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And blackness in his soul.
Like a shutter, he closed the past away from him and turned away from the window. He never allowed himself to remember. Never.
All he ever allowed himself to do was send money to Father Tomaso, who spent his life gathering up the unwanted street children, day after day, little by little earning their trust, reaching out to them until they turned to him and came with him to the refuge he offered them. Shining the first ray of light into their unbearably dark lives.
Now, thanks to money from the Saez coffers, more and more street children could be taken into refuge, given the chance that he had been given so long ago to become something other than human detritus thrown away on the midden of unspeakable poverty—as he had been, before Father Tomaso had found him and rescued him.
Deliberately he summoned another memory, a far more recent one, to replace the dark horror that lay haunting him, deep within his mind. As he crossed the room on long legs, heading for the drinks cabinet, he saw in his mind’s eye the stately proportions of the dining room at Salton—two hundred and fifty years of gracious living, frozen in time. His expression hardened. How could anyone born to that have been so careless with it? Tom Lanchester was a fool. It had taken a single glance at the bank’s books for him to know that. Still, he should be glad of it. After all, thanks to Lanchester’s financial idiocy he now had within his reach something that he intended to possess to the full.
He poured a shot of whisky into a glass, feeling his body enter that most pleasurable state of imminent sexual arousal. She would be here soon.
Another memory slid into his mind, mingling with the sensations beginning to stir in his body. Portia Lanchester, wearing that classy, understated black number last night as he’d walked into her ancestral home. It had been her face he’d concentrated on, relishing the expression of outraged disbelief on her well-bred features, but it had not blinded him to her body. The material of the dress had been silky, but slightly stretchy, grazing her breasts and outlining the delicate sculpture of her shoulders. Her pearls had leant their sheen to her skin, giving it a translucence that had been almost tangible.
What would she be wearing when she came to him now? As he lifted the whisky glass to his mouth he found himself hoping that she would not signal her intentions too obviously. She would come, of course, to offer him her body in exchange for safeguarding her family’s wealth—and he would, of course, accept her offer. But he did not want her to do so dressed for that role.
The glass stilled at his lips, and he found himself lowering it slowly. Something moved in his mind. Some emotion. He wondered what it was, and then he realised.
It was regret.
His eyes darkened minutely.
Regret, he knew, that his pursuit of Portia Lanchester should end in this fashion.
It was not what he had intended.
He had intended a quite different affair. One in which Portia Lanchester succumbed to his desire for him simply because—
Because all women he desired did so.
He cast his mind around. Had there ever been a woman who had resisted his desire for her? He could remember none. He had only to indicate his interest and she was his. Nor was it just his wealth that made them so responsive. All his life, even while clawing his way out of poverty, women had come easily to him.
Except Portia Lanchester.
That, of course, had been part of her allure—that she had resisted him.
A frown entered his darkening eye.
But she had gone on resisting him, and allure had begun to turn to impatience. So he had called time. And then—his mouth tightened into a grim line—she had revealed the reason for her resistance outside Claridge’s.
Her contempt for his origins.
Dismissing him as not worthy of her illustrious breeding and ancestry.
Not good enough for her.
And in that instant the game had changed.
He lifted the whisky glass to his lips and took a generous mouthful, letting the complex fiery liquid burn around his palette, savouring the sensation.
Portia Lanchester had changed the game, and now it was being played out with new rules. She had made clear her values to him—all that was important to her was her money and her social status. To protect that she would do whatever she had to.
Including coming to his bed.
Slowly Diego let the whisky glide down his throat, kicking into his system. It felt good. His body felt taut, and fit, the first tightening of sexual anticipation was tensing through him.
He glanced at his watch. The gold gleamed in the lamplight.
She would be here soon.
