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She could say nothing. Nothing at all. Only stare at him with horror and disbelief in her eyes. The savage fury bit again, and the guillotine’s deadly blade sliced down once more.
‘You did not really think,’ he said softly, his eyes never leaving hers, ‘that I would permit you to ruin my brother by marrying him, did you?’
A small sound escaped her, incoherent and strained. He ignored it. Ignored the expression in her eyes. Of course she would be horror-struck—at one blow all her dreams of a rich marriage were at an end. A rich marriage to a man on whom she had cheated even before the wedding could take place … with her bridegroom’s own brother.
‘Brother?’ The word was scarcely audible.
He made a slight gesture with his hand.
‘Yes, Armand is my brother,’ he confirmed. His voice was light, still pleasant.
He watched her expression change again—more confusion and bewilderment, layered over the horror and shock.
‘But … his surname is Becaud …’
He nodded acknowledgement. ‘As is my stepfather’s.’
‘Your brother …’ She echoed again, as if she still could not take it in. Then her face convulsed. ‘But why?’
His eyebrows rose quizzically. ‘Why did I seek an affair with you? To protect my brother—why else? When he told me of his intended folly, and my investigation of you revealed that you worked as a hostess in a place that was one step from a bordello, naturellement I took steps to protect him. I sought you out at the casino with that intent, and decided that the best way to remove you would be to seduce you myself. You were responsive to me, and that was all I required to effect my goal.’ His voice changed minutely, then he controlled it again—because control was essential, imperative. ‘It also served to confirm that my initial judgement of you was correct—you are unfit to marry my brother.
A woman who falls so rapidly into the bed of another man can have no feelings for Armand. Only—’ his eyes glittered with a dark, malevolent light ‘—for his wealth. Tell me,’ he went on, his tone conversational, his voice pleasant, with a deadliness in it that sliced like a razorblade, ‘out of interest, how much have you taken him for already? Surely you have—but how much, I wonder?’
Her face seemed to blanch, and he knew with the same savage fury that he had hit home. The glitter in his eyes intensified.
‘A considerable amount, I would venture. And tell me—again, out of interest—what touching fairy tale did you tell him to make him open his wallet on your behalf? A charitable cause that you support, perhaps? Or a sick relative in need of care? Or—?’
His voice was baiting, scornful. Annihilating.
A rasp from her throat silenced him. Her face was as white as whey, the skin stretched thin over her starkly outlined bones.
She got to her feet. The movement was jerky, like a puppet. A puppet whose strings were pulled too tight. For a moment something speared through Xavier that almost made him lurch up and go and catch her before she fell—catch her and hold her and embrace her and—
No! God almighty—had she not already fooled him so completely that if it had not been for the random chance of overhearing that damning conversation he might actually have gone on believing the fantasy he had woven about her? For the final time the blade of the guillotine crashed down. He would need it no more—she was revealed for what she was. Liar, cheat, treacherous, faithless, machinating. The list went on without end, without mercy or pity.
Destroying him.
But he would not be destroyed. He would not. Out of this destruction he would save one thing. Worthless, yes, but because it was all he could save he would. He spoke again, picking his words with deliberate intent.
‘But my intervention on Armand’s behalf has not been without its compensations.’ His voice had changed again.
Lissa stared at him, her eyes distended, horror drowning through her. He started to walk towards her. She wanted to move, run, flee—she could not. She was grounded to the stone beneath her feet. He came up to her. She could catch the scent of his skin, feel the warmth of his body.
The dark glitter in his eyes.
He reached out to touch her. She could not move. He cupped her cheek, his fingers lifting the fall of her hair and stroked down the side of her face with languorous delicacy.
‘You were very good in bed, cherie. Very good.’ There was approval in his voice. Appreciation. ‘I might actually have taken you with me.’
He smiled down at her, and sickness churned in her stomach.
‘You know,’ he said contemplatively, his fingers still warm on her skin, ‘you could have done very well out of it. I would have been generous to you, cherie. Your lack of interest in spending my money was very convincing, very touching. It would have encouraged me to spend lavishly on you. But you still preferred the security of marriage, did you not? Yet my brother is nowhere near as rich as I am. Did you not realise that? No? Armand has money of his own, evidement, but it does not, cherie, compare to mine.’ He paused a moment, eyes working over her face.
‘I own XeL,’ he said softly. ‘Do you know how much that makes me worth?’
He told her, down to the last million euros, what his wealth was.
He saw the shock flare in her eyes, and savage satisfaction speared him. So she had not known. And now, of course, she realised just how much she had whistled down the wind. He put in one final twist of the knife.
