed. Feeling oddly disappointed, he stood for a little while watching his daughter. The source of so much delight and so much pain. She was sleeping more peacefully than he could recall in a long time.

  He lifted the cover over her shoulder, gently kissed her curly head and was returning to his room when he saw the glow of a light spilling from the kitchen. Had Jane gone downstairs?

  Concerned that she might be suffering from the aftereffects of Charlie Young’s boisterous hospitality, he went to see if she needed anything. And came to an abrupt halt as he turned at the foot of the stairs.

  Jane was sitting at the breakfast island, her legs wrapped around a stool, dunking a teabag in a mug, her shadowy figure backlit by a single downlighter.

  Her hair had exploded into a thick mass of waves and curls, while her mouth, far too large for her face and usually tucked up tidily into a smile, had drooped into a soft, pensive pout.

  Yesterday, arriving for the wedding, he’d been startled at how different she looked out of the stark black suits she wore in the office. But this was a Jane he’d never even suspected existed. And as he stood there his body disturbingly reminded him that he was a man.

  ‘Jane? Is anything wrong?’ His voice came out more sharply than he’d intended and she jumped, sending the mug crashing on its side so that hot tea cascaded over the edge of the worktop onto her legs. Without thinking he rushed to grab her, pull her from the stool and away from the scalding liquid. ‘Are you hurt?’ he demanded. ‘Get those things off…’ He tugged at her jog-pants, pulling the wet fabric away from her skin, and discovered somewhat late in the day that her eyes could spit fire as easily as they smiled.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Realising, belatedly, how his reaction to the drama could be misinterpreted, he released her. ‘I was just trying to minimise the damage. You need to get out of those pants—’

  ‘I know, but I’m not helpless.’ She turned away from him and peeled down the jog-pants, kicking them off.

  ‘And get them under cold water,’ he added, heading for the fridge.

  ‘I know that, too! I’m not a complete idiot.’ She turned on the tap and, grabbing a towel, held it beneath the flow to soak it. ‘I was a Girl Guide—’

  ‘Turn round.’

  She turned, but only to berate him further. ‘I did first—’ Her verbal onslaught came to an abrupt halt as he slowly and carefully poured the contents of the water container he’d taken from the fridge over the pink patches on her thighs. It was a big container and it was a long time before she could draw in sufficient breath to gasp out, ‘That’s enough! I’m fine…Please…Stop…’

  He looked up. ‘Sure?’ She nodded wordlessly. ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘Totally numb. I think I’m in more danger of frostbite than blistering.’

  He switched on the main light and took a closer look. Her legs were still pink but he suspected that she was right. It was from the cold water rather than the scald. He looked up. ‘Fortunately the jog-pants saved you from any serious damage.’

  Jane looked around; yes, well, he could quite understand why she wouldn’t want to look at him. If anyone was an idiot it was him. Startling her that way—

  ‘Whoever would have thought so little water would go such a long way?’ she said. ‘I’d better mop it up.’ She lifted her shoulders in an awkward little shrug. ‘If you’ll tell me where the mop is.’

  ‘Not a chance. You’re going to sit down while I make you a fresh cup of tea.’ Paddling through the iced water, he led her back to the stool, but, since her legs were already sparking libidinous ideas, he thought it wiser not to attempt to lift her onto it. ‘And this time try not to throw it over yourself.’

  ‘I did not do any such thing! You startled me!’

  Lord, but she was jumpy. ‘I was pulling your leg, Jane. For heaven’s sake, relax.’

  She looked as if she was about to tell him what he could do with his leg-pulling, too. Then she gave a little shiver. ‘I’m sorry, Mark. I’m not usually so jumpy. And I’m sorry I shouted at you for trying to help.’

  ‘Shout away. You had every right.’ Her reaction had revealed a side of his unflappable secretary that he’d never witnessed before; it had been worth a scolding. ‘I’m the one who should be apologising. I heard you come down and I thought you might be…’ Sick. Or maybe just sleepless, lying awake and wondering how she could ever have made such a big mistake. The thought was enough to make him feel ill.

  During the last few days he’d felt as if he was reaching light at the end of some long tunnel. He’d scarcely given a second thought to how she was feeling. After all, this had been her idea. She’d been pushing him to find someone, a partner, a mother for Shuli, and when it came right down to it there was no escaping the fact that she’d put the idea of marrying her into his head.

  And he’d grabbed it with both hands.

  Because it had been the easiest thing to do? An answer to all his prayers? When had he become so selfish? So self-centred? It was too late to suggest she think again. All he could do was make sure she never regretted her generous impulse. Do everything within his power to make her happy.

  He realised she was still waiting for him to complete the sentence. ‘I thought you might be worrying about how your mother will react the your news.’

  ‘My mother, my father, my four big sisters and their husbands, as well as several dozen cousins. Oh, and a parcel of nieces who’ll be furious that they didn’t get to be bridesmaids,’ she said. ‘They are going to be really fed up.’ Her answer was undoubtedly true, but had been seized on with such enthusiasm that he suspected he might have offered an excuse that was a lot easier to admit to than the truth.

  ‘Maybe we should leave the country,’ he suggested.

  She finally smiled. ‘Good plan. Unfortunately you’ve got a tight deadline on the Maybridge project.’

  ‘I know, but if your father’s going to come after me with shotgun—’

  ‘Why would he do that? It isn’t as if you’ve done me wrong. This was all my idea…’ She suddenly found it necessary to check on her legs.

  ‘How are they?’

  She looked up.

  ‘Your legs?’

  ‘Fine. That was quick thinking—if out of the cruel-tobe-kind school of nursing. I bet you rip sticky plasters off hairy limbs, too.’

  ‘Is there another way?’ Her legs, he realised, were not just fine. They were very fine. Jane might not be tall, but her legs left nothing to be desired: proportionately long, shapely, with a pair of very fetching ankles. His treacherous body found an ally in a mind quick to offer an alternative occupation to tea-drinking for two newlyweds awake in the early hours of the morning.

  He couldn’t understand it. His libido had lain dormant for years. Last week, when they’d agreed that this was a sensible, logical and totally platonic marriage, nothing had been further from his mind than making love to his new wife.

  Certainly nothing had been further from hers o
r she’d never have agreed to it. And he couldn’t change the rules now, just because he was unexpectedly aroused. He wasn’t that selfish. Realising that he was staring, he said, ‘I thought you were going to sit down while I made us both a cup of tea.’ It would occupy his hands.

  Jane, feeling suddenly naked, was about to refuse, rush away and cover herself up. But Mark didn’t seem in the least bit bothered by the fact that her sweat top barely covered her knickers. Not nearly bothered enough, if all he could think of was making a cup of tea.

  So much for Laine urging a little provocative shoulder display. It didn’t seem at all fair that a glimpse of his naked chest could leave her feeling weak with lust, while her entire legs were apparently not worth a second glance.

  Forget naked anything; she’d be wiser to stick to her first plan. Which was why, eschewing modesty, she did what any perfect wife would do under the circumstances. She ignored the stool and instead found the mop for herself and dried the floor. Then she cleaned up the mess made by the tea.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Mark said, carrying across a couple of mugs of tea and sliding onto a stool beside her. ‘A couple of people come in a van three times a week and clean from top to bottom.’

  To distract herself from the body heat leaping the small space between them so that the tiny hairs on her thighs stood on end, she said, ‘Maybe we should cut their visits back to once a week or I won’t have anything to do.’

  ‘Caroline never had any trouble filling her time. Upper Haughton has a busy social life, apparently.’

  ‘Do you mean there are a lot of coffee mornings, jumble sales and other time-consuming ways of raising money for worthy causes as an excuse for catching up with the gossip?’

  ‘Don’t forget the village fête.’ He turned and looked down at her, a wry smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re right. It doesn’t sound that exciting.’

  ‘I might think that, but, since this is all new to me, I’ll reserve judgement.’