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A snarl sounded in his throat.
Had that cheque she’d paid in this afternoon been from Philip too? Had that postmark been from Paris? Had it been his writing on the envelope? His expression changed. The envelope would still be in her bag, even if the cheque were not. That would be all the proof he needed.
Is she hoping to take me for even more?
The thought was in his head like a dagger before he could stop it. Was that what was behind her ardency, her passion?
The passion that burns between us even now, even right to the bitter end...
Self-hatred lashed at him. How could he have done what he’d just done? Swept her to bed as he had, knowing what she truly was? But he’d been driven by an urge so strong he hadn’t been able to stop himself—an urge to possess her one final time...
One final time to recapture all that they’d had—all he’d thought they’d had.
It had never been there at all.
The dagger thrust again, into the core of his being.
He wrenched open the door.
She was not there. The rumpled bed was empty. Her clothes gone.
Emotion rushed into the sudden void in his head like air into a vacuum. But quite what the emotion was he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was striding out of the room, with nothing more than a towel snaked around his hips, wondering where the hell she’d got to.
For a numb, timeless moment he just stood in the hallway, registering that her handbag was gone too, so he would not be able to check the writing on the envelope. Then, from the kitchen, he heard the sound of the coffee machine spluttering.
He walked towards it, seeing that the room was empty. Seeing the note by the coffee jug. Reading it with preternatural calm.
Bastiaan—we’ve had the most unforgettable time. Thank you for every moment.
It was simply signed ‘S.’
That was all.
He dropped it numbly. Turned around, headed back to the bedroom. So she was walking out on him. Had the sum of money she’d extracted this time been sufficient for her to afford to be able to do so? That was what Leana had done. Cashed his cheque and headed off with her next mark, her geriatric protector, laughing at the idiot she’d fooled and left behind.
His mouth tightened. Well, things were different now. Very different. Sabine did not know that he was Philip’s trustee, that he knew what she had taken and could learn if she’d taken yet more today. She had no reason not to think herself safe.
Is she still hoping to take more from Philip?
Memory played in his head—how Philip had asked him to loosen the purse strings of his main fund before his birthday—how evasive he’d been about what he wanted the money for. All the suspicions he’d so blindly set aside leapt again.
Grim-faced, he went to fetch his laptop.
And there it was—right in his email inbox. A communication today, direct from one of Philip’s investment managers, requesting Bastiaan’s approval—or not—for Philip’s instruction to liquidate a particular fund. The liquidation would release over two hundred thousand euros...
Two hundred thousand euros. Enough to free Sabine for ever from warbling in a second-rate nightclub.
He slammed the laptop lid down. Fury was leaping in his throat.
Was that what Philip had texted her about? Bastiaan hadn’t been mistaken in recognizing him as the sender—he could not have been. Was that why she’d given that soft, revealing chuckle? Was that why she’d bolted now, switching her allegiance back to Philip?
Rage boiled in Bastiaan’s breast. Well, that would never happen—never! She would never go back to Philip.
She can burn in hell before she gets that money from him!
His lips stretched into a travesty of a smile. She thought herself safe—but Sabine Sablon was not safe. She was not safe at all...
And she would discover that very, very shortly.
