times she wondered whether they should make the move. They certainly had the money to do so.
Their neighbours treated them with courtesy rather than friendliness. Warily they eyed the sleek Jaguar parked in the drive and whispered guardedly about the fact that this couple was terribly young to be able to afford such a lovely home.
Michael had already set himself up before Marcie had met him. With a keen mind and the vigour of youth heâd driven himself ever onwards to do better for himself â and to do better than his father, Victor Camilleri.
Just because he owned property and a nightclub didnât mean that Michael was out to all hours all the time. The club had a manager and an agent and a lawyer handled the property portfolio, but still he went out of his way to check them all now and again. Tonight he had gone to the club with some business associates.
The light in the hallway downstairs eventually came on and she heard that first stair creak beneath his weight. The house felt different when he was home. It was as though the very walls themselves were sending her some telepathic message that theyâd warmed up. She felt warmer herself once she knew that Michael was back.
She knew that out of habit heâd look in on Aran and Joanna first before coming to bed.
Marcie lay back on her pillow, eyes wide open. This was the best bit of the day â him coming home.
Some women couldnât live with the knowledge that their husband spent three nights a week at a nightclub where hostesses tripped around on four-inch stilettos and strippers danced naked on a floodlit stage. But she loved Michael and, whatâs more, she trusted him.
Marcie switched on the bedside light as Michael came into the bedroom.
Blinking, he held one hand in front of his face to deflect the sudden glow. âDo me a favour, turn it off.â
His tie was already loosened and he looked tired. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. His face looked puffy â not as firm as it usually was.
Lying on her side, her head supported on her hand, Marcie eyed him quizzically. Even at this time in the morning, he wasnât usually like this. It was something that had always amused her about him; the time on the clock was of no consequence. If the work was there, then the work got done.
âYou look tired. Is something wrong?â
âNothing that I canât handle.â
He managed a smile, but Marcie wasnât fooled. Sheâd fallen in love with the gentleness sheâd seen in this man and for the fact that he was so different tomost of the men sheâd known. He didnât smoke and wasnât a great drinker. Neither was he a braggart, which her father could sometimes be. He was a âsteady Eddieâ as her father would say. Sometimes she knew very well that what he really meant was boring. But she didnât think Michael was dull. She loved him and hoped it would always be so.
Most times when he came home tired he was still happy. There were always business worries, but he was usually able to put them to one side until the morning. Tonight the concerned look was more weighty, as though he didnât know what to do about it.
She reached out for him. âMichael? Whatâs wrong?â
Shaking his head, he sat down on the edge of the bed and covered his face with both hands. âNothing you can do anything about,â he murmured through his fingers.
Her hand stroked his shoulder. âMichael, weâre married. Your problems are my problems.â
It came as a complete surprise when he shrugged away her gentle touch, a touch meant to reassure and to soothe.
âFor Christâs sake, stop fucking nagging me!â
Shocked, Marcie drew back her hand, clenching her fingers into a fist. Her heart beat wildly, its thudding echoing inside her head.
Michael had never spoken to her like this before. OK, they hadnât known each other for much morethan three years, but it was long