need to work, darling, and I want to look after you. It’s so wonderful to know you’re here waiting for me when I come home.’ And then the gentleness had faded and he’d become curt, cold, if she expressed a wish to work outside the home. And she, mindful of his childhood and all he’d never had, had fallen in with his demands, wanting to remove all memory of past hurts and slights.
Not that she had been actively unhappy, not at first. They had had a busy social life—all Zeke’s friends and business contacts, of course—and had enjoyed their evenings at home together, which had always finished in one way. They were perfectly suited in bed, desire flaming between them if they so much as touched one another.
But after a few months she had become frustrated, bored and restless, and it was then she had felt the pressure from Zeke to change, to conform to what he wanted in a wife. And because she loved him so much she had done just that—which had been bad for both of them, she thought now.
He had changed from the Zeke she had first loved and she had become someone she didn’t recognise, losing her confidence, her belief in herself, everything that made her her . Zeke hadn’t wanted a real wife—he’d demanded a pretty little doll he could dress up and keep in an elegant doll’s house. And she’d fallen in line.
‘Marianne?’ The waiter was in front of her, holding out an embossed menu as Zeke’s voice carefully prodded her back into the present. ‘How about caviare to begin with? You enjoy the way they do it here.’
She glanced at him, seeing the dark good looks, the quiet, controlled arrogance and the devastatingly magnetic sexual attraction, and her stomach turned right over. She loved this man, and she was probably going to lose himaltogether, but she couldn’t go back to the way things had been. She couldn’t follow him mindlessly through life; she had her own goals to aim for and dreams to realise. She was a person as well as a wife, and if she had to choose between Zeke or losing her identity…
‘No, I don’t really like caviare, Zeke,’ she said clearly. ‘I don’t think I ever have. I just tried to, for you.’
‘For me?’ He stared at her, puzzled but still smiling, and she nearly chickened out. Nearly.
‘Yes, for you,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s probably just as well I don’t care for it because I certainly won’t be able to afford it in the future, on a student’s budget.’ Then she raised her eyes to the young waiter as she said, ‘I’ll have the Parmesan and bacon salad, please, followed by the salmon in lemon and white wine.’ And as the ponytail dipped and dived about her hot cheeks she finished the last of the pink cocktail.
CHAPTER FIVE
W HEN Marianne awoke the next morning the room was filled with a strange light hue and it was quiet, very quiet. Unusually quiet. She glanced at the monstrous plastic wall clock some previous occupant had fixed on the wall over the fire. Six o’clock. Early, but not so early that the hum of London traffic shouldn’t be making itself known in the background.
She stuck her nose out of the covers and took a deep breath before diving for her dressing gown. Having lived with central heating all her life she couldn’t believe how cold the room got during the night.
‘Oh, gorgeous…’ When she pulled back the curtains the thick, white, starry flakes of snow falling from a laden sky brought her eyes opening wide. It had been ages since it snowed; the last two years they hadn’t seen any in London, and it was so beautiful .
For a moment she forgot all her troubles and remained staring out of the window like a child spying its presents on Christmas morning.
The dismal street had been transformed into a winter wonderland, ethereal and pure and white, and the snow was already several inches thick. She could see parked cars, like huge rectangular snowballs, completely covered by the feathery mass, and halfway down the street
Not that she had been actively unhappy, not at first. They had had a busy social life—all Zeke’s friends and business contacts, of course—and had enjoyed their evenings at home together, which had always finished in one way. They were perfectly suited in bed, desire flaming between them if they so much as touched one another.
But after a few months she had become frustrated, bored and restless, and it was then she had felt the pressure from Zeke to change, to conform to what he wanted in a wife. And because she loved him so much she had done just that—which had been bad for both of them, she thought now.
He had changed from the Zeke she had first loved and she had become someone she didn’t recognise, losing her confidence, her belief in herself, everything that made her her . Zeke hadn’t wanted a real wife—he’d demanded a pretty little doll he could dress up and keep in an elegant doll’s house. And she’d fallen in line.
‘Marianne?’ The waiter was in front of her, holding out an embossed menu as Zeke’s voice carefully prodded her back into the present. ‘How about caviare to begin with? You enjoy the way they do it here.’
She glanced at him, seeing the dark good looks, the quiet, controlled arrogance and the devastatingly magnetic sexual attraction, and her stomach turned right over. She loved this man, and she was probably going to lose himaltogether, but she couldn’t go back to the way things had been. She couldn’t follow him mindlessly through life; she had her own goals to aim for and dreams to realise. She was a person as well as a wife, and if she had to choose between Zeke or losing her identity…
‘No, I don’t really like caviare, Zeke,’ she said clearly. ‘I don’t think I ever have. I just tried to, for you.’
‘For me?’ He stared at her, puzzled but still smiling, and she nearly chickened out. Nearly.
‘Yes, for you,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s probably just as well I don’t care for it because I certainly won’t be able to afford it in the future, on a student’s budget.’ Then she raised her eyes to the young waiter as she said, ‘I’ll have the Parmesan and bacon salad, please, followed by the salmon in lemon and white wine.’ And as the ponytail dipped and dived about her hot cheeks she finished the last of the pink cocktail.
CHAPTER FIVE
W HEN Marianne awoke the next morning the room was filled with a strange light hue and it was quiet, very quiet. Unusually quiet. She glanced at the monstrous plastic wall clock some previous occupant had fixed on the wall over the fire. Six o’clock. Early, but not so early that the hum of London traffic shouldn’t be making itself known in the background.
She stuck her nose out of the covers and took a deep breath before diving for her dressing gown. Having lived with central heating all her life she couldn’t believe how cold the room got during the night.
‘Oh, gorgeous…’ When she pulled back the curtains the thick, white, starry flakes of snow falling from a laden sky brought her eyes opening wide. It had been ages since it snowed; the last two years they hadn’t seen any in London, and it was so beautiful .
For a moment she forgot all her troubles and remained staring out of the window like a child spying its presents on Christmas morning.
The dismal street had been transformed into a winter wonderland, ethereal and pure and white, and the snow was already several inches thick. She could see parked cars, like huge rectangular snowballs, completely covered by the feathery mass, and halfway down the street
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