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She hated her father with all her being for what he was forcing her to do.
Because there was no way she could defy him. That was what was so appalling. She had been over and over and over it in her head, round and round and round. It had occupied her like a hideous monster. She had phoned her grandmother’s solicitors the moment he had rung off but, as her father had sneeringly warned her, they knew nothing about the massive loan her grandmother had so rashly, dangerously accepted from her father. Any small hope that he might be bluffing—though really she had known from his air of triumph that he was not—had been swept away the next morning when, after a churning, sleepless night, a car had drawn up at Harford and a slick-looking estate agent from a non-local firm had emerged, primed to inspect the house and value it for ‘immediate sale’, as he’d oleaginously declared. He’d been closely followed by a courier who had delivered an ominous packet with the name of her father’s city solicitor’s name on it. Filled with dread she’d opened it, and there it was—a foreclosure notice.
For twenty-four hours Flavia had wrestled with the nightmare, taking all the documents in to the local solicitors in a hope against hope that there might be something flawed about them. But, as her father had told her, there was nothing they could do. Nothing at all. He could take Harford from her and her grandmother any time he wanted.
Any time at all …
Unless she did what he was demanding of her …
Anguish filled her. Not just because she was having to face up to just how monstrously selfish her father truly was, how utterly uncaring of her, but because of more than that.
Into her head came the image she was trying not to let in. The lean, disturbing face of Leon Maranz, who had had such a dangerous, powerful impact on her. An impact she had had to deny, reject. Her stomach hollowed. But now she was being forced to accept it after all.
Her hands twisted in her lap. She hated herself for what she was doing.
But she was going to do it anyway. She was going to go out to dinner with Leon Maranz, accept the situation—accept anything and everything he wanted of her.
She swallowed heavily, then, a moment later jumped. It was the internal phone. The concierge was calling up to tell her that her car had arrived. For a long moment she did not move. Then, slowly, very slowly, she stood up and left the apartment.
Walking on leaden feet.
Leon had chosen the restaurant with care. He wanted Flavia to like it—to feel comfortable there. It was the antithesis of anywhere Alistair Lassiter and his flashy girlfriend would choose. They would want somewhere fashionable, where people went to see and be seen. This place was totally different.
He glanced around with a sense of having chosen well. The restaurant was an eighteenth-century town house in Mayfair that prided itself on retaining and recreating as much of the ambience of that period as possible. All the furniture was antique, and the panelled walls were hung with old paintings and portraits. The original sash windows were draped with Georgian-style floor-length curtains. The original room layouts had been preserved, so even on the first floor there were only half a dozen tables—if that—giving the impression of discretion and privacy. This evening several tables were still unoccupied, and he hoped Flavia would not feel crowded or under observation. He wanted her to feel at ease.
Restlessly, he glanced around, anticipation flickering within him. He’d waited so long for this—and now, finally, it was about to start. He had checked with the driver of the car he’d sent for her—she would be here any minute …
And there she was! Pausing in the doorway. One of the restaurant staff was ushering her in, indicating his table to her with an unobtrusive murmur. For a moment she was completely still, but Leon did not mind. He was drinking her in.
Seeing her again, in the flesh and not just in his memory, was confirming everything that had drawn his eye from the first. That perfect bone structure, the clear eyes, the oval frame of her face, the long, slender throat and her beautiful, graceful figure—all was just as he remembered. Yes—she was exactly what he wanted.
His eyes worked over her assessingly, the slightest twist tugging at his mouth.
She was dressed with an even greater austerity of style than she had been that first evening at the cocktail party at her father’s apartment. Not only was her hair tightly drawn back into a sleek chignon, and her make-up subtle to the point of being understated, but she was wearing a knee-length dress in dark grey, with a little stand-up collar and sleeves that reached almost to her elbows. All that brightened her was a single row of pearls, and pearl studs at her earlobes.
He got to his feet, and as if a switch had been turned on in her back she started to walk towards him. She looked very pale, but he thought that might be because of the low lighting from the wall sconces. As she took her place at their table, the candelabra to one side gave her pale flesh a warmer glow.
He sat down opposite her, letting his eyes rest on her in appreciation.
‘You came,’ he said.
She inclined her head, reaching for her linen napkin, which she flicked across her lap. The barest smile, the least that would pass muster in a social situation, fleeted across her mouth.
The mouth that opened to mine—that tasted of honey, and roses, and all the delights that she promised with that kiss …
His eyes flickered. Well, those delights would come now. It was impossible that they should not. Now she wanted them as much as he did. Her presence here was proof of that.
As he let her settle herself, let the waiter pour her water, proffer menus to them both and the wine list to himself, he contented himself with looking, not talking.
She was still not meeting his eyes, and for a moment there was a darkening glint in his. Then enlightenment dawned. It was obvious—the set of her shoulders, the ramrod-straightness of her back, the way she wouldn’t look at him, the briefness of her smile not just to him but to the waiter as well. All showed one thing only.
She was nervous.
It was as clear as a bell. That was what was constraining her. Nerves. And she was nervous, Leon knew with every male instinct, because she was doing exactly what he wanted her to do—being ultra-aware of him.
Ultra-aware of the fact that he knew, and she knew, and they both knew that they had shared an embrace that meant she could never—not for a moment—go back to the way she had been before that embrace: pretending to him, to herself, that she was not responsive to him.
But
