Marriage On Trial. Lee Wilkinson

vintage champagne.

      When they joined the other well-dressed guests in the chandelier-lit dining hall, Richard introduced her to several of his acquaintances, then, sotto voce, pointed out a couple of security men mingling inconspicuously with the crowd.

      During an excellent buffet, where the champagne flowed freely, her companion appeared to be his usual cool, relaxed self, but she could sense a simmering excitement, a feeling of expectancy beneath the surface calm.

      As nine-thirty approached, the assembled company moved through to the salesroom: a large salon, with double doors at each end. At the entrance they were each presented with a catalogue, before being shown to their seats.

      A slim, sprightly man with fair, thinning hair carefully styled to hide incipient baldness, took his place on the auctioneer’s stand. He tapped with his gavel, and the sale began.

      Some exceptional stones, both cut and uncut, came up but, his face impassive, Richard showed no particular interest until the last item was reached.

      Clearing his throat, the auctioneer announced, ‘The final lot is a diamond of the first water, known as the Van Hamel…’

      He went on to give precise details of its provenance, before suggesting, ‘May I start the ball rolling at two hundred and fifty thousand pounds?’

      The bidding moved cautiously, as would-be buyers tried to judge the extent of the opposition. Richard watched and waited, his hands lying lightly in his lap, making no move.

      Only when the price had reached three hundred and fifty thousand did he join the fray with a flick of his catalogue.

      Two of the other bidders dropped out fairly quickly, making it a straight fight between Richard and a middle-aged, genteel-looking lady, whom earlier he’d identified as a dealer.

      A ruby flashing fire whenever she raised her hand, she hung on tenaciously, and the price had been pushed up another fifty thousand before she shook her head, signalling defeat.

      ‘Four hundred thousand pounds,’ the auctioneer repeated for the third time, and raised his gavel.

      Richard gave a murmur of satisfaction and smiled at Elizabeth, who smiled back.

      But, his gaze travelling to the rear of the room, the auctioneer paused. Having lifted his brows questioningly, he nodded and announced, ‘Four hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’

      A murmur of excitement rippled through the audience like a breeze through a cornfield.

      Up till now, bidders had been raising the price by five or ten thousand pounds a time. The newcomer had raised it by fifty thousand in a single bid.

      It was tactics, meant to be the coup de grâce, she realized dazedly.

      Momentarily, Richard looked staggered, then, his blue eyes gleaming with the light of battle, he coolly topped the previous bid by the same amount.

      Impassively, the auctioneer repeated the latest figure and looked across at the other contender, who responded promptly.

      Elizabeth bit her lip. She’d been hoping that dramatic first bid was the only shot in the newcomer’s armoury. Clearly it wasn’t.

      Raising it another fifty thousand, Richard asked in an undertone, ‘Can you see who’s bidding against me?’

      She turned to peer cautiously over her shoulder, and saw a man wearing immaculate evening dress lounging nonchalantly against the far wall. He was looking away from her, but the arrogant set of that dark head, the easy stance were only too familiar.

      The breath caught in her throat and her heart seemed to stop. No, no, it couldn’t be Quinn. It couldn’t.

      He moved slightly, giving her a clear view of his hawk-like profile.

      Oh, dear God, it was! There was no mistaking that powerful, hard-boned face… She felt faint and dizzy, as if all the blood was draining from her body.

      While shock kept her eyes fixed on him, he raised the bidding once more with a slight movement of his index finger.

      Until then she hadn’t considered the possibility that Richard might lose. Now she realized it was a battle of the giants.

      Terrified that if she kept on looking Quinn might notice her, she dragged her gaze away and turned to the front.

      Richard gave her a questioning glance.

      Her mouth desert-dry, she shook her head.

      Another flick of his catalogue and he was momentarily on top, the bidding running now at seven hundred thousand.

      There was a slight pause, and Elizabeth felt a stir of hope. Then the auctioneer was announcing, ‘Eight hundred thousand pounds.’

      A rise of one hundred thousand pounds.

      The audience gasped.

      Richard’s jaw tightened, and with an abrupt movement he indicated that his part in the proceedings had ended.

      Elizabeth, shaken to the core, was bitterly sorry for him. She guessed that, though he would probably have given even more for the diamond, in the face of such competition he must have thought it lunacy to continue bidding.

      The moment the sale was declared over, he rose, and, a hand beneath her elbow, helped her to her feet. Although he was hiding his disappointment and chagrin beneath a spurious air of calm, it was obvious he couldn’t wait to get out of the place.

      Neither could she.

      Quinn mustn’t see her. He mustn’t. She stifled a panicky urge to push her way through the crowd and bolt.

      Richard’s hand at her waist, a hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach, she started to move towards the nearest exit as fast as the slow-moving throng would allow.

      A glimpse of a tall, dark-haired man brought her heart into her mouth, but a second look showed he was at least forty, with a beefy face and a paunch.

      They had reached the doors when one of Richard’s acquaintances drew level. ‘Hard luck,’ he remarked sympathetically. ‘But what can you do against opposition like that?’

      ‘Did you see who it was?’

      ‘Yes, it was Quinn Durville, a multimillionaire banker from the States. I heard a whisper that he came over specially, so he must have intended to get it.’

      ‘I should have known,’ Richard said morosely as the other man moved away. ‘I’ve come up against Durville before…’

      Elizabeth felt as though she’d been kicked in the solar plexus. She had never dreamt that the two men might have met. It was so unlikely. Yet wasn’t there an old saying ‘The most unlikely thing to happen is nearly always the thing that does happen’?

      His face set, Richard was going on, ‘When it’s something he wants, the swine doesn’t give any quarter, and he won’t let anything stand in his way.’

      It was the simple truth. About six weeks after she’d left him, a man who was obviously a hired detective had tracked her down and started to watch her every move.

      Realizing then how utterly ruthless Quinn could be, and knowing she could never go back to him, she had been forced to run, to change her name and find a fresh place to hide.

      She shuddered at the memory.

      Richard felt the slight movement and, his manner cool and controlled again after that brief, betraying flash of anger, asked, ‘You don’t know Durville, do you?’

      Somehow she found her voice and answered, ‘No.’

      ‘Is there something wrong?’ Richard sounded solicitous. ‘You’re looking distinctly pale.’

      ‘I’m fine, really. I expect it’s just reaction.’

      Coffee was being served in the dining hall. ‘Would you like to sit down and have a cup?’ he suggested.

      ‘No!’