LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER ONE

      CLEO DIDN’T CRY when she placed the flowers on her husband’s grave. She’d cried buckets that morning, once she realised she’d forgotten the anniversary of Martin’s death. When she explained to her very concerned boss that she always visited Martin’s grave with her mother-in-law on the anniversary of his death, he’d given her the rest of the day off, insisting that she collect Doreen and go.

      So here she was with her eyes strangely dry whilst Martin’s mother cried buckets instead.

      Maybe she was all cried out. Or maybe—just maybe—she’d finished with grieving. She’d loved Martin. In the end. And in the beginning. But there’d been that awful time in the middle when she hadn’t loved him at all. Hard to stay in love with a man who tried to run every aspect of your life, from where you worked to what you wore and who your friends were. At home, it had been just as bad. From the day they were married, Martin took control of the money, paid all the bills, and made all the decisions.

      Her own fault, of course. At first, she’d liked his ‘take control’ attitude, had thought it manly. His decisiveness had appealed to her own lack of confidence and maturity. She’d been engaged at twenty, married at twenty-one. Just a baby, really, in more ways than one.

      But all babies eventually grew up, and she’d come to see how stifling it was being married to a man who wanted you to stay totally dependent on him, who wouldn’t even let you have a baby until the mortgage was totally paid off so he could afford for you to be a full-time stay-at-home mother, a prospect that hadn’t appealed to Cleo. She’d liked her job in the marketing section of McAllister Mines, despite it having been chosen for her by Martin, solely because he’d worked there in the accounts division.

      Cleo had made the momentous decision to leave Martin on the very day when he’d told her that he’d been diagnosed with cancer, a particularly aggressive melanoma, which the doctor had warned might not be curable.

      It had turned out it wasn’t. But it had taken Martin two long years to die, during which time Cleo had learned to love him again. How brave he’d been during that terrible time. And how sorry for what he’d put her through during their marriage. Oh, yes, he knew exactly what he’d been doing all along; had known it was wrong, but said he couldn’t seem to help himself. Apparently, his father had treated his mother the same way, and consequently it was all he’d known as a model for marriage. In Cleo’s eyes it was no excuse, but it was at least an explanation for his behaviour.

      His debilitating illness forced him to give up his controlling nature, gradually relying on Cleo to do everything for him. The balance of power shifted substantially, giving Cleo a new confidence in her ability to cope once Martin died, which soon became inevitable, once the cancer spread to his brain. She’d thought she’d be relieved when he passed away, and she was, in a way. But not long after, she’d become very depressed. If it hadn’t been for the boss of McAllister Mines promoting her to the challenging position of his PA, she wasn’t sure what might have become of her. She’d always suffered from depression, ever since her parents had been killed in a car accident when she was a teenager, leaving her to be raised by her paternal grandparents who were way too old—and way too old-fashioned—to know what a thirteen-year-old girl needed.

      Thinking of her sad teenage years sparked the tears that had been absent up until then.

      Doreen saw them and came over to link arms with her. ‘Now, now, love,’ she said, dabbing at her own tears with a wad of tissues. ‘We shouldn’t be sad. He’s not in pain any longer. He’s at peace now.’

      ‘Yes,’ was all Cleo could think of to say. She could hardly tell Martin’s mother that she was crying for herself, not Martin.

      ‘Maybe you shouldn’t do this any more, Cleo,’ Doreen added. ‘It’s been three years, and it’s not always good to dwell on the past. You’re still a young woman. You should be out there, dating.’

      ‘Dating?’ Cleo could not have been more surprised if Doreen had said fishing. Cleo hated fishing. Martin, however, had loved it, and had insisted she go along with him, even on their honeymoon.

      ‘You don’t have to sound so shocked,’ Doreen said.

      ‘And who, precisely, do you envisage me dating?’

      Doreen shrugged. ‘You must meet plenty of attractive men in the course of your work.’

      ‘Actually, I don’t. If they are even marginally attractive, they’re always married. Besides, I’m not interested in dating.’

      ‘Why not?’

      Cleo could hardly tell her mother-in-law that her son had killed off any interest she’d had in sex. She’d quite liked it, to begin with. But her hormones had gone into hibernation once they were married, once he started telling her what to do and how to do it, blaming her when she didn’t come, forcing her to start faking her climaxes, just to get some peace. It had been a relief when chemo affected Martin’s testosterone levels. Sex was the last thing on his mind when he was fighting for his life, and without the toxic effect of their missing physical connection, Cleo found she could be genuinely affectionate with her husband. She’d been holding his hand and telling him how much she loved him when he died.

      And it had been true. She had loved him. But the damage had been done by then. She never looked at a man these days and thought of sex. She didn’t want it, dream of it, or crave it. So naturally, she never entertained the thought of dating, or getting married again. Because marriage meant sex; it meant having to consider a man’s wishes.

      ‘I don’t want to date,’ Cleo said at last. ‘And I definitely don’t want to get married again.’

      Doreen nodded, as though she understood perfectly. She must have seen that her son was a chip off the old block. If Cleo had been emotionally abused in her marriage, then so had Doreen. Damaged, they were. Both of them.

      Cleo looked at her mother-in-law and thought it was a shame. Doreen was still young, only fifty-two, and still slim and attractive. She

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