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My father’s house, she thought, anguished. My birthright and my mother’s vindication and ultimate happiness. I’ll have lost it all. Everything...
‘I am waiting,’ he tormented softly.
She said, ‘I need time to think...’
Zac shook his head. ‘I require your answer now. Do we have a bargain—yes, or no?’
Mannion, she thought. Isn’t that what really matters—that has to outweigh everything else?
She raised her head. Looked at him. She said huskily, ‘Then I suppose—yes.’ She hesitated. ‘What happens now?’
She was waiting for him to laugh and tell her that he had indeed been joking. After which, she supposed, she would somehow have to leave with her head held high.
‘I suggest a private civil ceremony with Nicola and Eddie as witnesses as soon as the necessary formalities are completed.’
Then it wasn’t a laughing matter after all. He had it all worked out, she realised with disbelief.
And swallowed. ‘Do we have to make an announcement? People will think it’s so weird.’
‘We do not have to concern ourselves with the opinions of others.’
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ she said. ‘Barricaded behind your security, your press office and your PR wall. I have to get on with my life. My job.’
‘I fear Jarvis Stratton must become another sacrifice to Mannion. It would be best for you to hand in your notice—effective immediately, and vacate your flat.’ His smile was ironic. ‘Then join me behind the barricade.’
As her lips parted indignantly, he added, ‘The matter is not open to debate.’
She drew a deep breath, ‘You want us to—to live together—now.’
‘No, cara, I will spare you that. From tomorrow, you will occupy the penthouse suite at the Capital Imperiale, where you met my father. I shall remain at my apartment—and count the hours,’ he added softly. ‘They say anticipation only increases the appetite. I shall enjoy discovering if that is true.’
Colour flared in Dana’s face. She said unevenly, ‘Please don’t say things like that.’
She rose, feeling as if the ground was shifting under her feet. ‘Now I suppose I must obey orders and go back to London to pack my things.’
She was halfway to the front door when she remembered something and turned, almost colliding with Zac who was close behind her.
‘I beg your pardon.’ She recovered herself with a gasp. ‘I’ve left my case in the book room.’
Standing next to it, the champagne looked like a bad joke. Dana snatched at her case, only to realise with horror that she hadn’t closed it properly after taking out the Cristal, and that everything it contained was now cascading to the carpet.
Including, of course, the sheer black nightgown, which had been a last-minute purchase that morning, born from a kind of desperation. A different sort of Dutch courage, she’d told herself.
Rooted to the spot, she watched Zac bend to pick it up, studying the shape of his hand through the transparent chiffon. And probably able to read his own fingerprints at the same time, she thought, biting her lip in an agony of embarrassment.
His voice like ice, he said, ‘A celebration indeed.’
Rolling it into a ball, he tossed it to her. ‘Please do not think of wearing this for me.’ He added, ‘My tastes, you will find, are very different.’
He moved to the fireplace and rang the bell. ‘Now you must excuse me. Signora Harris will see you out.’
Unable to look at him or speak, Dana bundled everything back into the case, and escaped.
Knowing, as she did so, that any freedom would only be temporary. And that she’d just committed herself to a giant leap into a terrifying unknown.
* * *
There were two messages on her machine at the flat, both of them from Nicola, sounding upset and wanting her to call back.
She’s heard about Australia, thought Dana, and wants to talk about Adam. But I can’t, because I don’t know what to say. And, anyway, I have to try and make sense of today—if that’s possible.
She stood for a moment in her living room, looking round her.
It wasn’t large, a third of it occupied by the neat galley kitchen at one end, while the bedroom was even smaller, because some of its space had been used for an en-suite shower room. But, for a single person, it was fine and the rent was—just—affordable.
She’d painted the walls ivory and furnished with care, picking up a small sofa at auction, which she’d had re-covered in a rich William Morris fabric costing far more than the sofa itself. Her small Victorian kneehole desk, carefully cleaned and assiduously polished, had been a junk shop bargain.
