An Unbroken Marriage. PENNY JORDAN

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ address.’

      He had hung up before India could say a word.

      ‘Well,’ Jenny demanded, ‘are you going?’

      ‘It looks like it.’

      ‘Great. Now all you have to do is to decide what to wear.’

       CHAPTER THREE

      FAMOUS last words, India thought ruefully, three days later, surveying the contents of her wardrobe. Knowing Melisande, the majority of the other guests would be culled from the ranks of the beautiful and/or socially prominent; people with whom she could scarcely compete.

      Positive thinking, India told herself. She might not be either wealthy or titled, but she was young, reasonably attractive, and if she wasn’t dressed at least as eye-catchingly as the other female guests she had no one to blame but herself.

      However, that was half the trouble. Her own personal preference for plain, unfussy clothes revealed itself in the garments hanging in her cupboard. If she knew Melisande and the rest of her crowd, the women would be dressed in the very latest fashions, the more outré and daring the better. She would look like a minnow in the midst of a whole host of brightly painted tropical fish!

      She fingered her velvet dress, frowning as she pictured Simon Herries, looking over it—and her—with that cynical knowingness that so infuriated her. Without giving herself time to change her mind she rang for a taxi.

      When it came she was ready, having bathed and carefully applied her make-up while she waited.

      She gave him directions and asked him to wait while she slipped into the salon.

      It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for—a dress she had designed for one of her clients to wear over Christmas. Unfortunately the girl had broken her leg the week before the dance and the dress had remained unworn.

      Grabbing it off the rail, together with its protective wrapping, India hurried back to the waiting taxi.

      ‘Sorry about that,’ she apologised to the waiting driver, ‘but I needed to collect something.’

      ‘Don’t worry about it, love,’ she was assured as the taxi driver glanced down at the dress she was carrying over her arm, grinning at her as he opened the taxi door.

      ‘At least you’ll never be able to use the same excuse as my missus; not with a whole shopful of things to choose from—always complaining that she ain’t got anything to wear she is.’

      India glanced at her watch as she stepped out of the taxi in front of her flat.

      Fifteen minutes before Simon Herries was due to pick her up. With a bit of luck she should just about be ready. She had no desire to be forced into asking him into the flat while she finished dressing.

      India was choosy about who she invited into her home. The salon was where she saw most of her clients—either there or at their homes; and she treasured the privacy and solitude of the flat which she kept firmly separate from the salon.

      Most of the decorating she had done herself, unlike the salon; and she had chosen furniture and furnishings which appealed to her.

      That, she reflected, unlocking the door, was one of the pleasures of accounting to no one but oneself. There was no one to question one’s taste!

      The kitchen, with its mellow wooden units and tiled worktops, reflected her love of natural products as opposed to synthetics. The honey-coloured tiles on the worktops and the floor had been bought on a business trip to Spain, and their warm colour always reminded her of the brilliant sunshine and warmth of Spain. The kitchen had pretty green and white curtains made up in a French fabric she had found in Liberty’s; a comfortable basket chair possessed cushions of the same fabric, and green plants in pretty pots added a touch of extra colour and freshness.

      The comfortable lounge was furnished with an assortment of items India had purchased over the years; an old bookcase which she had had stripped and cleaned; a huge settee which she had bought in a sale and subsequently re-covered in cream; and most prized of all, probably, the traditional Persian rug which she had bought with the profit from her first year in business on her own account.

      In her bedroom, which reflected her taste for fresh, natural colours, India stripped off the clothes she had worn to go to the salon and unzipped the protective cover from the dress she had brought from there.

      Made of crinkly gold tissue, the strapless bodice moulded the firm thrust of her breasts, emphasising the slenderness of her waist and clinging seductively to the feminine curve of her hips and the slender length of her legs.

      The dress needed no adornment, and the only jewellery India wore was a thick twisted rope of gold hugging her throat.

      She did not possess any gold sandals, but had an elegant pair of black suede evening shoes which she had bought in Paris, and which were so high that they mde her tower above most of the men she knew; perhaps it was a power complex, she thought wryly, this refusal to acknowledge male pride and resort, as so many of her tall sisters did, to wearing flat or low-heeled shoes.

      Over the dress she intended to wear her black velvet evening cloak, and she was just reaching for it when she heard the doorbell ring. Smothering the butterflies swarming in her stomach, she checked her appearance in the mirror, a little taken aback by the reflection staring at her.

      For some reason the gold fabric seemed to intensify the dark richness of her hair and the creamy perfection of her skin. Although she was very slim, her breasts were marginally fuller than the girl’s for whom the gown had originally been designed, and the strapless bodice seemed to draw provocative attention to their firm upthrust.

      It was too late to change now, she told herself, reaching for her cloak and evening bag, and switching off the bedroom light.

      In the lounge she left a table light burning, a solitary pool of colour reflecting downwards from the cream shade on to the richness of her prized rug.

      She opened the door, composing her features into her ‘professional’ mask.

      Her first thought was that Simon Herries seemed larger than she remembered; then she realised that the proximity of her small hall meant that she was far closer to him, and actually forced to look up at him as he stepped inside.

      That made India frown. She had been on the point of stepping out of the flat as he moved forward and the two paces were enough to bring them close enough for her to be able to smell the fresh, sharp scent of his aftershave. It enveloped her in a spicy, entirely masculine scent, and she wondered briefly if he was equally as aware of her Arpège, a thought which she quickly dismissed as unimportant and stupid.

      ‘Do you think it’s wise to leave that on?’ He was looking over India’s shoulder, into the lounge where she had left the lamp burning, and beneath her make-up India felt her face colour with mingled resentment and anger. Another step and he would be inside the lounge; penetrating her private sanctuary, violating her privacy. She moved instinctively, impeding his progress, her voice curt and clipped as she said coolly,

      ‘I always leave it on.’

      ‘Why? To deter thieves? Because you’re frightened of the dark?’

СКАЧАТЬ