Читать книгу A Spanish Vengeance - Diana Hamilton - Страница 7

SOMEONE was watching her. Lisa could actually and physically feel the dark power of unknown eyes on her. Nothing like the vaguely patronising glances she had endured all evening from the great and the good who were here in this glamorous setting to support and, far more importantly, be seen to support a fashionable charity.

She could feel the intensity of that look as it bored between her silk-clad shoulder blades. Feel the watchful, coldly cutting contempt.

It was unsettling, eerie.

A cold shiver flickered through her.

It was all in her imagination. It had to be!

Annoyed with herself, with the weariness that was making her prey to fanciful imagery, she did her best to dismiss it. She was overtired, that was all. It was obviously time to make tracks.

In her capacity as Sub for the Social Editor, as well as her own recently acquired title of Fashion Editor, she had noted the names and titles of those with the highest profiles and details of what the women were wearing. Neil, her snapper, had the shots. She’d dig him out from wherever he’d sloped off to and tell him to call it a day.

She was so tired her legs were having difficulty bearing her slight weight. If things at Lifestyle went on the way they were she’d find herself subbing for every department and working right round the clock eight days a week. Experienced editors were leaving in droves. Rats deserting the sinking ship, as her father said every time a letter of resignation landed on his desk.

The noise of high society at play had given her a pounding headache and she couldn’t wait to get back to the peace and quiet of her flat. Trouble was, she was a round peg in a square hole and knew it. Perhaps that was responsible for the manic sensation of despising eyes following her every movement. She was transposing her own inner feelings on to a non-existent entity.

Of course no one was watching her, despising her! Why on earth would they?

Slender in her understated black sheath dress, she straightened her wilting spine and headed for the lavish buffet. Found Neil, as she’d thought she would, scoffing canapés as if he hadn’t eaten for a fortnight.

‘I’m off,’ she said, shaking her head at his offer of wine. ‘We’ve got all we need.’ Though whether the tumbling circulation figures would be boosted by the feature in next month’s issue was highly debatable.

Neil’s brown eyes roamed her pale face. ‘You look bushed. You should find yourself a proper job!’ He abandoned the food in favour of a glass of red wine. ‘Hang on a sec and I’ll give you a lift home. I take it I’m invited to your engagement bash tomorrow night?’

‘Of course. The more the merrier.’ Lisa smiled then, her first genuine smile of the evening. A comforting warmth flooded through her, swamping out the unsettling sensation of being watched.

Dear Ben. She’d do her best to make him a good wife. No grand passion for either of them and that, they’d decided, was actually a bonus. There would be no ephemeral highs or debilitating lows in their relationship. They had discussed it, accepted it—embraced it, even. A safe marriage, a secure one, affection and respect on both sides was all either of them wanted. She didn’t know about Ben but she guessed he was too pragmatic to harbour strong emotions; and as for her, well, the events of five years ago had put her right off the concept of passionate love. She would never again feel so deeply about anyone as she once had for the Spaniard. Which was a blessing. The stronger the emotions, the greater the hurt.

Unnervingly, the feeling of being watched came back again with a vengeance. She hated it; it scared her. It swamped all those comforting thoughts of Ben and the life they planned together.

She was out of here, home to get some much needed rest before her imagination ran away with her completely! ‘I’ll pass on that lift.’ It was an effort to speak. ‘I’ll grab a taxi. See you.’

It was an even greater effort to turn. And impossible to stem her gasp of shock as she saw him. Cold black eyes watching her.

Just as she remembered him but with breath-snagging changes—a haughty elegance that made him seem older than his twenty-seven years, his dark, perfectly crafted suit adding to the intimidating effect, oozing the cool self-assurance of a man wholly at ease with himself.

The handsome features were arrogantly cold, the black eyes narrowed and intense as they raked the pallor of her face.

‘Diego!’ His name escaped her on a shaky huff of breath and everything inside her descended into chaos as he acknowledged her with a cool, dismissive dip of his dark head, turned on the heels of his immaculate, hand-crafted black leather shoes and walked away from her through the bejewelled, designer-clad chattering masses as if he didn’t care to sully himself by any verbal contact.

Sophie was sprawled out on the sitting room sofa in the shoe box flat they shared near Clapham Common, her attractive face suffused with an enviable inner radiance until she glanced up on Lisa’s arrival. ‘God, you look awful!’ She hauled herself into a sitting position. ‘What happened? Did Neil make another pass at you? Shall I phone Ben and get him to go round and slap him?’

Lisa’s mouth twitched. As usual, Sophie was completely OTT and she needed that to help her get the main event of the evening—seeing the man she had once believed to be the love of her life again—in proper perspective.

‘No, nothing like that, thank heavens!’ She lobbed her handbag to the floor and draped herself on to the armchair with the dodgy springs. ‘These high society charity bashes are a complete pain.’

‘Entirely your own fault,’ Sophie pointed out unsympathetically. ‘You should never have let yourself be talked into joining the staff. They tried to twist my arm too, remember, but I stuck out for my chosen career in physiotherapy.’

Lisa shrugged and kicked off her shoes. It was old history. She’d never got to university. On her return from Spain, joining her father in the service flat near the magazine’s head office, he’d asked her to re-think her future.

The publishing company was in difficulties. They were in the process of downsizing, selling off or closing down the stodgy middle-of-the-road titles, concentrating on the flagship Lifestyle. They all had to tighten their belts. It was all hands on deck and loads of other clichés. It was her duty to join the staff—at peanut wages—and do what she could to help turn things around.

At the time she’d been too emotionally exhausted to stand up for what she wanted, in no state to really know what she did want any more.

‘I expect you’re right.’ Lisa removed the battery of pins that kept her long blonde hair smoothly away from her face and was debating whether to tell her old friend of her sighting of Diego Raffacani when she noticed the champagne bottle and two flutes set out on the low coffee table. An arched brow tilted in Sophie’s direction.

Sophie blushed then giggled. ‘James proposed this evening. And I accepted.’

Lethargy entirely forgotten, Lisa leapt to her feet to give her friend a bear hug, settling beside her on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard for longer than I can remember!’ Sophie had been dating the attractive young GP for over a year and was madly in love with him. ‘I’m so happy for you! Tell me more!’

‘He’s joining a practice in the West Country—all lovely and rural.’ She stretched over for the bottle. ‘He got called out, would you believe—so you’re going to have to celebrate with me. I don’t want to get squiffy on my own!’

The cork ricocheted all round the small room. ‘We’re going to have to house hunt down there,’ Sophie confided excitedly. ‘I can just see myself as a country doctor’s wife—I’ll have loads of babies, join the WI, put my name down for the church flower rota and wear tweed skirts and those green quilted waistcoat things. And hats! With pheasant feathers!’

‘An unlikely scenario, if ever I heard one.’ Lisa grinned, accepting a flute of bubbles, firmly dismissing the wish that she could be as excited over her own wedding plans as being well out of order. She and Ben weren’t into high romance and magical, ephemeral flights of excitement. Companionship, mutual support… ‘So when’s the big day?’ She rapidly blanked out another wholly unwelcome pang of envy.

‘Three months. I’ll be a midsummer bride.’ Her eyes opened very wide. ‘We could have a double wedding! That would be fantastic. Ben could move in here with you. It’s time he got his act together and left the parental home.’

It was a possibility, Lisa mused as she listened to Sophie chatter on about wedding dresses, bridesmaids and honeymoon destinations.

Ben had mentioned a wait of a year after the official engagement announcement tomorrow. And he shared the family home in Holland Park for purely practical reasons. The money saved on rent and his keep was accumulating nicely. But when Sophie moved out she, Lisa, would still have to find the rent for this flat, so it would be both practical and sensible for Ben to share it as her husband.

After the second glass of champagne Lisa forgot practicalities and seemingly out of nowhere found herself blurting, ‘He was at the charity bash tonight. Just as I remembered him, yet different.’

‘Who?’ Sophie, in mid flow over guest lists, refilled their glasses.

‘Diego.’

How easily the name she hadn’t mentioned since that dreadful night slipped from her tongue. How easily the sound of it brought it all back—the heartache, the anger, the sheer gut-wrenching misery, all the emotions she’d believed long dead and buried.

Fuelled by Sophie’s blank look and an unaccustomed rapid intake of alcohol, she offered, ‘Spain. You remember. That holiday you and Ben insisted on giving me?’

‘Of course!’ Sophie banged the side of her head with the heel of her hand. ‘The handsome waiter you thought you were madly in love with, the one who dumped you on that last night—the snake! What a small world—and what was he doing mixing with that lot?’

‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’ Lisa put her glass down on the table, not really knowing why she’d started this, struggling to work out why she needed to talk about him. A catharsis maybe? An emotional release, setting her free from the pain of betrayal that had been buried deep within her psyche.

‘He looked a million dollars—well, let’s say he looked as if he’d regard that amount as small change. I guess his social-climbing career must have taken off in a big way.’

She had to say it, punch what he was firmly into her brain, paint him black so that never again would she—would she what? Still remember, still yearn, still dream about him?

‘Blooming gigolo!’ Sophie snorted. ‘I hope you gave him an earful!’

‘We didn’t speak.’ Just a single word. His name spilling from her lips.

‘Probably just as well,’ Sophie conceded. ‘In your place I’d have probably walloped him and caused huge embarrassment all round. Now, let’s forget about the wretch and talk about something nice—what are you planning on wearing for your party? I thought I’d wear the green satin—James says it turns him on…’

The Holland Park house looked at its festive best. Most of the guests were waiting when Lisa arrived. Flowers everywhere, filling the elegant rooms with the perfume of spring. Until her mother’s death her parents had lived in a house similar to this, a scant five-minute walk away. She’d been at boarding school, barely fourteen years old, when the dreadful news had come.

Only after the funeral when her father had coolly informed her that he would be selling the family home, moving into a flat suitable for a man on his own, had the full enormity of her loss hit her. Her mother had loved her and now the sweet, gentle woman, who’d been completely dominated by the much stronger personality of her husband, was gone. Without consciously thinking it out she had naively believed that she and her father would now draw closer together in their mutual grief. But he was distancing himself even further, if that were possible, a fact brought home when he told her, ‘The Claytons suggested you spend your school holidays with them. You’ve always got on well with the twins and Ben and Sophie will be far better company for you than I ever could be.’

Lisa closed her eyes briefly, willing the unwanted sadness of memories to leave her. This was a happy occasion, for pity’s sake! Finding a smile, she handed her wrap to a waiting maid, who must have been hired for the evening, and went to find Ben.

The rooms were just comfortably crowded. Even so, her progress was slow, waylaid as she was by friends, colleagues and perfect strangers—invited by the elder Claytons, she guessed—who offered congratulations.

Items of furniture had been pushed to the edges of the rooms or removed entirely and a sumptuous buffet had been laid out on the long dining room table, attended by smartly uniformed waiters. Ben and his parents were grouped by one of the tall windows, seemingly in private, earnest conversation. A conversation which ended abruptly when Lisa reached Ben and touched the sleeve of his dinner jacket to claim his attention.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, her silky brows drawing together. All three of them looked strangely worried but Honor Clayton denied immediately, ‘Of course not! How nice you look, dear. Doesn’t she, Ben? Is Sophie with you? How like you two girls to be late!’

‘She’s waiting for James. He’s picking her up at the flat and bringing her here. She wanted them to arrive together.’ Lisa tucked her hand beneath Ben’s arm. ‘I gather you’ve heard her news?’ She knew Honor had. She’d been there when Sophie had put the phone down after speaking to her mother, seen the wry twist of her mobile mouth, the slight shrug accompanying the upward roll of her eyes.

Honor lifted her heavy shoulders in a gesture of resignation. ‘Of course. But do I see her as the wife of a humble country GP?’ She did her best to smile. ‘Time will tell, I suppose.’

‘She’s very happy,’ Lisa said gently. Her future mother-in-law was a snob but she meant well. She would never forget the rather self-conscious heartiness with which the older woman had received her on those long ago school holidays after her mother’s death.

Young as she’d been at the time, she had instinctively known that Honor hadn’t the words to console the motherless child of her husband’s business partner and had resorted to booming exhortations: ‘Now twins, find something jolly to do with little Lisa—no slouching about indoors and getting bored and miserable! There are plenty of things to do in London. Cinemas, parks…’

Into the edgy silence that had fallen following her last statement—though why the family should be uneasy about a guy like James being admitted to their ranks, Lisa couldn’t begin to fathom—she asked, ‘Where’s Father?’

Again the odd sensation of unease. Arthur Clayton glanced initially at his son and then his wife. He spoke for the first time since Lisa had joined them. ‘He’s with our top advertiser in the study. He shouldn’t be long. It’s not ideal—a private family celebration and all that. But apparently his time in the UK is extremely limited.’

‘And we’ve been nattering away for far too long,’ Honor said bracingly. ‘Time to circulate. Come, Arthur! You can make your speech as soon as Lisa’s father appears—and I presume he’ll want to say a few words of his own to mark the occasion. Everyone here knows, of course, but we have to make the engagement official.’ Smiling fixedly, she dragged her husband into the main reception rooms and Lisa asked, ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it, Ben? At first I thought your parents were unhappy about Sophie’s wedding plans. But it’s not that, is it?’

‘Problems over advertising revenue,’ he confessed, keeping his voice down, uneasy about being overheard. ‘But nothing for you to worry about, old thing. Is that dress new? It looks as if it cost a fortune.’ He changed the subject, not wanting to pursue it there, a slight frown pulling his brows together as glanced at the elegant creation she was wearing. A slip dress in pale coffee-tinted layered chiffon decorated with swirling patterns of toning sequins, the bodice held up by narrow sequined straps.

Her fingers slid away from his arm as she waited for the unwarranted spurt of anger to die down. He had always been ultra careful about money, she knew that and, far from irritating her, she had seen the character trait as vaguely amusing. She didn’t expect him to change, of course she didn’t, but it would have been nice if he’d complimented her on her appearance before niggling about how much the dress had cost.

Dismissing her reaction as absurd—they didn’t have the type of relationship that demanded sloppy compliments—she gave him a slight smile of conspiracy. ‘It’s hired for the evening—but don’t tell anyone!’

She accepted the reward of his grin, the warm hand that slid around her tiny waist, with a small curve of her lips, a dimpling cheek. But there was more. ‘Don’t patronise me, Ben. If we have money problems I should know about them.’ Number crunching was his department, not hers; he didn’t interfere with her editorial input, but this was different.

Ben hunched his shoulders uncomfortably and for a moment Lisa believed he wasn’t going to enlighten her. Then he shot her a wry glance. ‘We didn’t want to worry you. After all, your father might talk him round.’

‘Who?’

‘The top guy at Trading International. He’s threatening to withdraw the company’s advertising.’

‘And that’s serious?’

‘You bet your sweet life it is! High fashion leather wear, the Los Clasicos range of jewellery, wine, gourmet cheeses, luxury hotels and apartments worldwide. Withdraw that lot and we’re up the creek without a paddle.’

‘That bad.’ Lisa sucked her lower lip between her teeth. Shouldn’t she have seen this coming? What major advertiser would stick with a magazine with circulation figures in slow and seemingly unalterable decline? ‘What chance is there of Father talking him around?’

Ben shrugged. ‘God knows!’ He drew her away from the window. ‘I shouldn’t have told you—don’t let it spoil our evening, Lise. If everything goes pear-shaped and Lifestyle folds, we’ll be OK. With my qualifications and your experience we’ll find other work. Hold that thought while we mingle.’

Smiling, chatting, doing her best to act as if all was right with her world, Lisa felt hollow inside, her eyes straying continually to the study, where her father was trying to persuade a hard-nosed business mogul not to pull the plug. Many of the guests tonight were on the staff of Lifestyle. By this time next month they could all be out of work, her father and Arthur Clayton looking into the bleak face of failure.

How could Ben possibly expect her to dismiss all that from her mind and console herself with the thought that he and she would be OK?

He couldn’t be that selfish, could he? She shook her head in instinctive negation. Of course not. He’d only said that in an effort to cheer her up, not wanting their special evening to be spoiled for her.

As she accepted a flute of champagne someone put into her hand she saw her father and her heart banged against her breastbone.

It was impossible to tell from his expression whether or not he’d been successful. As always, her father kept his feelings to himself.

Silence fell, as if the sheer presence of the man had commanded it. When he spoke, talking of his happiness at the further cementing of the relationship between the two families, the words went in one ear and straight out of the other. And when Ben slid the diamond hoop on her wedding finger her face ached from smiling and the growing applause, the chorus of Ooohs and Aaahs, the glasses raised in cheerful toasts, slid past her consciousness, leaving no ripples at all.

All she was aware of was her father’s stern features, the rigid set of his shoulders. He was standing just beyond the chattering group surrounding her and Ben. One tight-jawed sideways inclination of his head had her murmuring her excuses and threading her way towards him.

Taking the champagne glass from her fingers he said, ‘You are needed in the study.’

‘Me?’ Lisa noted the impatient tightening of his thin mouth at what he would see as her idiotic questioning of his perfectly plain statement and to deflect the sarcastic comeback she knew from experience was in store for her she hurriedly asked, ‘How did it go? Ben told me there were problems.’

What could the big-shot want with her? An assurance that she had a pile of must-read, breathtakingly fascinating articles in her in-tray? The sort of stuff that would guarantee a huge upsurge in readership? As if! Anything remotely startling or contentious would be immediately scotched at editorial meetings by the partners.

Skirting her question, Gerald Pennington remarked coolly, ‘As I said, you seem to be needed. As far as I can tell, all you can do is try not to make matters worse. It shouldn’t take long and then you can enjoy the rest of your evening.’

Yeah, right, Lisa thought resignedly as she went to answer the summons. Her hand on the study door, she paused for a moment, psyching herself up to deliver the spiel of her life. If she could make the future editorial input sound really cutting edge maybe she could swing the balance in their favour. Though ‘cutting edge’ didn’t gel with anodyne accounts of boring society gatherings or fashion articles aimed solely at the seriously wealthy.

If she messed up her father would never forgive her. Not for the first time she wondered why she bothered to try to please him, why she wanted what she had never had—the warmth of his approval.

Wrinkling her neat nose, pushing her relationship with her father to the back of her mind, she straightened her spine, plastered a smile on her face and walked into the study.

And he was there, leaning against the edge of Arthur Clayton’s desk, his long, immaculately trousered legs crossed at the ankles, black eyes cold and hard, narrowed on her face.

Her stomach jumped in shock. ‘There has to be a mistake.’ Her voice sounded echoey through the buzzing in her ears. She took a step backwards, one hand outstretched as she felt for the door. Coming face to face with Diego Raffacani last night had been bad enough, stirring painful memories back to life. But here—posing as a major advertiser—

‘No mistake, I assure you. Sit down, Miss Pennington.’

He edged fully upright, feet apart, long-fingered hands resting on narrow hips, the jacket of his suit parting to reveal a matching waistcoat smoothly clinging to his powerful torso. The picture of sartorial elegance—no sign of the slightly shabby, casually dressed and ultra laid-back Spanish lover who had broken her heart.

The formality of his address helped her to pull herself together. It had been a long time. Too long to allow memories to live, festering away in the dark, rarely visited regions of her mind. If he had changed—and she only had to look into that hard, classically handsome face to know that he had—then so had she.

She watched him take Arthur’s swivel chair behind the desk, her heart thumping at the base of her throat. He still moved with the same inborn grace and she couldn’t help remembering how she had adored watching him.

Lisa took the chair opposite and sat, her hands loosely clasped together in her lap. Seeking the defence of outward composure, her voice commendably calm, she asked, ‘So you now work for Trading International?’ reining back the snide comment that it was a big step up for a humble waiter. For everyone’s sake she couldn’t afford to rub him up the wrong way, even though she still longed to wring his neck for what he had done to her!

‘Since my father’s retirement, I am Trading International.’ He placed his elbows on the arm rests of the chair he was using, steepling his fingers, the tips lightly touching his wide, sensual mouth, narrowed eyes watching the disbelief and then the obvious shock flicker across her face.

The face of an angel. The smile of a siren. And the sensitivity and morals of an alley cat!

She was more beautiful than he remembered, the delicate perfectly formed body still unbelievably sexy.

Five years ago he could have taken that body, it had been his for the asking. He narrowed his eyes, black gleaming through the enigmatic, heavy sweep of his lashes. Five years ago he had denied himself the sensual pleasure of the ultimate possession of the bewitching temptation of her. Now, one way or another, he was going to have her. Take what he wanted for as long as he wanted it, learn the secrets of her delectable body then toss her back where she belonged.

Dropping his hands, he leaned further back in the chair, idly pondering the pleasure of removing the clasp that maintained the sophisticated upsweep of her hair and seeing the silvery silky mass tumble down to the creamy skin of her naked shoulders and the gentle, inviting curve of her breasts.

His accent was slightly more pronounced than was usual, his tone smooth as cream, he imparted, ‘I have a proposition to put to you, Miss Pennington…’