AllFreeNovel
Share Us
But the grief was still there. When he thought of his mother, his heart still twisted. He could understand a little of what Cassandra had gone through. To have one’s mother supplanted to so quickly, without consultation or any efforts to make it a smooth transition, was unfeeling in the extreme.
But, what if Cassandra had been lying? Or exaggerating, at the very least? He knew she’d stolen jewellery from Alyssia. She’d admitted as much years ago, and then again to him on that day when she’d discovered their connection. She’d also very skilfully hidden her true identity for four years, all the while sending misleading and untruthful emails home to her worried father. So she was capable of dishonesty when it suited her purposes, he rationalised slowly.
Benedict Savarin just couldn’t bring himself to believe that she was telling him the truth now. It wasn’t even a question of what he believed to be true. No, it wasn’t that simple. It was a question of what he wanted to believe.
If he came to trust her, and to trust her version of events, then he would have to own up to how he really felt about her. And wild horses wouldn’t allow him to admit to himself or anyone that he had fallen madly, deeply in love with the Sticky Fingered Heiress.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Benedict looked anxiously towards the revolving glass door for the hundredth time in the twenty minutes he’d been waiting. Dinner with Peter, Alyssia and Cassandra had seemed like an innocuous enough idea at the time. But that had been before he’d slept with her yesterday. Since then, his world had been plunged into disarray as he’d tried to filter through the conundrum of feelings that were confusing his usually razor sharp precision. It had all been so much simpler when he’d believed every word that Alyssia had told him. Now, having seen Cassandra’s spirited description of Peter’s actions after the first Duchess Hervey’s untimely death, he was not so sure he had been right to involve himself.
A small spark of memory fired in his brain. Something his cousin had mentioned years ago, when she had first married Peter. He frowned now, trying to remember the vague sentence that had, at the time, been of little interest to him. Something about the manner of Cassandra’s mother’s death. Yes, he recalled her words now, and they took on a new significance. One night, when he had visited the Manor, Alyssia had confided in him that all was not as it had seemed with Cassandra’s mother and father. She had intimated that her death had in fact been avoidable.
His frown deepened. With those instincts that had always served him well in business, he fixed Peter firmly with the full force of his gaze. “Peter,” he interrupted firmly. “How did your first wife die?”
Alyssia’s hand flew to her throat in discomfort. “Ben,” her voice shook a little, as she gave her husband a look filled with compassion. “It’s not something Peter likes to discuss.”
“He will have to put his own comfort aside for the moment,” Benedict pushed aside his cousin’s concern as though it were nothing. “I believe that there are some details Cassandra isn’t aware of. Am I correct?”
Peter’s ruddy complexion took on a sheen. “Now wait just a minute!” He said gruffly. “I’ve only just come to see her again after a lengthy absence. Before that, she was too much a child to know the full truth.”
“And what, pray tell, is the truth?” Benedict intoned flatly, alarm bells going off in his brain.
Alyssia’s nod to her husband was curt. “You can trust him, Peter. Benedict has no interest in rocking the apple cart. He won’t tell Cassandra if you ask him not to.”
Benedict Savarin had learned long ago not to make promises that couldn’t be kept, so he said nothing. His eyes on Peter were flinty, his gaze direct. Peter squirmed a little under it, but he heaved out a belligerent sigh and then began to speak. “Miranda – Cassandra’s mother – was having an affair.” His thin lips thinned further still. “I didn’t know about it until the funeral. The man came to me, attempting to extort money.” His eyes clouded over with remorse. “I’ve been a proud man, all my life. Too proud. I realise now I didn’t deal with it as I could have. I sent Cassie away so that she wouldn’t become involved in any of the scandal, were word to get out. The worst of it all, the part that I desperately didn’t want Cass to know, was that Miranda died in a car accident, driving home, drunk, might I add, from this bastard’s home.”
Benedict was careful to keep his expression neutral, but beneath the table, his hands balled into fists. “It must be difficult for you, to see Cassandra looking so like Miranda.”
“And so like her in personality, too,” Alyssia soothed, bringing a manicured hand to rub her husband’s shoulder.
“How so?” Benedict’s voice was filled with iron, and it did not escape Alyssia’s notice. She looked at him curiously.
“You know, the drinking. Partying. She’s always been a hit with the boys. With looks like hers, it was inevitable.” Alyssia watched him as she spoke, her eyes analytical, and Benedict found it a strain to maintain an impassive facade.
The urge to defend Cassandra was ludicrously strong. He found he could not resist it. “She isn’t like that, Alyssia.” Far more terrifying that Benedict’s rage was his contained, quiet temper, and Alyssia knew as much.
Her curiosity was piqued. “You don’t know her well enough to comment,” She demurred.
Benedict’s eyes flashed. “On the contrary, I have come to know her well over the last few months. Everything I have observed about Cassandra has shown her to be a focussed, intelligent, thoughtful and hard-working young lady. And sober. Until you arrived.” He amended. His heart swelled in his chest as he spoke of her in these terms, and he’d never felt anything like it.
“Careful, old boy!” Peter’s smile was watery. “You’ll have Alyssia hearing wedding bells with such extravagant praise.”
“Alyssia knows I am fair in my appraisal of anyone. I am not qualified to enter an opinion as to Cassandra’s behaviour as a teenager, however, she is an...impressive...twenty four year old. I do think she would benefit from some frank disclosures from you, Peter, regarding Miranda’s death.”
Peter leaned forward, his face suddenly lined. “Do you think she can handle it? She idolised her mother. Whatever else her faults, Miranda was a wonderful mother.”
Benedict nodded stiffly. “I’d go so far as to say she needs to know the truth.” Out of habit, he turned again to the door, and his stomach did a funny flip-flop when he saw a familiar blonde head bob through. He had thought she would not come. In the back of his mind, he’d entertained fears of her ransacking his apartment, searching for her passport, and booking the first flight she could to anywhere else. If she hadn’t appeared in the next five minutes, he had been prepared to bolt, in search of her.
Such an emotional reaction scared the hell out of him.
He had to control this thing. He could not fall in love with her. Or fall more in love with her, he corrected himself automatically. Whatever else, she was a thief, and she had lied to her father. No circumstances could justify those two actions, and he knew she would only bring him hurt. It wasn’t possible that he really loved her, he thought. They had an undeniable chemistry. He’d never shared a sexual connection with someone like he did with her. It was more likely that he was just mistaking that for something deeper.
Besides, when his mother had died, and he’d felt the full force of the pain that came from loving and losing, he swore he would hold his heart for the rest of his life. He cared about people, such as Alyssia, but his love was not on offer. To anyone.
Cassandra’s cheeks were flushed when she sat at the table, and Benedict recognised instantly that she was excited. “Sorry I’m late,” she explained in a rush, slipping elegantly into the fourth seat at the table, that an obsequious waiter held out for her. She flashed the waiter a bright smile in acknowledgement and the young man practically dropped dead with lust. Benedict felt a muscle in his cheek tick. He wanted to reach across and kiss her, to claim her publicly and mark his territory.
Benedict was wearing the disapproving scowl he’d donned almost constantly in the last week, and Cassandra felt the familiar prickle of nervous anticipation that swirled through her whenever she saw him. And it had been a day and a half. Since their ill-advised but incredibly hot session of passion on the floor of his apartment. He’d been avoiding her, and she’d been avoiding him, so it had been fairly easy to ensure they didn’t run into one another.
