Читать книгу Purchased For Revenge - Julia James - Страница 7

EVE walked back into the casino. The heat, the constant murmur, the smell of wine and cognac, the fumes of cigars and cigarettes, the heavy perfumes and scented air, oppressed her instantly. But she ignored it. Steadily, she threaded her way towards her father. The pile of chips at his side had diminished. So had the level of cognac in his glass. There was the stub of a cigar in the ashtray, and another was between his thick fingers as he pushed more chips onto a square.

Silently, she took her place behind him. He acknowledged her resumed presence only by a low, perfunctory admonition.

‘You took your time.’

‘I needed some fresh air,’ she said. Her voice was very calm, her manner composed. After all, what else was there for her to be? What else was there to do but what she had been brought here to do, to be a social foil for her father?

Who else was there for her to be except her father’s daughter? Eve Hawkwood.

She wasn’t anyone else. She wasn’t a woman who could weave dreams about a man she had seen for no more than a few minutes walking towards her, who’d made her body still, her heart race, her breath stop. She wasn’t a woman who could kiss that same stranger in the moonlight. It was a fantasy, nothing more, conjured by her own longing for escape.

For a second, piercing and anguished, she felt again what she had felt as she had lifted her mouth to his, felt again the cool slide of his hands to cup her face, long fingers grazing in her hair, felt again her eyes start to shut…

No. Rigidly she held them open again. Made them look, with her habitual composure, her inexpressive indifference, at the scene in front of her, at the spinning whirl of the roulette wheel, the chips conducting their remorseless dance around the table, from player to chequered cloth, to croupier to player. Hypnotic in its remorselessness.

Then, with an awareness of her father’s mood that her instinct for survival and self-preservation had honed since childhood, she saw his shoulders tense.

She looked up from the table.

Blackness drummed in on her. Her hand groped automatically for the back of her father’s chair. Vision blurred, then cleared.

The man she had just kissed was walking towards the roulette table.

For one blazing, incandescent moment, Eve’s heart leapt. Then, like a slow draining, she realised that he was not looking at her.

Not looking for her.

And even as she realised that, she realised too that somewhere, buried deep inside, there had been a hope—frail, pathetic, but there all the same—that the man who had turned her limbs to water with a single glance from his dark, compelling eyes would not let her run from him. Would not let that single, momentary kiss be enough. The slow draining of that frail pathetic hope was complete.

He had not even seen her. Had not even registered her presence.

She was invisible to him.

He had kissed her so short a time ago, but now he did not know her. Did not see her.

But even as she let go of the last remnant of her futile hope, leaving a dry, drained emptiness inside her, she realised why he was not looking at her.

And as she did, a dark, ominous foreboding began to gel inside her.

He was not walking towards the roulette table. He was walking towards her father.

And something about the way he was walking sent a chill down her spine.

Controlled. Purposeful.

Deadly.

The word formed in her mind, and she could not unform it. It hung there, making her stomach pool with cold.

She tensed in every muscle.

Hawkwood had paused in his play. Alexei saw his hand still a moment, before continuing to position the next batch of chips he was pointlessly sacrificing to his own arrogant bluff—the bluff that said he could afford to lose, and go on losing, the way he was tonight.

Alexei knew better. Giles Hawkwood could not afford to lose a penny more. His yacht, his properties, every possible asset, had all been securitised to raise cash to buy up his own company shares wherever he could find them. But he was too late. As of this morning, AC International had agreed to acquire—in a very friendly and mutually profitable merger—an Australian company that just happened to possess a sufficient number of Hawkwood shares to give Alexei the undisputed majority holding.

Giles Hawkwood was—finally—in the palm of his hand.

Powerless, and broke.

He just didn’t know it yet.

And Alexei didn’t have any intention of letting him know it yet.

He wanted to savour the knowledge that he would be meeting his prey for the first—and last—time, and his prey did not even know that he was beaten.

He reached the roulette table, and stopped.

Waiting. Waiting for Giles Hawkwood to make his move.

‘Constantin.’

Eve heard her father say the name, but his reason for saying it did not register. All that registered was that the man whom she had thought a fantasy, whom she had kissed in the moonlight, by the sea’s edge, from whom she had run because there was nothing else for her to do, was now standing a handful of metres away from her, on the other side of the roulette table. The people sitting there had automatically, it seemed, made way for him, and now he stood looking across and down at her father.

For a moment he said nothing, yet Eve felt her stomach pool with cold again.

Then, with a slow welling of disbelief, the name her father had addressed him by registered.

Constantin.

Alexei Constantin.

This was Alexei Constantin.

Shock knifed through her. And hollowing disbelief. She felt herself sway, and grip the chair-back as if it alone kept her upright.

Then her father leant back. Instinctively, automatically, she pulled her hand away.

She never touched her father. Never let him touch her.

He was looking across at Alexei Constantin, who was looking back down at him. His face was unreadable, expressionless. But there was something in it, in the controlled stance of his body, that was completely, absolutely different from the man who had walked towards her on the terrace such a short time ago.

This was a different man.

Her father took a deep inhalation from his cigar, then rested it against the ashtray. His eyes never left the other man’s.

‘So,’ he said, ‘an opportune encounter, wouldn’t you say?’

His voice was grating.

Even, to Eve’s ears, baiting.

Alexei Constantin’s expression did not change. ‘Would I?’ he responded.

His voice was different. As different as the man who looked down at her father with that chill, expressionless face.

She realised, with a start of unease, that the play at the roulette table had halted. So had the conversation around the table. Everyone was focussing on the exchange taking place.

It must be obvious to her father as well. His eyes moved dismissively, then he nodded at Alexei Constantin.

‘Come to dinner tomorrow night. On my yacht.’ He lifted his cigar again, and took another leisurely puff from his cigar, relaxing more deeply into the chair carrying his bulk. ‘I’ll send the launch at, oh, say half-eight?’

His eyes, pouched from burgundy and cognac, were heavy.

For the briefest moment Alexei Constantin did not speak. Then he gave the very slightest nod.

‘Make it nine. I like to check the Asia Pacific opening prices. It’s always interesting to see what’s moved.’

Now it was his turn for his voice to be baiting. Eve saw the colour mount fleetingly in her father’s mottled cheeks, then subside again.

‘You do that,’ he contented himself with responding. Then, as if to regain the upper hand, he snapped his fingers at the croupier to resume play, and pushed some more chips onto the table. With a mix of relief and regret that the incident was over, the other guests around the table took their cue, and restarted their conversations.

Alexei Constantin did not move. For a long, oppressive moment Eve saw him continue to look down at her father. He was very still.

The stillness of a predator before it struck…

The cold pooled again in Eve’s stomach.

This man is dangerous…

Deadly.

The words had formed before she could stop them.

Did she move? Did she make a noise, however suppressed, in her throat? She didn’t know.

All she knew was that suddenly, out of nowhere, Alexei Constantin’s gaze shifted.

Lifted to her.

And froze.

Shock ripped through him. Shock and something much, much worse.

He let his eyes rest on her. Deliberately did so. Forcing himself.

He had not gone after her. Had not called her back. Had let her run.

Because it was not the time. Not the place. He was too close, too close to his goal. Too close to the moment he had spent his adult life determined, striving, to reach.

The moment when Giles Hawkwood would be destroyed.

And nothing, nothing on this earth, in this life, could get in the way of that.

Not even a woman whose beauty was like no other he had ever seen, who had drawn him as no other woman ever had, who had touched him as no other had.

Who had kissed him in the velvet night, with moonlight in her hair…

And who had run from him. Unknown. Unnamed.

Until this moment.

The moment that had revealed her for who she was.

Eve Hawkwood. The daughter of the man he was about to destroy.

He went on looking at her. She returned his gaze. It was as blank as his.

Then, as if a knife had cut him down, he turned and walked away.

Eve Hawkwood.

Alexei said the name again in his head. Letting the two words bore through his brain.

It had to be her. Doing the social honours for Giles Hawkwood.

Social honours? Alexei’s mouth twisted savagely. Anger bit through him. Black and roiling. It had been breeding in him since the moment shock had ripped through him as he had looked at the woman behind Giles Hawkwood’s chair and realised who she was.

What she was.

And what she was, he knew, with the black anger biting through him, was good. Very good.

He had to give her that.

Skilful in the extreme.

She had played it with an expertise that was unequalled. Every little touch had been perfect.

The pose by the entrance to the casino, the perfectly timed eye-contact, the pause, and then the equally perfectly timed flight to the romantically deserted garden.

And then…

No. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about ‘and then’.

It had never happened. He had never kissed her. Never kissed her with moonlight in her hair, and cool, soft silk on her lips. Never felt that strange, inexplicable emotion so deep within him that he could not tell what it was, unknown, mysterious, like the woman he’d thought he was kissing…

Who had been someone else entirely all along.

He walked on out of the casino. In the lobby, he cast around.

He needed a drink.

Somewhere dark, where he could be left alone.

Without missing a beat he headed for the broad swathe of stairs that led not up, but down, down to the hotel’s nightclub in the basement. That would do him fine.

Alexei Constantin.

That was who her fantasy was—the man hunting down her father’s company. Bitter irony pierced Eve. Of all the men, in all the world, her dream man was Alexei Constantin…

But even if he hadn’t been it would not have made any difference, she knew, with a sagging of her shoulders in defeat. She would still have had to run, like Cinderella, from a ball she could never go to. Condemned to the only life she had, never to seek escape again.

A voice pierced her bleakness.

‘Cherie, you are not thinking about me—I can tell. If you were, you would look happier.’

Eve gave an apologetic moue.

‘I’m sorry, Pierre. I’m not very good company tonight.’

‘Tant pis—I shall make you smile, and then I shall take you to bed.’

A reluctant twitch formed at Eve’s mouth. Pierre Roflet had been trying to take her to bed ever since she’d known him, and right now she was glad of his company. He’d sauntered up to the roulette table half an hour ago, exclaiming at finding Eve here in the South of France unannounced, and swiftly removed her to the nightclub below the casino. Her father had turned briefly, seen who it was, and nodded his permission.

Eve had gone with Pierre with relief. She’d wanted only to return to the yacht, but she knew her father would not permit it until he was ready to go, and that could be some hours away. His luck, so it seemed, had finally turned at the roulette table.

So instead she was whiling away the time to the throb of music in the dimly lit nightclub, with Pierre to distract her. He was amusing, very lightweight, but not unkind. And right now she could do with some amusing, kind and lightweight company.

She’d let Pierre dance with her once, then retired to a table set among armchairs, letting Pierre rattle on with gossipy anecdotes and bestow over-the-top compliments on her. She’d sipped coffee and felt some of the bleakness drain from her.

Yet even so, now, when Pierre had abandoned her to order another coffee and a cocktail, she felt it returning. Blankly, she gazed out over the crowded dance floor. So many couples—some permanent, most temporary. While she…

For a few pointless moments she let her imagination go where it wanted. To the fantasy that had her in its grip. Out over the dance floor, to where she would be, her hands at the nape of his neck, her head resting on his chest, his hands resting lightly, oh so lightly, at her waist…

Sharply, she set aside her fantasy. Indulging it would only feed it, and what was the point of that? None. None at all.

‘Dance with me.’

Her head whipped round. Shock widened her eyes. Her heart surged in her chest. Her mouth dried like a desert.

Alexei Constantin stood there, holding out a hand to her.

‘Dance with me,’ he said again.

His eyes were dark. Very dark. She could not see their pupils.

Like a sleepwalker she put her hand in his, and felt his fingers close over hers. A frisson jarred through her. He drew her to her feet.

He did not look at her. Simply walked her out on to the dance floor.

And put his arms around her.

Her hands splayed against his chest, slipping past the lapels of his jacket to press against the fine, warm surface of his dress shirt. She felt his breath still a moment, then his breathing resume. Beneath her palms she felt the smooth hard muscle beneath the thin material.

Heat flared through her body, out along her cheekbones. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at all. Could do nothing except let his hands on her back steer her, in a slow, sensual rhythm, into the dance.

Time stopped.

Everything stopped. Except what was happening to her now. But only for now.

She shut her eyes and let her forehead lower slowly, until it was resting on him.

And then she danced with Alexei Constantin.

He was insane, he knew. Every brain cell in his head told him that. He was insane to have gone anywhere near her again. Insane to have watched her, à deux with Pierre Roflet.

Watched Eve Hawkwood in action.

Pierre Roflet. Son of the president of a French investment bank that could, if Roflet père so chose, provide sufficient financial muscle to shore up Hawkwood and fend off the takeover.

A very suitable target for Eve Hawkwood’s skills.

Was that why he had done what he had? To give Roflet fils a chance to escape her toils? Even as the words formed, he knew them for a lie. He knew exactly, exactly what had made him do what he had just done.

He had wanted, just once more, to have this woman in his arms again. For one last time to enjoy the fantasy of what he had thought she might be. He didn’t care that she was nothing but an illusion, unreal. For this last, brief time he would believe the fantasy.

The music throbbed in his blood. Soft, sensual.

Like the woman folded against him.

Her body was so pliant, so slender. Her head bowed against him, her hands resting lightly, oh so lightly, against the wall of his chest. Her hips resting against his.

He could feel his body react, damn it as he might. Instinctively he drew back a little, using what frail shreds of sanity remained to him.

He felt a shimmer go through her, a fine vibration of her spine beneath the tips of his fingers. His eyes swept down over her in the dim, pulsing light. Her hair was so pale, even without moonlight.

He did not mean to, but he could not help himself. Slowly, he dipped his head, letting his mouth graze the fine silk of her hair.

The shimmer came again, the vibration of her body. His fingers tightened on her spine, as if to arch her towards him.

Slowly, infinitely slowly, he circled the dance floor with her. Taking his time.

Savouring the last of his time with her. Before he put her aside for ever.

The music faded to silence. He stopped. His arms started to slip from her.

Slowly, heavily, as if it were the heaviest weight in the world, she lifted her head.

Looked up at him.

Just looked.

And in that moment doubt knifed through him.

Then sanity flooded through him again. He dropped his hands away, stepping back.

Without a word, he walked away.

Eve just stood there. It was all she could do. A knife blade had just slid between her ribs. It was a physical pain.

She turned around, catching her skirt with her fingers, so that she could hurry, stumble, back to her seat. As she did so, Pierre Roflet got to his feet. He must have returned to their table while she was dancing.

Dancing with Alexei Constantin.

Why had he done it? Her question was anguished. Why had he not just left her alone? What had he danced with her for? There was no point. No point at all. So why do it?

Heavily, she sank into her chair.

Pierre Roflet looked at her silently a moment. Then he spoke. ‘You know who that is, don’t you?’ His voice was unnaturally grave.

Eve nodded, biting her lip. ‘Yes. He’s trying to buy my father’s company.’

Pierre nodded, his eyes expressive. ‘It’s not a good idea, cherie. Dancing. Or anything else.’

There was kindness in his voice, as well as warning. For a second she just looked at him, a stricken expression in her eyes. Then slowly, soberly, she inclined her head.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘Sensible girl.’ Wordlessly, he pushed her coffee towards her. And a glass of champagne.

With shaky fingers Eve took the glass, and drank from it.

‘You’d do better with me, cherie. You wouldn’t weep in the morning.’

Lightly, he brushed her bare arm with his fingers. Then he started to tell her another gossipy anecdote.

She tried to smile.

It wasn’t possible.

Alexei walked back to the bar. His gait was very controlled, his face expressionless. Beneath the mask of his face, emotions roiled like dark waters. He’d been insane, all right, but he’d got his sanity back now. Forced it back. Eve Hawkwood could resume her attentions to her original target.

Was she sleeping with Roflet already? Or was she holding out until Roflet père rode to her father’s rescue?

No, don’t think about Pierre Roflet enjoying Eve Hawkwood. The woman he’d wanted was not her. It was an illusion, a fantasy that did not exist. A mirage.

‘M’sieu?’

The barman was hovering attentively. Alexei gave his order.

‘Vodka,’ he instructed tersely.

The barman nodded, and turned to pour the drink. He placed it in front of Alexei and watched him knock it back, then replace the glass on the surface of the bar. Silently, he refilled it.

Alexei reached for it, let his fingers curl around the cool edge of the glass, but he did not drink it. Already the first one was burning down his throat. Deadening his senses.

‘Russe?’

The husky voice at his side was female. He turned his head.

There was a woman sitting on the barstool, nursing a glass of champagne. Young. No more than twenty, perhaps. Low-cut dress with a high hem. A lot of make-up.

Good-looking.

Expensive-looking.

Available-looking.

Alexei’s eyes narrowed slightly. Assessingly.

Then he answered her.

As he did so, he saw surprise—and wariness—flicker in her eyes. Then it was gone. Instead, she laid a hand with red-lacquered nails on his sleeve. She smiled.

Invitingly.

It took Alexei only a handful of minutes to persuade her to come up to his suite with him.

Eve watched him walk out of the nightclub. He was difficult to miss. The woman on his arm had the highest heels possible, and was swaying provocatively in her tight-cut dress that moulded over her bottom, skimming high across her thighs. Her long dark hair waved extravagantly down her back.

Her hand, with its long red nails, curled around Alexei Constantin’s forearm with blatant possession.

Eve’s hand curled tightly around the stem of her champagne flute. As if to break it.

How many more illusions could she stand seeing destroyed?

Yet one more, it seemed.

Pierre was looking where she watched, her eyes wide and stricken.

‘Definitely not a good idea, cherie,’ he murmured.

She tore her eyes away. She looked down into her champagne glass.

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘You’re right. Not a good idea.’ Her voice was strained.

She made herself look up, look across at Pierre. He gave a little grimace, half-sympathy, half-warning.

‘And a health risk.’ He nodded in the direction that Alexei Constantin was walking off in. ‘The girl is a hooker.’

Eve stared.

Pierre gave a light shrug. ‘I know—they shouldn’t let them in here. But they—or their pimps—bribe the staff. And she is one, cherie, believe me. She offered me her services when I was getting your drink while you were dancing.’ He made another slight grimace. ‘She is no doubt most expensive. But then, price is not a problem for Alexei Constantin.’

Eve hardly heard him. The sound of the final shattering of her last illusion drowned him out.

For one last, despairing second she felt herself try to fight against what she was seeing, but she was crushed down. Crushed by the damning reality of who and what the man was.

No one worth wanting. No one worth dreaming over.

Bleakly, she lifted her champagne glass to her lips.