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Alyssia had been left distraught by the young girl’s treatment. He hadn’t needed to think about his response. He had been incensed, but he had never gone so far as to plan anything retaliatory. When fate had delivered Kate Harris into his hands, like putty, he’d been powerless to simply hand the information to his cousin and then walk away. How he wished he had. No amount of pleasure they’d shared was worth the distraught pain he could see in every line of her exquisite body. Knowing that it was his actions which had caused her distress made him feel almost ill. It was an unusual thing for Benedict Savarin to experience remorse. Once he had made a decision, he never looked back. Now, he felt plagued with doubts.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Cassandra,” he said quietly, repeating his earlier sentiment.
She could have laughed, his words were so ridiculous. “Didn’t you?” She asked, her face glowing with arrant disbelief. “Wasn’t that the whole point of your vengeful plan?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t know who you were that first night we met?”
She went very still, and then slowly began to shake her head. “I’ll never believe another word you have to say.” She whispered sadly. “I thought we shared something real, Benedict.”
“I’m surprised you thought anything about the last four years has been real at all, given you have lied about everything from your name to God knows what else.”
She coloured to the roots of her hair. “So, you really expect me to believe it was just dumb chance that brought us together?”
He pressed his lips together. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“I wasn’t even supposed to work that night,” she murmured, looking across the room, her eyes haunted. “One of the other girls called in sick at the last minute. Idiot that I am, I agreed to cover for her.” She stomped her foot. “If only I’d said no,” she regretted wistfully, and Benedict narrowed his eyes.
If she had said no, they’d never have met. Why did that idea fill him with such cold dread?
CHAPTER FOUR
The first thing Cass noticed about Peter Hervey was that he’d aged. Visibly. Only four years had passed but the man she still thought of as daddy looked... old, suddenly. Older than his fifty seven years. Unlike his wife. The new Duchess Hervey was, of course, only eight years older than Cassandra, and she looked young and vibrant besides the greying man.
Cassandra observed them from the wide balcony, obscured behind a potted palm. Her palms were sweaty and she clasped them together nervously. They were late. Some event in the city had held their town car up in traffic, Benedict had told her formally a little over an hour ago. And her nerves had grown and stretched tighter with every minute she was kept waiting. What would they say? How would they seem?
From between palm fronds, she watched her father, vile stepmother and ex-lover engage in hushed conversation. About her, no doubt, she thought with a small roll of her eyes. The sense of being cast into the light of spoiled little kid rankled.
Seeing her stepmother, dressed in a Chanel suit that clung to her like a second skin, with six inch spike patent heels on her long, pantyhose clad legs, Cassandra suddenly wished she was wearing more armour. In stark contrast, Cass had nothing on her feet except for the watermelon coloured nailpolish on her toes. Her legs were also bare but for the coconut oil she’d lathered on a few hours ago. She’d thrown a batik print sarong on over her bikini when the doorbell had rung, and her hair was wild from being in and out of the pool all day. She wobbled her foot anxiously against the edge of the ceramic pot plant. There was no way she could put it off any longer.
It was better to have the upper hand and appear conciliatory, she decided, and balled her courage together. “Daddy,” She said with all the appearance of breeziness as she sashayed into the air-conditioned lounge. Conscious of Benedict’s intense stare following her progress across the room, she kept her attention focussed only on her father. The one face in three that wasn’t giving her daggers. He was staring at her in shock. She placed a kiss on his cheek. Despite the passage of time, she couldn’t bring herself to hug him.
She had wondered, last night, when sleep had resolutely eluded her, what it would feel like to see him again. Would she be overcome by fondness? Affection? The answer, she was disappointed to discover, was a resounding no. The only thing that came to her was a sense of emotional clarity and relief. She had felt guilty
for such a long time over leaving them, and instantly, she knew she had been right to do so.
Forcing herself to acknowledge her step mother with a curt nod, she stepped back from the little ensemble. Everyone was watching her, as though she were a piece of dynamite about to explode in spectacular fashion.
“Cass,” Peter Hervey croaked unsteadily. “You look just like your mother.” It wasn’t a compliment. Not coming from him.
Cassandra’s eyes flew to her stepmother. Peter had just broken his own rule. They were never to speak of the first Duchess Hervey, Miranda. Seeming to remember himself, he rubbed a hand across his eyes. “You’ve grown up.” He amended, reaching out and taking his wife’s hand in his own by way of apology.
Cassandra’s temper flared with all the rage she possessed for this couple. “Four years.” She observed coldly. “Almost five. I suppose it’s to be expected.”
When her father didn’t respond, she turned towards her bedroom. “I’m going to wash the chlorine off before dinner,” she called over her shoulder.
She stepped out of the sarong, bitterly wishing that Benedict Savarin had not been her stepmother’s cousin. How perfect her life would still seem, with her father and his horrid second wife on the other side of the world, and the man she had fallen in love with completely separate from that orbit. What she wouldn’t give to rewind to four days ago.
Cherie would know what to say to make this better. If she was still talking to Cassandra. The thought of her best friend being annoyed with her over the necessary secret-keeping made her feel even worse, if that was possible, and she lifted her mobile phone off the bedside table. She fired off a quick text messaging asking Cherie to meet her later tonight at their usual bar. She wanted to explain to someone who knew her well enough to give her the benefit of the doubt.
It was a hot Summer’s day and Cass had caught a fair amount of sun. The water on her naked body was soothing and she stayed in the shower until her fingers and toes were pruning. She washed her hair then blow-dried it until it hung in soft, voluminous waves around her face. She applied her makeup with care, and dressed in a black mini dress. Her favourite pair of heels, which she’d bought in a seconds sale, were added to give her the height and confidence she would need to get through dinner with her father and Alyssia. Not to mention Benedict, that dark and brooding presence that could set her body on fire with just one scathing look.
It gave her a perverse amount of pleasure to see how late it was when she was finally ready to answer to own her little jury. They’d already decided she was the original enfant terrible, and proving them right had now become habit.
Benedict was preparing martinis when she meandered into the lounge with an air of relaxation she was far from feeling. One look at him dressed head to toe in black, looking darkly dangerous and desirable, made her pulse quicken. Their eyes clashed, and he made no effort to hide his leisurely inspection of her figure. She looked away, suddenly parched.
“Darling, come, sit. Have a drink and tell me your news.” Peter Hervey patted the sofa cushion next to him.
“I’d prefer to stand,” Cass demurred with a tight smile. The look Alyssia shot Benedict did not escape her, and she felt colour suffuse her cheeks. Did she need any further proof that they’d been partners in his little deception?
