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‘And I get to run interference?’
He nodded again, impatience visible in his manner but saying nothing, only letting those laser eyes of his rest on her, as if trying to bend her to his implacable will.
And then suddenly, out of nowhere, there was something in them that was a like a kick in her system—something that flashed like a warning light in her head...as if she stood upon the brink of a precipice she hadn’t even realised was there.
Just as suddenly it was gone. Had she imagined it? That sudden change somewhere at the back of those unreadable slate-dark eyes? Something he’d swiftly blanked? She must have, she decided. There was nothing in his expression now but impatience. He wanted an answer. And fast.
But she did not like being hustled. She took a breath and met his eyes, though she was conscious of the way she’d crossed her arms firmly over her chest, as if keeping him and his imposing, utterly out of place presence at bay.
‘OK, do I have this right? You will pay me five thousand pounds to spend up to ten days, max, as your house guest, and behave—strictly in public only—’ she made sure she emphasised that part ‘—as if I am your current squeeze, just as I did on that limo ride the other night, while your other house guest—Blondie—gets the message that, sadly for her, you are not available for whatever adulterous purpose she would like you to be. Is that it?’ She raised her eyebrows again questioningly.
His expression did not change. He merely inclined his sable-haired head minutely.
Tara thought about it. ‘Half up front,’ she said.
He didn’t blink. ‘No. You might not show up,’ he said flatly.
His eyes flicked around their shabby surroundings and Tara got the message. Someone who had to live in a place like this might indeed walk off with two and a half thousand pounds.
She made herself look at him. The man was loaded. He had to be, the way he behaved, the lifestyle he had—chauffeur-driven limo, hanging around at couture fashion shows in swanky hotels. No way was she going to be short-changed by him. After all, pro rata, the five hundred pounds for the bare half-hour previously was way more generous than this offer.
‘Ten thousand,’ she said bluntly.
It would be chicken-feed to a man like him, but a huge sum for herself. And exactly what she needed for her cottage. For a moment she wondered if she’d overplayed her hand. But then, maybe she should be glad if she had. Could she really face spending any more time in the company of this man? The reasons not to were not just her resistance to his rock-like personality...
Caution started to backfill the ridiculously heady sense of sparking exhilaration she had felt. Caution that came too late.
The voltage in those eyes seared. Then abruptly cut out. ‘OK. Ten thousand,’ he gritted out. As if she’d just pulled a tooth from his steeled jaw.
That spark of exhilaration surged again inside her, overriding the vanished and defeated caution. Boy, was he mad she’d pushed the price up!
She felt herself smile—a genuine one this time. And then, abruptly, her triumph crashed. With a gesture that was vivid in her memory, he was coolly extracting his gold-monogrammed leather wallet from his jacket, peeling off a fifty-pound note. Then a second one.
Reaching forward, with a glint in his eye that gave her utterly insufficient warning, even though it should have, he tucked the two notes into the front pocket of the shirt she was wearing.
‘A little something on account,’ he said, and there was a purr in his voice that told her that this was exactly what she knew it was.
His comeback for her daring to tip him with his own money.
She opened her mouth to spit something at him but he was turning on his heel. Striding from the room. Informing her, as he rapidly took his leave, that arrangements would be made via her agency.
Then he was gone.
Taking a long, deliberate breath, she removed the two fifty-pound notes from her breast pocket and stared at them. That, she reminded herself bluntly, was the nature of her relationship with Marc Derenz. And she had better not lose sight of it. The only reason he’d sought her out was to buy her time, because she could be useful to him. No other reason.
And I wouldn’t want it to be for any other reason!
Her adjuration to herself was stern. Just why it was that Marc Derenz, of all the men she’d ever encountered in her life, could have this devastating effect on her, she didn’t know. She knew only that no good could come of it. Her world was not his, and never would be.
* * *
It was hard to remember her warning to herself as, a week later, she turned to look out through the porthole of the plane heading for the Côte d’Azur. Their destination had been a little detail Marc Derenz had omitted to inform her of, but she had no complaint. Just the opposite. Her mood was soaring. To spend a whole week at least on the fabled French Riviera—and be paid for doing so! Life didn’t get any better.
She didn’t even care that she was being flown out Economy, in spite of how rich the man was. And, boy, was he rich! She’d looked him up—and her eyebrows had gone up as well.
Marc Derenz, Chairman of Banc Derenz. She’d never heard of it, but then, why would she have? It was headquartered in Paris, for a start, and it was not a bank for the likes of her, thank you very much! Oh, no, if you banked at Banc Derenz you were rich—very, very rich. You had investment managers and fund managers and portfolio managers and high net worth individual account managers—all entirely at your disposal to ensure you got the very highest returns on your millions and zillions.
As for her destination—the Villa Derenz was featured in architectural journals and was apparently famous as being a perfect example of Art Deco style.
