Читать книгу Surrendering To The Vengeful Italian - Angela Bissell, Angela Bissell - Страница 10
ОглавлениеLEO PICKED UP the half-empty water glass and studied the smudge of pink on its rim. Had Douglas Shaw sent his daughter as a honey trap? The idea was abhorrent, yet he wouldn’t put it past the man. What Shaw lacked in scruples he more than made up for with sheer, bloody-minded gall.
He crossed to the bar, tossed out the water and shoved the glass out of sight along with the whisky bottle. Then he smashed his palms down on the counter and let out a curse.
He should have let her go. Should have let her walk out of here and slammed the door—physically and figuratively—on their brief, discomfiting reunion.
But standing there watching her strut away, after she’d stared him down with those cool sapphire eyes and likened him to her father; seeing the haughty defiance in every provocative line of her body...
Something inside him had snapped and he was twenty-five again, standing in a different room in a different hotel. Watching the girl who’d carved out a piece of his heart turn her back and walk out of his life.
Bitterness coated his mouth. He opened the bar fridge, reached past a black-labelled bottle of Dom Perignon and a selection of fine wines and beers and grabbed a can of soda.
At twenty-five he’d considered himself a good judge of character—a skill honed during his teens, when looking out for his sister, taking on the role of parent during their father’s drink-fuelled absences, meant learning who he could trust and who he couldn’t. Over the years he developed strong instincts, avoided his father’s mistakes and weaknesses, but Helena remained his one glaring failure. For the first and last time in his life he’d let his feelings for a woman cloud his judgement.
He would not make the same mistake twice.
Just as he would not be swayed from his purpose.
Douglas Shaw was a bully who thought nothing of destroying people’s lives and he deserved a lesson in humility. Leo didn’t trust the man and he didn’t trust his daughter.
He drained the soda and crumpled the can in his fist.
Shaw wanted to play games? Leo was ready. He’d been ready for seven years. And if the man chose to use his daughter as a pawn, so be it. Two could play at that game.
He threw the can in the wastebin, a slow smile curving his lips.
Si. This might be fun.
* * *
‘Go home, Helena.’
Helena looked up from the papers on her desk. Her boss stood holding his briefcase, his suit jacket folded over one arm, a look of mock severity on his face. It was after six on Friday and their floor of the corporate bank was largely deserted.
‘I’m leaving soon,’ she assured him. ‘I’m meeting someone at six-thirty.’
David gave an approving nod. ‘Good. Enjoy your weekend.’
He started off, but paused after a step and turned back. ‘Have you thought any more about taking some leave?’ he said. ‘HR is on the use-it-or-lose-it warpath again. And if you don’t mind me saying...’ he paused, his grey eyes intent ‘...you look like you could do with a break.’
She smiled, deflecting his concern. David might be one of the bank’s longest-serving executives and knocking sixty, but the man rarely missed a beat. He was sharp, observant, and he cared about his staff.
She made a mental note to apply more concealer beneath her eyes. ‘I’m fine. It’s been a long week. And the rain kept me awake last night.’
Partly true.
‘Well, think about it. See you Monday.’
‘Goodnight, David.’
She watched him go, then glanced at her watch.
She had to move.
The car Leo was sending was due in less than twenty minutes, and earning a black mark for running late was not the way she wanted to start the evening.
Shutting herself in David’s office, she whipped off her trouser suit and slipped on the little black dress she’d pulled from the bowels of her wardrobe that morning, then turned to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and scanned her appearance.
She frowned at her cleavage.
Good grief.
Had the dress always been so revealing?
She couldn’t remember—but then neither could she recall the last time she’d worn it. She seldom dressed up these days, even on the rare occasions she dated. She tugged the bodice up, yanked the sides of the V-neck together and grimaced at the marginal improvement.
It would have to do.
There was no time for a wardrobe-change—and besides, this was the dressiest thing she owned. She’d sold the last of her designer gowns years ago, when she’d had to stump up a deposit and a month’s advance rent on her flat. Keeping the black dress had been a practical decision, though she could count on one hand the number of times it had ventured from her wardrobe.
She turned side-on to the mirror.
The dress hugged her from shoulder to mid-thigh, accentuating every dip and curve—including the gentle swell of her tummy. Holding her breath, she pulled in her stomach and smoothed her hand over the bump that no number of sit-ups and crunches could flatten.
Not that she resented the changes pregnancy had wrought on her body. They were a bittersweet reminder of joy and loss. Of lessons learnt and mistakes she would never make again.
She snatched her hand down and released her breath. Tonight she needed to focus on the present, not the past, and for that she would need every ounce of wit she could muster.
Outside the bank a sleek silver Mercedes waited in a ‘No Parking’ zone, its uniformed driver standing on the pavement. ‘Ms Shaw?’ he enquired, then opened a rear door so she could climb in.
Minutes later the car was slicing through London’s chaotic evening traffic, the endless layers of city noise muted by tinted windows that transformed the plush, leather-lined interior into a private mini-oasis. Like the luxury suite at the hotel, the car’s sumptuous interior epitomised the kind of lifestyle Helena had grown unused to in recent years—unlike her mother, who still enjoyed the baubles of wealth and couldn’t understand her daughter’s wish to live a modest life, independent of her family’s money and influence.
She dropped her head back against the soft leather.
She loved her mother. Miriam Shaw was a classic blonde beauty who had moulded herself into the perfect society wife, but she was neither stupid nor selfish. She loved her children. Had raised them with all the luxuries her own upbringing in an overcrowded foster home had denied her. And when they’d been packed off to boarding school, at her husband’s insistence, she’d filled her days by giving time and support to a long list of charities and fundraisers.
Yet where her husband was concerned Miriam was inexplicably weak. Too quick to forgive and too ready to offer excuses.
Like today, when she’d called to cancel their prearranged lunch date. A migraine, she’d claimed, but Helena knew better. Knew her mother’s excuse was nothing more than a flimsy veil for the truth, as ineffectual and see-through as the make-up she would use to try to hide the bruises.
Denial.
Her mother’s greatest skill. Her greatest weakness. The impregnable wall Helena slammed into any time she dared to suggest that Miriam consider leaving her husband.
A burning sensation crawled from Helena’s stomach into her throat—the same anger and despair she always felt when confronted by the grim reality of her parents’ marriage.
She massaged the bridge of her nose. Over the years she’d read everything she could on domestic abuse, trying to understand why her mother stayed. Why she put up with the drinking, the vitriol, the occasional black eye. Invariably, when the latter occurred, a peace offering would ensue—usually some priceless piece of jewellery—and then Miriam would pretend everything was fine.
Until the next time.
Helena had seen it more times than she cared to count, but now the stakes were higher. Now her father stood to lose everything he held dear: his company, his reputation, his pride.
If Leo got his way the ShawCorp empire would be carved up like twigs beneath a chainsaw, and Helena had no doubt that if—when—her father went down, he would take her mother with him.
‘Miss Shaw?’
She jolted out of her thoughts. The car had stopped in front of Leo’s hotel and a young man in a porter’s uniform had opened her door. Lanky and fresh-faced, he reminded Helena of her brother, prompting a silent prayer of gratitude that James was in boarding school, well away from all this ugly drama.
She slid out and the porter escorted her through the hotel to a grand reception room with a high vaulted ceiling and decorative walls. The room was crowded, filled with tray-laden waiters and dozens of patrons in tailored tuxedos and long, elegant evening gowns.
‘Have a good evening, miss.’
The young man turned to leave.
‘Wait!’ She clasped his arm, confusion descending. ‘I think there’s been some mistake.’
He shook his head, his smile polite. ‘No mistake, miss. Mr Vincenti asked that you be brought here.’
* * *
Leo stood at the edge of the milling crowd, his gaze bouncing off one brunette after another until he spied the one he wanted, standing next to a wide marble pillar just inside the entrance. Weaving waiters, clusters of glittering guests and some twenty feet of floor space separated them, but still he saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. The twin furrows of consternation marring her brow.
Satisfaction stirred. Last night the element of surprise had been hers. How would the minx cope when the tables were turned?
He lifted two champagne flutes from a passing silver tray and carved a path to her side.
‘Buona sera, Helena.’
She spun, her startled gaze landing on the flutes in his hands, then the bow tie at his throat, before narrowed eyes snapped to his.
‘This is dinner?’
Score.
He smiled. ‘You look very...elegant.’
The look she gave him might have sliced a lesser man in half. ‘I look underdressed.’
She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the front of her short and exquisitely low-cut black dress.
‘The other women are wearing ball gowns.’
‘Your dress is fine,’ he said—an understatement if ever he’d uttered one. The dress wasn’t fine. It was stunning. No eye-catching bling or fancy designer frills, but its simple lines showcased her lithe curves and long, toned legs better than any overblown creation could.
She stole his breath. As easily as she’d stolen his breath the first night he’d laid eyes on her. Her dress that night, however, aside from being a daring purple instead of black, had been less revealing, more...demure. By comparison, tonight’s figure-hugging sheath was sultry, seductive, the tantalising flash of ivory breasts inside that V of black fabric enough to tempt any man into secret, lustful imaginings.
‘It’s a plain cocktail dress,’ she said, fretting over her appearance as only a woman could. ‘Not a gown for an event like this.’ She pressed a hand to the neat chignon at her nape. ‘And you’re sidestepping the question.’
He extended a champagne flute, which she ignored. ‘This—’ he gestured with the glass at their lavish surroundings ‘—is not to your liking?’
‘A charity dinner with five hundred other guests? No.’
He feigned surprise. ‘You don’t like charity?’
She glanced at a wall banner promoting the largest spinal injury association in Europe and its twentieth annual fundraiser. ‘Of course I do.’ Her eyebrows knitted. ‘But I thought we’d be dining in a restaurant. Or at least somewhere... I don’t know...a little more...’
‘Intimate?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Private.’
‘There’s a difference?’
She glared at the flute in his hand, then took it from him. ‘Do you make a habit of attending charity dinners at the hotels where you stay?’
‘Si. When I’m invited to support a worthy cause.’ He watched her eyebrows arch. ‘There are better ways to spend an evening, admittedly, but this event has been a long-standing commitment in my diary. And it coincides with my need to do business in London.’
‘Ah, well...’ She paused and sipped her champagne. ‘That’s convenient for you. You get to mark off your social calendar and wreak revenge on my family—all in a week’s work.’ Her mouth curled into a little smile. ‘There’s nothing more satisfying than killing two birds with one stone. How eminently sensible for a busy man such as yourself.’
Leo tasted his bubbles, took his time considering his next words. Exert enough pressure, he mused, and a person’s true colours would eventually surface. ‘Revenge is a very strong word,’ he said mildly.
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have a different name for what you’re doing?’ She raised her palm. ‘No, wait. I remember—“an eye for an eye”, wasn’t it?’
He studied the churlish set of her mouth, the dainty jut of her chin. ‘I had not remembered your tongue being so sharp, Helena.’
Twin spots of colour bloomed on her cheekbones, but the glint of battle stayed in her eyes. ‘This is retaliation for last night, isn’t it? I turned up unannounced at the hotel and you didn’t like it. Now you get to spring the surprise.’ She raised her glass in a mock toast. ‘Well-played, Leo. So...what now? You parade me on your arm at some high-profile fundraiser and hope it gets back to my father?’
He smiled—which only irritated her further if the flattening of her mouth was any indication. Her gaze darted towards the exit and the idea that she might bolt swiftly curbed his amusement.
Helena would not run from him.
Not this time.
Not until he was good and ready to let her go.
‘Thinking of reneging on our deal?’
Her gaze narrowed. ‘How do I know you’ll keep your side of the bargain?’
‘I’ve already spoken with your father’s solicitor.’
‘And?
‘He has until Tuesday to get your father to the table.’
Her mouth fell open. ‘My God...that’s four days from now. Can you not give him longer?’
‘Time is a commodity in business, not a luxury.’ He didn’t add that the solicitor’s chance of success was slim, no matter the time allowed. Both men knew the invitation would be rejected. A great pity, in Leo’s mind. He’d hoped to see for himself the look on Douglas Shaw’s face when the man learnt the fate of his company. But Shaw’s repeated refusals to turn up had denied Leo the final spoils of victory.
‘He won’t show.’
Her voice was so small he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. ‘Scusi?’
‘My father. He won’t show. He won’t meet with you, will he?’
He schooled his expression. Had she divined his thoughts? Absurd. He shook off the notion. ‘You tell me. He’s your father.’
‘Leo, I haven’t—’
‘Leonardo!’
Leo heard his name boomed at the same time as Helena stopped talking and darted a startled look over his shoulder. He turned and saw a lanky, sandy-haired man striding forward with a petite blonde by his side.
Leo grinned. ‘Hans.’ He gripped the man’s outstretched hand. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here. How are you? And Sabine.’ He raised the woman’s slender hand, planted a kiss on her knuckles. ‘Beautiful, as always.’
She issued a throaty laugh. ‘And you, my dear, are still the charmer.’ Rising on tiptoes, she kissed him on both cheeks, then turned her sparkling eyes on Helena. ‘Please, introduce us to your lovely companion.’
Leo shifted his weight, fielded a sidelong glance from Helena and sliced her a warning look. Do not embarrass me.
‘Helena, this is Dr Hans Hetterich and his wife, Sabine. Hans, when he is not winning golf tournaments or sailing a yacht on the high seas, is one of the most prominent spinal surgeons in the world.’
‘Nice to meet you, Helena.’ Hans took her hand. ‘And please pay my friend no attention. I am not nearly as impressive as he makes me sound.’
An unladylike snort came from beside him. ‘I think my husband is not himself tonight.’ Sabine commandeered Helena’s hand. ‘Normally he is not so modest.’
Hans guffawed and clutched his chest, earning him an eye-roll and a poke in the ribs from his wife. He winked at her, then turned a more sober face to Leo. ‘Our new research unit in Berlin is exceptional, thanks to your support. Our stem cell procedures are attracting interest from some of the best surgeons in the world. You must come soon and see for yourself. And you are most welcome too, Helena. Have you visited Germany?’
Her hesitation was fleeting. ‘Once, a long time ago. On a school trip.’
‘Perhaps in a few months,’ Leo intervened. ‘When I get a break in my schedule.’
‘How is Marietta?’ Sabine said. ‘We haven’t seen her since her last surgery.’
His fingers tightened on his glass. ‘She’s fine,’ he said, keeping his answer intentionally brief. He had no wish to discuss his sister in front of Helena. Proffering a smile, he gestured at the dwindling number of people around them. ‘It appears the waiting staff would like us to be seated. Shall we...?’
With a promise to catch them later in the evening, Hans and Sabine joined the trail of diners drifting through to the ballroom. Leo turned to follow, but Helena hung back.
He stopped, raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you coming?’
After a pause, she jammed her evening purse beneath her arm and shot him a baleful look. ‘Do I have a choice?’
He gave her a silky smile—one designed to leave her in no doubt as to his answer. But just to ensure she couldn’t mistake his meaning he leaned in and said softly, ‘You don’t.’
* * *
Gorgeous. Devastating. Lethal.
Those were three of a dozen words Helena could think of to describe Leonardo Vincenti in a tuxedo. And, judging by the lascivious looks he was pulling from every corner of the ballroom, she wasn’t the only female whose hormones had clocked into overdrive at the mere sight of all that dark, brooding masculinity.
He spoke from beside her. ‘The fish is not to your taste?’
She cast him a look from under her lashes. ‘It’s fine. I’m not very hungry.’
The treacle-cured smoked salmon served as a starter was, in fact, superb, but the knots twisting her stomach made the food impossible to enjoy. Which really was a shame, some part of her brain registered, because she rarely had the opportunity these days to sample such exquisite cuisine.
She laid her fork alongside her abandoned knife and leaned back in her chair. So much for a quiet dinner à deux and the chance for a serious talk. She almost rubbed her forehead to see if the word gullible was carved there.
Surreptitiously she watched Leo speak with an older woman seated on his left. His tux jacket, removed prior to appetisers being served, hung from his chair, leaving his wide shoulders and lean torso sheathed in a white wing tip shirt that contrasted with his olive skin and black hair. He bowed his head, murmuring something that elicited a bright tinkle of laughter from the woman, and the sound scraped across Helena’s nerves.
Age, evidently, was no barrier to his charms.
She averted her gaze, smothered the impulse to get up and flee. Like it or not, she’d agreed to be here and she would not scarper like a coward. If she was smart, bided her time, she might still persuade Leo to hold his plans for her father’s company. A few weeks...that was all she needed. Time to make her mother see sense before—
‘Bored?’
Leo’s deep voice sliced across her thoughts.
She drummed up a smile. ‘Of course not.’
‘Good.’ His long fingers toyed with the stem of his wineglass. ‘I would hate to bore you for a second time in your life.’
Helena’s smile faltered. His casually delivered words carried a meaning she couldn’t fail to comprehend. Not when her own words—words she’d bet every hard-earned penny in her bank account had hurt her more than they’d hurt him—were embedded like thorns in her memory. I’m bored, Leo. Really. This relationship just isn’t working for me.
She shifted in her seat, her face heating. ‘That’s unfair.’ She glanced around the table, pitching her voice for his ears alone. ‘I tried once to explain why I said those things.’
After he’d left that awful message on her phone—telling her what her father had done, accusing her of betrayal and complicity—she’d gone to his hotel room and banged on his door until her hand throbbed and a man from a neighbouring room stepped out and shot her a filthy look.
‘You didn’t want to listen.’
He shrugged. ‘I was angry,’ he stated, as if he need offer no further excuse.
‘You still are.’
‘Perhaps. But now I’m listening.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Try me.’
She arched an eyebrow. He wanted to do this now? Here? She cast another furtive glance around the table. Fine.
‘I needed you to let me go without a fight,’ she said, her voice a decibel above a whisper. ‘And we both know you wouldn’t have. Not without questions. Not unless I—’ She stopped, a hot lump of regret lodging in her throat.
‘Stamped on my pride?’ he finished for her.
Her face flamed hotter. Must he make her sound so cruel? So heartless? She’d been nineteen, for pity’s sake, staring down the barrel of her father’s ultimatum. Get rid of the damned foreigner, girl—or I will. Naive. That was what she’d been. And unforgivably stupid, thinking she could live beyond the reach of her father’s iron control.
She smoothed her napkin over her knees. ‘I did what I thought was best at the time.’
‘For you or for me?’
‘For us both.’
‘Ah. So you were being...how do you English like to say it...cruel to be kind?’
His eyes drilled into hers, but she refused to flinch from his cutting glare. She didn’t need his bitter accusations. She, too, had paid a price, and however much she longed to turn back the clock, undo the damage, she could not relieve the pain of her past. Not when she’d worked so hard, sacrificed so much, to leave it behind.
She mustered another smile, this one urbane and slightly aloof—the kind her mother often wore in public. ‘Hans and Sabine seem like a nice couple. Have you known them long?’
The change of subject earned her a piercing stare. She held her breath. Would he roll with it?
Then, ‘Nine years.’
He spoke curtly, but still she breathed again, relaxed a little. Perhaps a normal conversation wasn’t impossible? ‘You never talked much about your sister,’ she ventured. ‘Sabine mentioned surgery. Is Marietta unwell?’
Long, silent seconds passed and Helena’s stomach plunged as the dots she should have connected earlier—Leo’s choice of fundraiser, Hans’s reputation as a leading spinal surgeon, talk of the Berlin research unit followed by the mention of Marietta and surgery—belatedly joined in her head to create a complete picture.
A muscle jumped in Leo’s cheek. ‘My sister is a paraplegic.’
The blood that had heated Helena’s cheeks minutes earlier rapidly fled. ‘Oh, Leo. I’m... I’m so sorry.’ She reached out—an impulsive gesture of comfort—but he shifted his arm before her hand could make contact. She withdrew, pretending his rebuff hadn’t stung. ‘I had no idea. How...how long?’
‘Eleven years.’
Her throat constricted with sympathy and, though she knew it was silly, a tiny stab of hurt. Seven years ago they’d spent five intense, heady weeks together, and though he’d mentioned a sister, talked briefly about their difficult childhood, he’d omitted that significant piece of information.
Still, was that cause to feel miffed? She, too, had been selective in what she’d shared about her family.
‘Did she have an...an accident?’
‘Yes.’ His tone was clipped.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I can see you don’t want to talk about this.’
She lifted a pitcher of iced water in an effort to do something—anything—to dispel the growing tension. She’d half filled her glass when he spoke again.
‘It was a car accident.’
Startled, she put the pitcher down and looked at him, but his head was angled down, his gaze fastened on the wineglass in his hand.
‘She was seventeen and angry because we’d argued about her going to a party.’ His black brows tugged into a deep frown. ‘I didn’t like the neighbourhood or the crowd, but she was stubborn. Headstrong. So she went anyway. Later, instead of calling me for a ride home, she climbed into a car with a drunk driver.’ He drained his wine, dropped the glass on the table. ‘The doctors said she was lucky to survive—if you can call a broken back “lucky”. The driver and two other passengers weren’t so fortunate.’
Helena tried to imagine the horror. Teenagers made bad decisions all the time, but few suffered such devastating, life-altering consequences. Few paid such an unimaginable price.
She struggled to keep her expression neutral, devoid of the wrenching pity it was impossible not to feel. ‘Sabine mentioned surgery. Is there a chance...?’
Leo’s gaze connected with hers, something harsh, almost hostile, flashing at the centre of those near-black irises. ‘Let’s drop it.’
Slightly taken aback, Helena opened her mouth to point out she had tried to drop the subject, but his dark expression killed that pert response. ‘Fine,’ she said, and for the next hour ignored him—which wasn’t difficult because over the rest of their dinner another guest drew him into a lengthy debate on European politics, while the American couple to Helena’s right quizzed her about the best places to visit during their six-month sabbatical in England.
When desserts began to arrive at the tables the compѐre tapped his microphone, waited for eyes to focus and chatter to cease, then invited one of the organisation’s patrons, Leonardo Vincenti, to present the grand auction prize. After a brief hesitation Helena joined in the applause. In light of his sister’s condition Leo’s patronage came as no real surprise.
His mouth brushed her ear as he rose. ‘Don’t run away.’
And then he was striding to the podium, a tall, compelling figure that drew the attention of every person—male and female—in the room. On stage, he delivered a short but pertinent speech before presenting a gold envelope to the evening’s highest bidder. People clapped again, finished their desserts, then got up to mingle while coffee was served.
Twenty minutes later Helena still sat alone.
Irritation sent a wave of prickly heat down her spine.
Don’t run away.
Ha! The man had a nerve.
She dumped sugar into her tea. Gave it a vigorous stir. Was he playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game? Or had he cut his losses and gone in search of a more agreeable companion for the evening?
Another ten minutes and finally he deigned to show. He dropped into his chair but she refused to look at him, concentrating instead on topping up her tea.
‘You have no boyfriend to spend your Friday nights with, Helena?’
Her pulse skipped a beat. No apology, then. No excuse for his absence. Had his desertion been some kind of test? An experiment to see if she’d slink away the minute his back was turned? The idea did nothing to lessen her pique.
She piled more sugar in her tea. ‘He’s busy tonight.’
‘Really?’ His tone said he knew damn well she was lying. He lifted his hand and trailed a fingertip over the exposed curve of her shoulder. ‘If you were mine I would not let you spend an evening with another man.’ He paused a beat. ‘Especially not in that dress.’
Carefully, she stirred her tea and laid the spoon in the saucer. He was trying to unsettle her, nothing more. She steeled herself not to flinch from his touch or, worse, tremble beneath it.
His hand dropped and she forced herself to meet his eye. ‘You said my dress was fine.’
His gaze raked her. ‘Oh, it’s fine. Very fine, indeed. And I am sure not a man here tonight would disagree.’
Did she detect a note of censure in his voice? She stopped herself glancing down. She’d been conscious of her plunging neckline all evening, but there were dozens of cleavages here more exposed than her own. And, though the dress was more suited to a cocktail party or a private dinner than a glittering gala affair—cause at first for discomfort—there was nothing cheap or trashy about it.
She crossed her legs, allowing her hem to ride up, until another inch of pale thigh defiantly showed. ‘And you?’ She watched his gaze flicker down. ‘I wouldn’t have thought a man like you would need a last-minute dinner date. Where’s your regular plus-one tonight?’
His lips, far too sensual for a man’s, twitched into a smile. ‘A man like me?’
‘Successful,’ she said, inwardly cursing her choice of words. ‘Money attracts, does it not? The world is full of women who find wealth and status powerful aphrodisiacs.’
One eyebrow quirked. ‘When did you become a cynic?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Maybe around the time you were getting rich.’
He lounged back in his chair, the glint in his eye unmissable. ‘In answer to your question, I’m between mistresses.’
‘Oh...’ She fiddled with the handle on her teacup.
Not girlfriends or partners. Mistresses. Why did that word make her heart shrink? So he enjoyed casual relationships. So what? His sex life was no business of hers.
She sat back, forced herself to focus. She couldn’t afford to waste time. The evening was slipping away. If she didn’t speak soon her chance would be lost. ‘Leo, my father and I are estranged.’
In a flash, the teasing light was gone from his eyes. Her stomach pitched. Should she have blurted the words so abruptly? Too bad. They were out there now.
A vein pulsed in his right temple. ‘Define “estranged”.’
She hitched a shoulder, let it drop. ‘We don’t talk. We don’t see each other. We’re estranged in every sense of the word, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Why?’
She hesitated. How much to tell? The bitter memory of that final violent confrontation with her father was too disturbing to recount even now.
‘We fell out,’ she said, her tongue dry despite the gallon of tea she’d consumed. ‘Over you and what he did after we—after I broke things off. I walked out seven years ago and we haven’t spoken since.’ She paused and glanced down. Her hands were shaking. She lifted her gaze back to his. ‘I dropped out of university and went to live in a rented flat. Father cut off my allowance, froze my trust, so I work at a full-time job. As a...a secretary. In a bank.’
Leo stared at her, his face so blank she wondered if he’d heard a single word she said. Her insides churned as if the tea had suddenly curdled in her belly. She wished she could read him better. Wished she could interpret the emotion in those dark, fathomless eyes.
And still the silence stretched.
God, why didn’t he say something?
‘You gave up your design studies?’
She blinked. That was his first question? ‘Yes,’ she said, frowning. ‘I couldn’t study full-time and support myself. The materials I needed were too expensive.’
Other students on her textile design course had juggled part-time jobs along with their studies, but they’d had only themselves to think about. They hadn’t been facing the same dilemmas, the same fears. They hadn’t been in Helena’s position. Alone and pregnant.
Careful.
She shrugged. ‘I might go back one day. But that’s not important. Leo, what I’m trying to tell you is that I’m not here for my father.’
‘Then why are you here?’
She leaned forward. ‘Because what you’re doing will hurt the people I do love. And before you remind me that my father—and thus his family—stands to gain financially from having his company torn apart, it’s not about the money.’
Helena hesitated. She had to choose her words with care. Miriam Shaw might be too proud to admit to herself, let alone the world, that she was a victim, but she was none the less entitled to her privacy. Her dignity. She wouldn’t want the painful truth about her marriage shared with a stranger. Who knew what Leo might do with such sensitive information?
‘My father can be...difficult to live with,’ she said. ‘At the best of times.’
Leo sat so still he barely blinked. Seemed barely to breathe. ‘So what exactly do you want?’
‘I want you to reconsider your plans for ShawCorp.’ The words tumbled out so fast her tongue almost tripped on them. ‘At the very least give my father more time to come to the table. Offer him a chance to have a say in the company’s future. Maybe keep his position on the board.’
He gave her a long, hard look. ‘That’s a lot of want, Helena. You do realise my company is overseen by a board of directors? I am not the sole decision-maker.’
‘But you have influence, surely?’
‘Of course. But I need good reason. Your concern for your family is admirable, but this is business. I cannot let a little family dysfunction dictate corporate strategy.’
‘Can’t you at least delay Tuesday’s deadline by a few weeks?’
His eyebrows slammed down and he muttered something under his breath. Something not especially nice.
He rose. ‘We will finish this talk later.’
Warmth leached from her face. Her hands. Had she pushed too hard? Said too much? ‘Why can’t we finish it now?’
He moved behind her chair, lowered his head to hers. The subtle scent of spice twined around her senses. ‘Because we’re about to have company.’ His hot breath fanned her cheek. ‘Important company. And if you want me to consider your request you will be very, very well behaved.’
