by Anna DePalo
Colin experienced a sudden surge of anger at an unnamed jerk.
Blast, he was far gone.
One kiss.
He cupped Belinda’s face and ran his thumb over her mouth. She closed her eyes on a sigh, and he bent his head to sip from her pink lips.
She tasted sweet, so sweet. Their breaths mingled.
He sunk into the kiss, heedless of the fact that they were next to the elevator and the doors could open at any moment.
He’d always been daring. He’d had to take risks to expand his real-estate empire. In his personal life, he’d skydived, bungee jumped and usually done whatever was the thrill in vogue—much to the chagrin of his mother, who hadn’t liked seeing the heir or, subsequently, the holder of the marquessate, risking his neck.
“This is Vegas, and you know what that means,” he said after the kiss ended.
Belinda had looked at him inquiringly.
“There must be a wedding chapel nearby.”
The lark had started that way and just gained momentum.
They’d gone downstairs again, and sure enough, they’d located a wedding chapel without too much trouble.
He’d never met a woman before who was willing to up the ante with him. It was a powerful aphrodisiac.
And then back at the hotel, when they’d finally gone to bed, she’d stunned him with how natural and uninhibited she was.
In the morning, however, he’d been met with a completely different person from the hot woman with whom he’d gone to bed.
His pride had been stung. He’d been thinking about their day and the ones after that, and she hadn’t known how to get rid of him fast enough.
In that moment, of course, the Wentworth-Granville feud had become personal. He’d vowed to end the stalemate between the families, once and for all.
He played to win. It was why he’d engaged in a secret purchase of some prime London real estate, unbeknownst to the Wentworths.
“Be careful, Easterbridge,” Hawk said, recalling him from his thoughts. “Even seasoned gamblers have their losses.”
Sawyer nodded. “I haven’t bested you at poker anytime lately, but on the other hand, one could argue that just means you’re overdue for a dry spell.”
Colin quirked his mouth. “I’m happy with the cards that I’m holding at the moment.”
Four
Seven months later
Soon she’d be free.
Or at least single again—she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be free of family obligations and expectations. For one thing, her family still had the expectation that she would marry again—and marry well.
As she steered her rental car up the drive of the private estate, Belinda forced herself to relax.
Nevada was known for granting quick and simple annulments. Fortunately for her, because she and Colin had married right here in Las Vegas, she didn’t even have to establish the usual six weeks’ residency in Nevada in order to take advantage of the court system.
Colin had kept her on the hook long enough, she’d decided. She’d waited until her June wedding fiasco had faded from everyone’s memory. She’d spent months stewing, not wanting more of a scandal but not knowing how to avoid one, either. Now she hoped to quietly have her marriage to Colin dissolved.
She was going for broke trying to get an annulment rather than a divorce. Nevada made it a relatively simple matter to obtain an annulment, unlike New York. With an annulment, it would be as if her marriage had never existed.
Unfortunately, her relationship with Tod had been a casualty of the past several months of her wait-and-see approach. They’d had a parting of the ways, and she could hardly blame him. Who wanted to wait around while his fiancée continued to be married to another man?
She’d gone scouring for a work assignment in Nevada so she could obtain her annulment without tipping anyone off as to her real purpose. Fortunately, something had fallen into her lap. An anonymous collector wished to have his private collection of French impressionist art appraised.
She’d do her work, and in the meantime, she already had a meeting scheduled with a lawyer tomorrow to see about the paperwork for her annulment.
She emerged from her car in front of an impressive Spanish-style hacienda and breathed in the warm air. She looked around the drive, which was alive with the color of cactus flowers. The weather in this suburb of Las Vegas was mild and lovely in March—a contrast to what she was used to in New York or back home in England. Just a slight breeze caressed her arms, which were bare in the sleeveless wheat-colored belted dress that she wore.
She’d been told that the mansion was more of an investment property than anything else and that its owner resided elsewhere. Still, it seemed to be very well maintained. Clearly the owner was someone willing to invest plenty of time and effort in his property.
She looked around. There were no other vehicles visible in the drive, but she had been told that a small staff made sure that the estate ran properly.
Within moments, however, the housekeeper with whom she had spoken through the intercom at the front gate opened the arched aged-wood front door. The middle-aged woman greeted her with a smile and ushered her inside.
After declining any refreshment, Belinda let the housekeeper give her a short tour of the lower level of the house. As an art appraiser, she often found it helpful to see how clients lived generally. The rooms here were large and tastefully decorated but devoid of personal memorabilia—like a staged photo shoot for a home-furnishings catalog. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, because the mansion was just an investment property.
After a quarter of an hour, she followed the older woman upstairs to what she was told functioned more or less as the art gallery.
When the housekeeper pulled open the double doors, Belinda stepped inside the vast room—and immediately sucked in a breath.
She identified a Monet, a Renoir and a Degas. They were lesser known works, of course, since the most famous ones hung in museums around the world. Still, from her point of view as an art expert, there was no such thing as an obscure Renoir.
More importantly, she recognized the paintings as works that had come to auction in the past few years—her auctions. The auctions she’d organized had gone so well as to earn her a promotion at Lansing’s.
She’d wondered then whom the mysterious buyer or buyers had been. In her line of work, it wasn’t unusual for a buyer to wish to remain unknown, sometimes using a business entity through which to make purchases. But whoever the owner was, Belinda had envied him or her even then.
The paintings were beautiful—dappled, romantic works of art. She wished she had had the money to purchase them. She admired the sensibility of the owner and the good sense shown in the way of the paintings’ display.
The room was a mini-museum. It was large, had white walls and sported temperature control. The few pieces of furniture were arranged so that no matter where one sat, one had an excellent view of the paintings on the walls.
The housekeeper gave her a smile and then a polite nod. “I’ll leave you to your work.”
Belinda glanced at the older woman, who looked indulgent at how overwhelmed she was. “Thank you.”
After the housekeeper departed, Belinda walked to the center of the room. She stood there for a moment, turning first to the Renoir and then to the Monet. She sat down on a nearby chair for further contemplation.
She was delighted that the paintings had found a place together. They were some of those she’d loved best among those that she’d been fortunate enough to have cross her desk. She’d performed her role well and sold them to the highest bidders for excellent prices. She had scattered them far and wide—or so she thought.
But now she could have her cake and eat it, too—sort of. They were all here.
The Monet was of a man and women in close conversation against a green landscape. The Renoir was a couple dancing in a close embrace. And the Degas was a ballerina figure in pirouette.
After m
inutes had ticked by, she stood up and moved to the Renoir to inspect it more closely.
The brushstrokes were, of course, exactly as she remembered them.
She heard the door of the room open, and before she could turn around, a voice reached her.
“I believe they’re worth more than I paid for them.”
The tone was dry, amused…and familiar.
She froze, and then a second later as she pivoted, her eyes collided with the Marquess of Easterbridge’s. “You.”
Colin’s lips tilted upward. “I believe the correct term is husband.”
“How did you get in here?” she demanded.
He looked amused. “I own this house.”
Belinda stared at him, her mind reeling as she tried to absorb his words.
Colin looked fit and healthy, and he dressed like an aristocrat at play. He wore a white shirt with rolled cuffs and dark trousers with a thin belt. She assumed they were all ordered from a Savile Row tailor that the Granvilles had patronized for generations.
As usual, Colin was cool and self-possessed. There wasn’t a trace of the cat who ate the canary, though she supposed he was entitled to the feeling right now.
“Returning to the scene of the crime?” she asked, desperate to mask how he had rattled her.
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of immediately launching into an angry polemic about how he had tricked and cornered her.
His eyes gleamed. “The wedding, you mean? It’s our third anniversary, you know.”
She tossed her hair and feigned indifference. “Really? I didn’t recall. All I’m waiting for is the chance to celebrate our annulment.”
Colin sauntered farther into the room. “So that’s why you’re back in Las Vegas?”
“Whether you cooperate or not,” she stated unequivocally.
Colin continued to look unperturbed. In her dreams, he wouldn’t respond to the service of annulment papers on him. There’d be an uncontested dissolution of their marriage. Of course, in her dreams, she also regularly had a disturbing replay of their passionate night in Vegas.
He gestured around them. “I hope you enjoy examining these works of art.”
She regarded him suspiciously. “What are you up to?”
He gave her a small smile. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“You lured me here.”
“On the contrary, you came willingly in order to obtain an annulment.” He regarded her. “I will admit to guessing that you’d probably make your way back to Vegas sooner or later. I thought I’d make the trip worth your while.”
“And so you’re having some impressionist art work appraised?” she mocked. “Are you planning to sell them?”
Despite herself, she felt sad that he might sell and split up these beautiful paintings. If only she had the means to offer to buy them herself.
Colin tilted his head. “No, I have no intention of selling. At the moment, I’m far more interested in cultivating my investments.”
She felt palpable relief, even though she told herself again that what he did, or didn’t do, was of no matter to her. “You recently bought these paintings. Why would you want them appraised? There hasn’t been enough time for any significant appreciation.” She pursued her lips. “They are authentic, you know. I can personally vouch for it.”
“Ah, authenticity,” he murmured. “It’s what I look for.”
She shifted, aware that he might be talking about something other than the paintings.
Colin tilted his head. “As I said, I wanted confirmation that I paid a good price. Like most of my investments, I think they’re worth more than I bought them for—at least, now.”
Again, Belinda experienced the uncomfortable feeling that there was a subtext to his words that she didn’t wholly understand.
“You can’t put a precise number on art, though many people try to,” she responded. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder after all.”
“So I’ve understood,” he responded, his tone soft.
She watched him look her over, down to the tips of her toes. His gaze started with her face—she only wore light makeup—traveled down to her dress, lingered at her bust and ended with her peep-toe floral-print sandals.
She felt the weight of that look on her breasts and at the juncture of her thighs, even before it made her strangely unstable on her legs.
It was an appreciative look—and enough to belatedly bring out her combative instinct.
“Why are you doing this?” It was time to drop all pretense.
“Perhaps I would like to lay claim to being the one who finally buried the Wentworth-Granville feud.” To his credit, he didn’t pretend to misunderstand her meaning, but his gaze remained enigmatic.
“If you want to end this feuding between us, all you have to do is sign the dissolution papers.”
“Hardly any valor to lay claim to in that—it’s far too passive.”
“You could always divorce me on the grounds of adultery,” she suggested hopefully.
She tossed out the rude comment as a gambit and then regretted it when Colin looked keen and possessive.
“Yours or mine?” he asked.
“Mine, of course.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you do. You never slept with Dillingham.”
His audacity took her breath away.
“Really,” she answered with scorn. “And how would you know that? Confident that you ruined me for any other man?”
His smile was deceptively slow and mild. “No, but a marriage contracted to save the family farm is rarely full of passion.”
Belinda sucked in a breath.
“And then there’s the fact that you had sex with me here in Vegas three years ago only after we were married. What did you say you’d come to understand? You were looking for a man who played for keeps? I guessed that you were likewise making Tod wait.”
Belinda realized she was chewing on her bottom lip and abruptly stopped—to anyone who knew her well, her habit was a giveaway that she was nervous. Three years ago, she’d still been smarting from being tossed aside by a boyfriend.
“Except I ruined matters for you with Dillingham, didn’t I?” Colin continued. “And now, in desperation, Uncle Hugh has taken matters into his own hands. I bet you had no idea the Wentworth financial affairs were quite so desperate.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
She should have figured that Colin had an ace up his sleeve. After all, she’d seen his successful streak at the poker tables three years ago. And she knew from his real-estate holdings that he had an uncanny ability with numbers and investing.
“Have you spoken with your uncle lately?” he countered.
“No.” Belinda searched her brain. “What’s wrong with Uncle Hugh?”
“Nothing, but he has given up his Mayfair town house.”
Belinda knew her uncle moved around on a regular basis. “There’s nothing unusual—”
“Permanently.”
Belinda stilled. “Why would he do that?”
“Because the Mayfair town house now belongs to me.”
Belinda shook her head. “That’s impossible.”
Just a few months ago, she’d been at the Mayfair address that had belonged to the Wentworth family for generations. True, her uncle had seemed preoccupied and worried, but she’d never imagined—
“On the contrary, you’ll find the deed has been properly recorded…unlike our annulment. Your uncle may still reside there on his estates, but it’s at my discretion.”
Belinda looked at him with stupefaction. “Why in the world would Uncle Hugh sell the town house to you? You’re the last person in the world to whom he’d sell.”
“Simple,” Colin responded in a dry tone. “He wasn’t aware I was the ultimate buyer. The town house was sold to one of my companies. Presumably he didn’t know I was the principal shareholder. I imagine he thought he
was selling to one of those newly minted Russian oligarchs who prize privacy as well as London real estate.”
She stared at Colin in astonishment. It couldn’t be…
Colin shrugged. “It was a quick sale for an agreeable price. Your uncle was apparently looking for a quick infusion of cash.”
“What does that have to do with me?” she demanded defiantly.
“I also already owned the larger of the two Berkshire estates.”
Belinda’s shoulders lowered. The Wentworth family had, somewhat unusually, two estates in Berkshire. The smaller of the two was of more recent origin, having come into the family through the marriage of her great-great-grandmother. The larger—which Colin apparently now owned, if his claims were to be believed—had been in the family since the days of Edward III. Downlands, as it was called, bordered Granville land, and had been the subject of a prolonged property-line dispute with Colin’s family in the nineteenth century.
Belinda’s head buzzed. She had no responsibility for the Wentworth estates, she told herself. After all, she had her life in New York as an art dealer. She was far from the family fray—or was she?
“I suppose you acquired the Berkshire estate through a similar anonymous purchase? The privately held company that you used for the transaction wouldn’t be LG Management, would it?” She named the mysterious company that she had been told owned the Las Vegas hacienda that they were in.
Colin inclined his head. “LG Management, yes.” He quirked his lips. “Lord Granville Management.”
Belinda’s eyes narrowed. “How clever of you.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Her mind raced even more. How was it possible that the family holdings had been so diminished and she had been unaware of it? Was the family’s financial situation that dire?
“How did you pay for your lavish wedding to Tod?” Colin asked, seemingly reading her mind.
Belinda started guiltily. “It’s none of your business.”
Colin thrust his hands in his pockets. “I imagine that in the customary way the Dillinghams bore some of the cost, but as far as the Wentworth share, I can’t imagine that you shouldered the entire burden.”
