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Involuntarily her eyes went to him again, seeing for the first time not the five-thousand-pound Savile Row suit, the silk tie, the gold watch snaking around his lean wrist—all the appurtenances of wealth and luxury. Seeing something quite different.
The young, impoverished, desperate immigrant, striving with all his determination, all his dedication and perseverance, to transform his destiny from what would have awaited him in his place of birth—the teeming, fetid favela—to one he had wrought for himself out of the opportunities he had been given in coming to Europe, to the rich Western world.
And not just for himself. Leon Maranz had not turned his back on his origins, not left his compatriots to rot, but had determined to use the wealth he’d made to help lift them out of the same poverty he’d once known. He’d have to have faith in them, offered them a chance just as he’d once had.
Emotions clashed within her. One, she knew, was a strong, bright glow—a shining sense of admiration for what Leon Maranz had achieved, was still achieving. An admiration that brought with it something else.
He’s a man I need have no reservations about, no qualms—he’s free from the venal, avaricious taint of my father, who built his fortune ruthlessly and without any compunction for anyone else. He’s nothing like my father—for all his wealth—nothing like him at all!
Yet even as the realisation sent that glow through her it brought in its wake more bitter anguish. A burning, shaming consciousness of being her despised father’s tool, being used by him for his own ends,
forced into deceit, manipulation, lies, to safeguard what she held so dear.
It was unbearable—unbearable!
Her eyes dropped again, tension once more racking her body.
Across the table, Leon watched the transformation. He had almost broken through the web of constraint and nerves that had been so visibly possessing her since she had walked into the restaurant—almost! But now it had webbed around her again, and she was back to being as tense as a board …
For the rest of the evening he strove to break through again, to see once more that spark of contact, of communication with her. But it was gone. Extinguished. All he could achieve was a strained, awkward conversation, with him doing nearly all the talking, about one anodyne subject after another. Frustration bit in him. Just as she’d started to thaw towards him she’d frozen solid again. Yet something had changed between them, making his fears about her attitude towards him dissolve. And on that he could build—work. Work to rekindle that small but so-revealing spark of human warmth he had seen in her. Work to draw her out, draw her to him—win her to him.
And if that took time—well, so be it, then.
He accepted her halting conversation, making the evening as easy for her as he possibly could. And when the meal was over he thanked her for her company, evinced his pleasure at it, told her his car would take her back to her father’s apartment and then asked if he might see her again.
Flavia stood on the pavement outside the restaurant. At the kerb the large black limo was hovering, its driver dutifully holding open the door for her. Leon was smiling down at her.
‘Can I persuade you, if not to Shakespeare, then to something else at the theatre? Is there anything playing that might tempt you? Or perhaps,’ he elaborated, wanting to give her not the least reason to turn down his seeing her again, ‘you might prefer the opera, or a concert? Or what about an art exhibition?’ he finished, wanting to give her as many options as he could in the fervent hope that something—anything!—might trigger her interest, be the key to break down her constraint.
But all he got was a low-pitched, awkward, ‘I don’t really mind … Whatever you would like …’
What I would like, thought Leon frustratedly, is what you would like. But all he said in response to her lukewarm reply was a measured, ‘Well, I’ll see what I can come up with, OK?’ He delivered it with a smile he hoped was reassuring and complaisant. Then, in a slightly brisker tone, he said, ‘Till tomorrow, then—will seven o’clock be all right for you?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Thank you for this evening. Um—goodnight.’
She flickered her hesitant social smile at him and climbed into the car, murmuring a semi-audible thank you to the driver holding the door. Then she sank back into the deep leather of the interior.
Misery writhed within her. Seeing Leon Maranz again had been a torment of exquisite proportions! To sit opposite him, across that small table lit by candlelight, to want to do nothing more than drink in everything about him! But to be every single moment tormentingly conscious that she was there at her father’s bidding, the tool of his machinations—pimped out to the man he wanted to save his riches for him …
Shame burnt along every nerve-ending, inflamed with anger at her father—anger at his threat to her frail, vulnerable grandmother; anger that he was prepared to use his own daughter to try and save his sorry skin; and anger, above all—the realisation came like a blow to the heart—that he was poisoning something that could have been so incredibly special to her.
For the first time in my life I have met someone like no one I have ever met before! Whatever it is about Leon Maranz, he can affect me as no one else ever has! For the first time, I have known what desire truly is …
But it had been poisoned by deceit. Polluted by her father’s blackmail.
Making it impossible for her to be as she truly wanted to be with Leon. Making her frozen with the shame twisting inside her like wires of guilt. Holding him at bay because of the unspoken lie between them, the threat hanging over her head that she dared not tell him about yet which held her in unbreakable talons.
Misery welled dully within her as Leon’s car drove her away. Back to the father she hated with all her being for what he was doing to her. Making a cruel mockery of her tormented, anguished feelings.
Alone on the pavement, Leon watched the car disappear into the London traffic. Frustration warred within him, against a steely determination. There must be a way of getting through to her! A way to persuade her to finally lower her guard against him and start to respond to him. He had seen a precious, essential glimpse of it as he’d told her of his background—but then she had clammed up again!
But at least, he reasoned, as he hailed a taxi to take him back to his apartment, she’d agreed to see him again—and the very next night. He had till then to come up with something that might appeal to her—something that might help her relax a little towards him. But what? She’d sounded nothing more than polite about any of his suggestions.
His brow furrowed as the taxi turned into Shaftesbury Avenue. All around London buzzed and blared with noise from the traffic, garish neon lights from the shops, restaurants and the theatres that lined the road, and the pavements were thronged with people out for the evening. Suddenly it dawned on him. An echo of her terse comment when he’d asked where she lived sounded in his memory.
‘I don’t like cities.’
Of course—that was it! Enlightenment hit him. No matter how carefully he’d chosen the restaurant tonight, it was London itself she didn’t care for.
