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It was imperative that she hold him at bay. Now even more so. Her father’s ingratiating suggestion about the theatre had sent alarm bells ringing yet again. He evidently wanted her to go out with the man, and the only reason he wanted that must be that he’d decided it would further his ambitions to do lucrative business with Leon Maranz.
I won’t be used like that! I won’t!
The rejection was vehement, adamant. She had never let herself be set up by her father in such a way, and she wouldn’t start now! Not even with a man she was so attracted to. That was why she had to cut Leon Maranz—even if it meant she had to resort to open rudeness the way she was doing. He wouldn’t leave her alone, wouldn’t accept that she was refusing to have anything to do with him, refusing to give an inch, a centimetre to him.
And if she didn’t …
Like a traitor to her resolve, her gaze refocussed, for a fleeting moment, on his face. She could feel her pulse surge treacherously even as she hated herself for succumbing. Feel her eyes flare, her breath quicken.
Why this man?
That was the impossible question. The one she had no answer to. The one that confounded everything.
But it doesn’t matter! The cry sounded in her head, silencing the question she could not—would not—answer. It didn’t matter why this man? Because the only salient thing about him was that he was all bound up with her father and his endless attempts to use her to his own advantage. And because of that it didn’t matter a damn what she thought of Leon Maranz, or what she might otherwise do about the way he looked at her, the way he got under her skin, the way he got past her guard, the way he made her feel. It just didn’t matter!
And this evening didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter that she was being rude to him. It didn’t matter that her father was clearly hopping mad at the way she was behaving, and that Anita was throwing dagger-looks at her. Or that Leon Maranz’s eyes were resting on her as if he had just lifted a stone and seen something crawl out from underneath it
It just didn’t matter …
For a moment sheer, raw misery filled her, intermingled with the self-contempt she could feel flushing through her for the way she was being right now—the way she had been ever since she had realised that it was this man her father wanted her to be nice to. He wanted her to accept his company, his attentions, his invitation to go the theatre with him.
Resentment spiked through her misery. Resentment at her father for putting her in this invidious position in the first place, for not giving a damn about her at all and never having done, for not caring about her mother, or her grandmother, or anyone else except himself and what he wanted. Resentment of Leon Maranz, who wanted to do business with a man like her father and who assumed she was nothing more than a pampered, workshy snobbish socialite!
And yet underlying all those layers of resentment was a deeper layer still—resignation. Resignation because with her grandmother to care for any relationship with anyone was impossible … just impossible …
Emotion twisted inside her, like wires around her throat.
‘I adore the theatre!’ Anita’s breathless gush was a welcome invasion of her inner turmoil. ‘And cabaret especially.’ Her eyes widened as if she’d had a sudden idea. ‘There’s a really good new cabaret club opened recently—it’s got rave reviews. How about if we all go on to it now?’ She beamed.
‘Great idea,’ Alistair Lassiter enthused, getting heavily to his feet. ‘I think we’ve done our bit here,’ he said portentously, nodding at the charity signage.
Anita stood up eagerly. ‘Brilliant!’ she breathed, and radiated her fulsome smile at Leon.
Flavia’s heart sank. Oh, no. To be dragged off to some wretched club—please, no!
But Leon Maranz was shaking his head. ‘I’ve an early start tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I must be making a move.’
Thank God, Flavia found herself thinking fervently. But the next moment she realised she had been premature—disastrously premature.
‘Well, in that case,’ her father was saying, holding Anita closely at his side, ‘I’d be very grateful if you could see my daughter home safely. You’d be all right with that? I’d worry about her otherwise.’
He spoke with his customary public doting fondness that made Flavia cringe at its falsity. And at the implications of what he’d just asked Leon Maranz to do.
She stood up hastily. ‘I’m perfectly capable of getting a taxi,’ she said tartly.
But Leon Maranz had got to his feet as well. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he replied. His voice was smooth, emollient. ‘Of course I’ll see you home.’
Her father was rubbing his hands. ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Well, then, if we’re all ready for the off …?’
Stiffly, relieved the ordeal of the charity bash was finally over, but more than dreading the journey back to her father’s apartment, Flavia walked briskly from the ballroom. Could she possibly manage to snaffle a taxi immediately outside the hotel and make her getaway?
But getting away from Leon Maranz when he was on the prowl proved impossible. Leon’s chauffeur was already holding the door of his waiting car open for her, and she had no recourse but to climb in. Thankfully the interior was huge, and she squeezed herself against the far side of the wide seat, hastily drawing the seat belt over her and fastening it, lest Leon Maranz attempt the office himself. But he had simply thrown himself into the other side of the seat, fastened his own belt, and stretched his long legs out into the spacious well behind the glassed-in driver.
A moment later the limo was pulling out into the late night traffic of Park Lane. It would take a good fifteen to twenty minutes, at best, Flavia knew with sinking heart, to get to Regent’s Park.
She wondered whether Leon Maranz was going to attempt any form of conversation with her, but to her relief he merely glanced at her, bestowed a brief, social smile upon her, then took out a mobile phone from his tuxedo and proceeded to make a series of phone calls. All were of a business nature, and Flavia allowed herself the respite of letting her head rest against the smooth, cool leather of the headrest and close her weary eyes.
She didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see him, long legs stretched out, shirt moulding his broad chest, strong, compelling features animated, as he gave what appeared to be a series of terse instructions to those who were presumably his minions. No, she didn’t want to look at him at all. Wanted to blank him out—write him out of her existence.
