Читать книгу Tycoon's Ring Of Convenience - Julia James - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

DIANA THREW HERSELF back in the taxi and heaved a sigh of pent-up relief. Safe at last.

Safe from Nikos Tramontes. From his powerfully unsettling impact on her. An impact she was not used to experiencing.

It had disturbed her profoundly. She had done her best to freeze him out, but a man that good-looking would not be accustomed to rebuff—would be used to getting his own way with women.

Well, not with me! Because I have no intention of having anything to do with him.

She shook her head, as if to clear his so disturbing image from her mind’s eye. She had far more to worry about. She knew now, resignedly, that she could not face marrying Toby—but what other solution could save her beloved home?

Anxiety pressed at her—and over the next two days in London it worsened. Her bank declined to advance the level of loan required, the auction houses confirmed there was nothing left to sell to raise such a sum. So it was with little enthusiasm that she took a call from Toby.

‘But it’s Covent Garden. And I know you love opera.’

The plaintive note in Toby’s voice made Diana feel bad. She owed him a gentle let-down. Reluctantly she acquiesced to his invitation—a corporate jolly for a performance of Verdi’s Don Carlo.

But when she arrived at the Opera House she wished she had refused.

‘You remember Nikos Tramontes, don’t you?’ Toby greeted her. ‘He’s our host tonight.’

Diana forced a mechanical smile to her face, concealing her dismay. With her own problems uppermost in her mind, she’d managed to start forgetting him, and the discomforting impact he’d had on her, but now suddenly he was here, as powerfully, disturbingly attractive as before.

Then she was being introduced to the other couple present. Diana recognised the man who had brought Nikos Tramontes over to their table. With him was his wife, who promptly took advantage of the three men starting to talk business to draw Diana aside.

‘My, my,’ she said conspiratorially, throwing an openly appraising look back at Nikos Tramontes, ‘he is most definitely a handsome brute. No wonder he’s been able to hold on to Nadya Serensky for so long. That and all his money, of course.’

Diana looked blank, and Louise Melmott promptly enlightened her.

‘Nadya Serensky. You know—that stunning redheaded supermodel. They’re quite an item.’

It was welcome news to Diana. Perhaps she’d only been imagining that Nikos Tramontes had eyed her up at the livery dinner.

Maybe it’s just me, overreacting.

Overreacting because it was so strange to encounter a man who could have such a powerfully disturbing physical impact on her. Yes, that must be it. She tried to think, as she sipped her champagne in the Crush Room, if she had ever reacted so strongly as that to any other man, and came up blank. But then, of course, she didn’t react to men. Had schooled herself all her life not to.

The men she’d dated over the years had been good-looking, but they had always left her cold. A tepid goodnight kiss had been the most any of them had ever received. Only with one, while at university, had she resolved to see if it were possible to have a full relationship without excessive passion of any kind.

She had found that it was—for herself. But eventually not for her boyfriend. He’d found her lack of enthusiasm off-putting and had left her for another woman. It hadn’t bothered her—had only confirmed how right she was to guard her heart. Losing it was so dangerous. A policy of celibacy was much wiser, much safer.

Anxiety bit at her. Except such a policy would hardly find her a husband rich enough to save Greymont. If she was truly still contemplating so drastic a solution.

With an inward sigh she pulled her mind away. Tomorrow she would be heading back to Greymont to go through her finances again, get the latest grim estimates for the most essential work. But for now, tonight, she would enjoy her evening at Covent Garden—a night off from her worries.

And she would not worry, either, about the presence of the oh-so-disturbing Nikos Tramontes. If he had a famous supermodel to amuse him then he would not be interested in any other women. Including herself.

As they made their way to their box she felt her anticipation rising. The orchestra was tuning up, elegant well-heeled people were taking their seats, and up in the gods the less well-heeled were packed like sardines.

Diana looked up at them slightly ruefully. The world would see her as an extremely privileged person—and she was; she knew that—but owning Greymont came with heavy responsibilities. Prime of which was stopping it from actually falling down.

But, no, she wouldn’t think of her fears for Greymont. She would enjoy the evening.

‘Allow me.’

Nikos Tramontes’s deep, faintly accented voice beside her made her start. He drew her chair back, allowing her to take her seat, which she did with a rustling of her skirts as he seated himself behind her. Louise Melmott sat beside her at the front of the box.

His eyes rested on the perfect profile of the woman whose presence here tonight he had specifically engineered in order to pursue his interest in her. An interest that the dossier he had ordered to be compiled on her had indicated he must show. Because she might very well indeed prove suitable for far more than a mere fleeting seduction.

Diana St Clair, it seemed, was possessed of more than the exquisite glacial beauty that had so caught his attention the other evening. She was also possessed of exactly the right background and attributes to suit his purposes. Best of all about Ms Diana St Clair was her inheritance—her eighteenth-century country estate—and the fact that it was her inheritance, bringing with it all the elite social background that such ownership conferred.

An old county family—not titled, but anciently armigerous—possessing crests and coats of arms and all the heraldic flourishes that went with that status. With landed property and position, centuries of intermarriage with other such families, including the peerage. A complex web of kinship and connection running like a web across the upper classes, binding them together, impenetrable to outsiders.

Except by one means only...

Marriage.

His eyes rested on her, their expression veiled. Would Diana St Clair be his trophy wife?

It was a tempting prospect. As tempting as Diana St Clair herself.

He sat back to enjoy further contemplation of this woman who might achieve what he now most wanted from life.

* * *

To Diana’s relief, the dramatic sweep of Verdi’s music carried her away, despite her burning consciousness that Nikos Tramontes was sitting so close to her, and as she surfaced for the first interval it was to be ushered with his other guests back to the Crush Room for the first course of their champagne supper.

The conversation was led mainly by Louise Melmott, who knew the opera and its doubtful relationship to actual history.

‘The real Don Carlos of Spain was probably insane,’ the other woman said cheerfully, as they helped themselves to the delicacies on offer. ‘And there’s no evidence he was in love with his father the King’s, wife!’

‘I can see why Verdi rewrote history,’ Diana observed. ‘A tragic, thwarted love affair sounds far more romantically operatic.’

She was doing her best to be a good guest—especially since she knew Toby had no interest in opera, so she needed to emphasise her own enthusiasm.

‘Elisabeth de Valois was another man’s wife. There is nothing romantic about adultery.’

Nikos Tramontes’s voice was harsh, and Diana looked at him in surprise.

‘Well, opera is hardly realistic—and surely for a woman like the poor Queen, trapped in a loveless marriage, especially when she’d thought she was going to be married to the King’s son, not the King himself—surely one can only feel pity for her plight?’

Dark eyes rested on her. ‘Can one?’

Was there sarcasm in the way he replied? Diana felt herself colouring slightly. She had only intended a fairly light remark.

The conversation moved on, but Diana felt stung. As if she’d voted personally in favour of adultery. She felt Nikos Tramontes’s eyes resting on her, their expression masked. There seemed to be a brooding quality about him suddenly, at odds with the urbane, self-assured manner he’d demonstrated so far.

Well, it was nothing to do with her—and nor was Nikos Tramontes. She would not be seeing him again after this evening.

It was to her distinct annoyance, therefore, that when the long opera finally ended and she had bade goodnight to Toby, making sure she told him she was heading back to Hampshire the next day, she discovered that somehow Nikos Tramontes was at her side as she left the Opera House. It was a mild but damp night, and his car was clearly hovering at the kerb.

‘Allow me to offer you a lift,’ he said. His voice was smooth.

Diana stiffened. ‘Thank you, but a taxi will be fine.’

‘You won’t find one closer than the Strand, and it is about to rain,’ he returned blandly.

Then he was guiding her forward, opening the rear passenger door for her. Annoyed, but finding it hard to object without making an issue of it, Diana got in. Reluctantly she gave the name of the hotel she and her father had always used on their rare visits to the capital, and the car moved off.

In the confines of the back seat, separated from the driver by a glass divide, Nikos Tramontes seemed even more uncomfortably close than he had in the opera box. His long legs stretched out into the footwell.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed this evening,’ he began. He paused minutely. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come with me to another performance some time? Unless you’ve seen all this season’s productions already?’

There was nothing more than mild enquiry in his bland voice, but Diana felt herself tense. Dismay filled her. He was making a move on her after all, despite the presence in his life of Nadya Serensky. Her hopes that her disturbing reaction to him were not returned plummeted.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she said, giving a quick shake of her head.

‘You haven’t seen them all?’ he queried.

She shook her head again, making herself look at him. His face was half shadowed in the dim interior, with the only light coming from the street lights and shop windows as they made their way along the Strand towards Trafalgar Square.

‘That isn’t what I meant,’ she said. She made her voice firm.

His response was to lift an eyebrow. ‘Masterson?’ he challenged laconically.

She gave a quick shake of her head. ‘No, but...’

‘Yes?’ he prompted, as she trailed off.

Diana took a breath, clasping her hands in her lap. She made her voice composed, but decisive. ‘I spend very little time in London, Mr Tramontes, and because of that it would be...pointless to accept any...ah...further invitation from you. For whatever purpose.’

She said no more. It struck her that for him to have sounded so very disapproving of a fictional case of adultery in the plot of Don Carlos was more than a little hypocritical of him, given that he’d just asked her out. Clearly he was not averse to playing away himself, she thought acidly.

She saw him ease his shoulders back into the soft leather of his seat. Saw a sardonic smile tilt at his mouth. Caught a sudden scent of his aftershave, felt the closeness of his presence.

‘Do you know my purpose?’ he murmured, with a quizzical, faintly mocking look in his dark eyes.

She pressed her mouth tightly. ‘I don’t need to, Mr Tramontes. I’m simply making it clear that since I don’t spend much time in London I won’t have any opportunities to go to the opera, whomever I might go with.’

‘You’re returning to Hampshire?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. Indefinitely. I don’t know when I shall be next in town,’ she said, wanting to make crystal-clear her unavailability.

He seemed to accept her answer. ‘I quite understand,’ he said easily.

She felt a sense of relief go through her. He was backing off—she could tell. For all that, she still felt a level of agitation that was unsettling. It came simply from his physical closeness. She was aware that her heart rate had quickened. It was unnerving...

Then, thankfully, the car was turning off Piccadilly and drawing up outside the hotel where she was staying. The doorman came forward to open her door and she was soon climbing out, trying not to hurry. Making her voice composed once more.

‘Goodnight, Mr Tramontes. Thank you so much for a memorable evening at the opera, and thank you for this lift now.’

She disappeared inside the haven of the hotel.

From the car, Nikos watched her go. It was the kind of old-fashioned but upmarket hotel that well-bred provincials patronised when forced to come to town, and doubtless the St Clairs had been patronising it for generations.

His eyes narrowed slightly as his car moved off, heading back to his own hotel—far more fashionable and flashy than Diana St Clair’s. Had she turned down his invitation on account of Nadya? He’d heard Louise Melmott say her name. If so, that was all to the good. It showed him that Diana St Clair was...particular about the men she associated with.

He had not cared for her apparent tolerance of the adultery in the plot of Don Carlos, but it did not seem that she carried that over into real life. It was essential that she did not.

No wife of mine will indulge in adultery—no wife of mine, however upper crust her background, will be anything like my mother! Anything at all—

Wife? Was he truly thinking of Diana St Clair in such a light?

And, if he were, what might persuade her to agree?

What could thaw that chilly reserve of hers?

What will make her receptive to me?

Whatever it was, he would find it—and use it.

He sat back, considering his thoughts, as his car merged into the late-night London traffic.

* * *

Greymont was as beautiful as ever—especially in the sunshine, which helped to disguise how the stonework was crumbling and the damp was getting in. The lead roof that needed replacing was invisible behind the parapet, and—

A wave of deep emotion swept through Diana. How could Gerald possibly imagine she might actually sell Greymont? It meant more to her than anything in the world. Anything or anyone. St Clairs had lived here for three hundred years, made their home here—of course she could not sell it. Each generation held it in trust for the next.

Her eyes shadowed. Her father had entrusted it to her, had ensured—at the price of putting aside any hopes of his own for a happier, less heart-sore second marriage—that she inherited. She had lost her mother—he had ensured she should not lose her home as well.

So for her to give it up now, to let it go to strangers, would be an unforgivable betrayal of his devotion to her, his trust in her. She could not do it. Whatever she had to do—she would do it. She must.

As she walked indoors, her footsteps echoing on the marble floor, she looked at the sweeping staircase soaring to the upper floors, at the delicate Adam mouldings in the alcoves and the equally delicate painted ceilings—both in need of attention—and the white marble fireplace, chipped now, in too many places. A few remaining family portraits by undistinguished artists were on the walls ascending the staircase, all as familiar to her as her own body.

Upstairs in her bedroom, she crossed to the window, throwing open the sash to gaze out over the gardens and the park beyond. An air of unkemptness might prevail, but the level lawns, the ornamental stone basin with its now non-functioning fountain, the pathways and the pergolas, marching away to where the ha-ha divided the formal gardens from the park, were all as lovely as they always had been. As dear and precious.

A fierce sense of protectiveness filled her. She breathed deeply of the fresh country air, then slid the window shut, noticing that it was sticking more than ever, its paint flaking—another sign of damp getting in. She could see another patch of damp on her ceiling too, and frowned.

Whilst her father had been so ill not even routine maintenance work had been done on the house, let alone anything more intensive. It would have disturbed him too much with noise and dust, and the structural survey she’d commissioned after he’d died had revealed problems even worse than she had feared or her father had envisaged.

A new roof, dozens of sash windows in need of extensive repair or replacement, rotting floorboards, collapsing chimneys, the ingress of damp, electrical rewiring, re-plumbing, new central heating needed—the list went on and on. And then there was all the decorative work, from repainting ceilings to mending tapestries to conserving curtains and upholstery.

More and yet more to do.

And that was before she considered the work that the outbuildings needed! Bowing walls, slate roofs deteriorating, cobbles to reset... A never-ending round. Even before a start was made on the overgrown gardens.

She felt her shoulders sag. So much to be done—all costing so, so much. She gave a sigh, starting to unpack her suitcase. Staff had been reduced to the minimum—the Hudsons, and the cleaners up from the village, plus a gardener and his assistant. It was just as well that her father had preferred a very quiet life, even if that had contributed to his wife’s discontent. And he had become increasingly reclusive after her desertion.

It had suited Diana, though, and she’d been happy to help him write the St Clair family history, acting as secretary for his correspondence with the network of family connections, sharing his daily walks through the park, being the chatelaine of Greymont in her mother’s absence.

Any socialising had been with other families like theirs in the county, such as their neighbours, Sir John Bartlett and his wife, her father’s closest friends. She herself had been more active, visiting old school and university friends around the country as they gradually married and started families, meeting up with them in London from time to time. But she was no party animal, preferring dinner parties, or going to the theatre and opera, either with girlfriends or those carefully selected men she allowed to squire her around—those who accepted she was not interested in romance and was completely unresponsive to all men.

Into her head, with sudden flaring memory, stabbed the image of the one man who had disproved that comforting theory.

Angrily, she pushed it away. It was irrelevant, her ridiculous reaction to Nikos Tramontes! She would never be seeing him again—and she had far more urgent matters to worry about.

Taking a breath, anxiety clenching her stomach, she went downstairs and settled at her father’s desk in the library. In her absence mail had accumulated, and with a resigned sigh she started to open it. None of it would be good news, she knew that—more unaffordable estimates for the essential repairs to Greymont. She felt her heart squeeze, and fear bite in her throat.

Somehow she had to get the money she needed.

But not by marrying Toby Masterson. She could not bring herself to spend the rest of her life with him.

She felt a prickle of shame. It had not been fair even to think of him merely as a solution to her problems.

Wearily, she reached for her writing pad. She’d have to pen a careful letter—thanking him for taking her out in London, implying that that was all there was to it.

As she made a start, though, it was quite another face that intruded into her inner vision, quite different from Toby’s pudgy features. A face that was dramatic in its looks, with dark eyes that set her pulse beating faster—

She pushed it from her. Even if Nikos Tramontes were not involved with his supermodel girlfriend, all a man like that would be after would be some kind of dalliance—something to amuse him, entertain him while he was in London.

And what use is that to me?

None. None at all.

* * *

Nikos slowly made his way along the avenue of chestnut trees, avoiding the many potholes as Greymont gradually came into view.

With a white stucco eighteenth-century façade, a central block with symmetrical wings thrown out, its aspect was open, but set on a slight elevation, with extensive gardens and grounds seamlessly blending into farmland. The whole was framed by ornamental woodland. A classic stately home of the English upper classes.

Memory jabbed at him, cruel and stabbing. Of another home of another nation’s upper class. A chateau deep in the heart of Normandy, built of creamy Caen stone, with turrets at the corners in the French style.

He’d driven up to the front doors. Had been received.

But not welcomed.

‘You will have to leave. My husband will be home soon. He must not find you here—’

There had been no warmth in the voice, no embrace from the elegant, couture-clad figure, no opening of her arms to him. Nothing but rejection.

‘That is all you have to say to me?’

That had been his question, his demand.

Her lips had tightened. ‘You must leave,’ she’d said again, not answering his question.

He had swept a glance around the room, with its immaculate décor, its priceless seventeenth-century landscapes on the walls, the exquisite Louis Quinze furniture. This was what she had chosen. This was what she had valued. And she had been perfectly willing, to pay the price demanded for it. The price he had paid for it.

Bitterness had filled him then—and an even stronger emotion that he would not name, would deny with steely resolve that he had ever felt. It filled him again now, a sudden acid rush in his veins.

With an effort, he let it drain out of him as he drew his powerful car to a momentary halt, the better to survey the scene before him.

Yes—what he was seeing satisfied him. More than satisfied him. Greymont, the ancestral home of the St Clairs, and all that came with it would serve his purpose excellently. But it was not just the physical possession he wanted—that was not what this visit was about. Had he wished. he could easily have purchased such a place for himself, but that would not have given him what he was set upon achieving.

His smile tightened. He knew just how to achieve what he wanted. What would make Diana St Clair receptive to him. Knew exactly what she wanted most—needed most. And he would offer it to her. On a plate.

His gaze still fixed on his goal, he headed towards it.