by Julia James
The next morning, before she could change her mind, she phoned the auction house that was located in the county town, and arranged for one of their valuers to call that afternoon. When he came he identified several items—furniture and silver, and a landscape painting by a well-known Victorian watercolourist—that he expected to sell for the amount of money she would need to pay back her father, but it was still with that heavy heart that she committed them to the saleroom’s next auction.
Guilt continued to pluck at her. But by early evening, however, she knew she had made the right decision. She had started to receive messages on the landline answer-machine from her father.
She’d been aware he’d been phoning and texting on her mobile, which she’d ignored, and now she did the same to the landline messages he left, irately ordering her to phone him back. The latest, however, which she heard as she came down from her grandmother’s room in the early evening, stopped her in her tracks.
‘Leon Maranz is trying to get in touch with you. He’s complaining to me that you aren’t returning his calls on your mobile. Damn well answer them, girl—he’s not someone I want annoyed! What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Just phone him back!’
Her father’s angry voice was cut off, and Flavia was left staring at the handset in its cradle on the table by the front door. Cold flushed through her.
Then heat.
Then, jerkily, she snatched up the phone and hit the ‘message delete’ button.
But she could not delete the memory of what her father had said.
Leon Maranz was trying to get in touch with her.
Emotion spiked through her. It was dismay—of course it was dismay! How could it be anything else? This was exactly why she had fled London! Just as she’d dreaded, he’d taken that damn episode in his limo as some kind of encouragement! And now he wanted more.
Into her mind’s eye leapt a vivid imprint of his strong, saturnine face, the dark, heavy-lidded eyes levelled at her. Their message crystal clear. As if she had lifted a floodgate memory poured into her head, and for one long, endless moment she was back in the limo, gazing helplessly at him as with the lean, casual power of a predator he moved in on her to take his fill of her …
She dropped the phone back in its cradle, realising her hand was shaking.
Whatever it took—whatever it took—she would never go back to London—never again put herself in the path of Leon Maranz. She would sell those antiques, pay back her father and never again be used and manipulated by him. Never again be trailed by him like alluring bait in front of the men he wanted to do business with.
Even if that man were Leon Maranz.
Especially if that man were Leon Maranz.
CHAPTER SIX
LEON dropped his phone on his desk and threw himself moodily back in his chair.
Were the hell was she? Flavia Lassiter had disappeared off the face of the earth. Her father had admitted he had no idea where she was, speculating only that she must be staying with friends, and her mobile was perpetually on voicemail, his texts unreturned. He glared stormily ahead of him across the vast expanse of his office.
Frustration bit at him. OK, so he’d been an idiot, pouncing on her like that, and he’d obviously spooked her big-time. But he was trying to make amends now. Yet how could he do that if she was running shy of him the way she was now?
Was there someone else in her life? If there were, all she had to do was tell him—not bolt and hide the way she had! The poisoning suspicion crawled into his head yet again. Or was it that Flavia Lassiter was not hiding from him because he’d scared her off, but because she had no intention of having anything to do with someone who was not from her own gilded background—who’d made his own painful way up from penury, a no-name immigrant without breeding or class …?
His eyes darkened as he felt once more the suspicion and resentment that her dismissive attitude had first spiked in him. Was that why Flavia Lassiter had gone to ground? Because she wanted nothing to do with a man like him, born and raised in a South American shanty town?
For a moment emotion swirled within him, dark and turbulent. Then, abruptly, he reached for the phone on his desk again. If Flavia Lassiter thought herself above the world he came from, well, he didn’t—and he would remind himself of that right now. Remind himself that, for all the glittering riches of the world he lived in here in Europe—the one Flavia Lassiter had been born into and took for granted—back across the Atlantic, in the vast southern hemisphere, teemed millions just like him, living the way he’d once lived. Wanting only a chance, a hope, a stepping stone to a better life, a better future. And to get that future they would work every bit as hard as he had done—harder. All they needed was that first, vital step on their way.
Which was where he came in.
He punched through to his PA in the outer office. An impromptu visit would put his fixation with Flavia into perspective—remind him of his roots, of what his wealth had made possible. Values infinitely more essential than those the Lassiters held dear.
‘Book me on a transatlantic flight this afternoon—first available carrier. I’ll need all the pro bono project files updated, and have the local project managers on standby. Tell them to get their latest proposals ready for me to look over—and alert Maranz Microloans I’ll want to see their books, plus take in some site visits.’
‘What about your appointments today, Mr Maranz?’ his PA enquired dutifully. ‘Mr Lassiter has phoned twice this morning to check the deal’s still on.’
Leon’s mouth tightened. Lassiter was trying to hustle him, hoping to change the terms of the deal in his favour. It would be no bad thing to let him sweat for a while—show the man that his terms were non-negotiable.
‘Tell him it’s postponed,’ he said tersely.
‘Till when?’
‘Till I get back to London—and, no, I don’t know when that will be. Next week some time. Maybe later. I’ll let you know.’ He disconnected. He didn’t want a discussion or a debate. He didn’t want anything right now except to clear his London desk this morning and head far, far away.
A change of perspective was what he needed. It might help take his mind off the woman who was frustrating the hell out of him.
Flavia was in the garden, dead-heading one of the rows of hydrangeas just beyond the open French windows leading into the drawing room. Her grandmother was in an armchair by the window, a rug over her lap, looking out at her. There was no expression in her face, but her eyes went to Flavia from time to time, and Flavia would pause and chat to her, as if she could really take in what she was saying.
‘There’s a lot of new growth coming through,’ she was saying cheerfully. ‘I think I’m going to need to do some watering, too—it’s been so dry today. Mind you, if it does stay dry I can get the lawn mown tomorrow. It’s looking quite long already.’
She chattered on, determinedly cheerful—as much, she thought with a hollow feeling, to keep her own spirits up as in an attempt to do the same with her grandmother.
It was one thing to know with her head that she absolutely must not have anything more to do with Leon Maranz.
It was quite another thing to accept it.
This is my world, here.
She looked about her. It was a beautiful day, and Flavia could feel her spirits respond to the uplifting sight of Harford’s extensive gardens. The lawn was framed by shrubberies, and fronted by a wide herbaceous border. It was a lot to keep up single-handedly, as Flavia did, but it was a labour of love.
Just as caring for her grandmother was a labour of love.
She glanced back, her smile deepening, but there was sadness in it, too, as she looked at her grandmother. She seemed so small and frail and vulnerable, sitting there so still in her chair. As if she were already living in another world.
But she was safe here—safe in the home she had known for over half a century—and this was where she would end her days, with her granddaughter at her side. Nothing would chang
e Flavia’s mind on that. If it meant putting her own life on hold—well, so be it. It was a gift she would gladly give her grandmother.
She stretched her shoulders and resumed her clipping, dropping the dried dead heads of the hydrangea into a willow basket. As she got stuck in to her task again she picked up the sound of a vehicle approaching by the front drive. Murmuring to her grandmother, she went in through the French windows and out into the front hall just as the doorbell rang. Opening it, she saw it was the postman.
‘Special Delivery,’ he said, holding out a pad for her to sign.
She did so, and took the large thick envelope wonderingly, bidding the postman goodbye and shutting the door. She stared at the envelope a moment. It had been franked, but there was a name on the frank she could not read. It was addressed to her—a typed label. Junk mail? Surely not, she reasoned, if it was a special delivery.
She started back to the drawing room, opening the envelope with her fingernail and extracting the contents. Thick folded paper—some kind of document beneath a letter. Frowning in puzzlement, she started reading.
It was from a firm of City solicitors—one she’d never heard of.
As she read, the blood started to congeal in her veins. With shaking hands she dropped the letter on the sofa and sank down beside it on wobbly legs, her eyes burning into the documents. Sickness filled her.
Then, abruptly, she leapt to her feet, seized up the letter, and plunged into the room her grandfather had used as his study. She picked up the phone. Her hands were shaking, the sickness like acid in her stomach, and she could hardly dial the number she knew she had to call.
Her father took her call—as if he were expecting it.
‘So,’ he said, ‘I’ve finally got your attention, have I? About bloody time!’
Flavia’s teeth were gritted. ‘What the hell have you sent me?’ she demanded.
Her father’s voice sounded unmoved by her agitation. ‘Isn’t it clear enough? It’s what it says it is—a loan agreement. Plus a note of the accumulated interest since the loan was made.’
‘But when—when did this happen?’ Flavia tried to keep the panic out of her voice and failed.
‘It was after your grandad snuffed it. Your gran was worried about money—funeral expenses, legal fees, house repairs, utility bills, all sorts of things. She’d never had to cope with all that stuff. So …’
He paused, and there was an unholy note in his voice. Flavia could hear it, with a hollowing of her insides.
‘I offered to help out. Tide her over, so to speak. ‘Course, I had to make a bit of profit out of it, didn’t I? So maybe the interest rate was a bit more than the bank would have charged. But then your gran wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know she was borrowing money, would she? Bit infra dig, don’t you know?’ Her ruthlessly mimicked an upper-class accent. ‘Whereas having your own son-in-law lend a hand—and some filthy lucre—was quite different!’
Flavia’s jaw clenched. Yes, different, all right! Though the principle sum loaned had been high, the ruinous, outrageous rate of interest her poor bewildered grandmother had agreed to made the total repayments monstrous! She was still reeling, heaving with shock and sickness. She stared again at the solicitor’s letter setting out the total amount currently owed. Dear God—this wasn’t a question of selling a few antiques to raise a few thousand. This was ten, twenty times more! A fortune!
Her mind raced frantically. She had to pay that terrifying debt off! It was mounting daily, and it was hideous—hideous! But there was only one way to do it. Borrow money to pay it off.
She swallowed, her hand gripping the phone like a vice. ‘I’ll get it repaid,’ she said grimly. ‘I’ll raise a mortgage on Harford and settle the debt that way!’
How she would pay the mortgage off was something she’d cope with later—right now the only priority was to stop her father’s rip-off loan increasing even more, even faster.
Her father gave a laugh. It raised hairs on the back of her neck.
‘You haven’t got time. The next letter you get from me will be a foreclosure.’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t you read the loan agreement? The loan is secured against Harford, and I can demand repayment at any time. Which means—’ there was a fat, satisfied note in his voice that made Flavia want to scream ‘—I can force a sale whenever I want. Like … tomorrow.’
There was silence. Absolute silence. Flavia could not speak, could not think. Could only stand clutching the phone, swaying with shock, disbelief and horror.
Into the silence, her father spoke.
‘It doesn’t have to be this way, Flavia. It can be a whole lot easier. In fact—’ a new note entered his voice, which made her flesh crawl ‘—it should be very enjoyable for you—that’s what Anita says, and she knows about these things. She’s very envious of you.’
Through her pounding heartbeat, Flavia spoke. ‘What … what do you mean?’
Her father gave another laugh. Fat and satisfied.
‘You’ve made a conquest,’ he informed her. ‘Leon Maranz has taken a shine to you—he’s keen to get in touch. The only problem is—’ Flavia could hear her father’s voice ice with anger ‘—you are refusing to play ball!’
Colour flared out along Flavia’s cheeks. ‘I don’t want anything to do with Leon Maranz!’
‘Tough!’ retorted her father. ‘He wants you, and right now anything Leon Maranz wants and I can get him he gets.’
Flavia’s chest heaved. ‘If you think for a single moment that I—’
Her father cut her off. ‘What I think is that you will pack your bags and take the first train to London tomorrow morning. And you will get in touch with Leon Maranz, and you will be very, very nice to him. Do you understand me?’
There was ice in Flavia’s veins. Ice in her voice. ‘What exactly do you mean by “nice”?’
Her answer was a coarse, impatient sound. ‘Oh, for God’s sake—do you want diagrams? You’re not a nun—even if you try and dress like one! Though God knows it seems to have turned him on, so I guess I can be grateful for that. Maybe he’s so spoilt by having stunners all over him that he wants a change? Who cares why? So long as it’s you he wants, it’s you, my girl, that he’s going to get!’
She was gripping the phone so hard she thought it must shatter beneath her hands.
‘You want,’ she said slowly, each word forced from her, ‘to pimp me out to a man you’re doing business with?’
Her voice seemed to come from very far away. Horror, disgust and loathing were rising like vomit in her throat. Her father—her own father—was doing this to her …
How can he be this vile—how?
But it didn’t matter how. She knew what he was—had known it all her life. Had known all her life that her father did not love her, cared absolutely nothing for her, saw her only as someone to be used … exploited.
Pimped.
Her father was speaking again, and she forced herself to listen. His voice sounded angry now.
‘Let me spell out some home truths to you, my girl! This recession has played bloody havoc with me! Right now I need to keep Leon Maranz happy, any damn way he wants, because he’s all that stands between me and being totally wiped out! Got it? He’s a turnaround merchant—invests in hard-hit companies and pulls them through. Why the hell else do you think I’m all over the man? I wouldn’t give him the time of day if I didn’t need him! Some bloody foreigner lording it over me!’
Instinctively Flavia flinched at the offensive term.
‘And you want to pimp me out to him—’ scorn was acid in her voice ‘—just to save your skin.’
Her father gave a derisive, mocking laugh. ‘Little Miss Pure and Virtuous? Is that it? Well, you can be as bloody pure and virtuous as you like when you and your senile old bat of a grandmother are out on the streets! Because I promise you—’ his voice congealed the breath in her lungs as he spoke ‘—if you don’t play ball and make sure Leon Maranz gets everything he
wants from you, I’ll rip Harford from you. It’ll be on the market this week. So what’s it to be? It’s make your mind up time.’
Slowly, very slowly, Flavia looked at the documents lying on her grandfather’s desk. Saw the zeroes blur, and then reform. Felt acid leach into her stomach, cold inch down her spine.
Slowly, very slowly, she gave him her answer.
The team of project directors seated around the table were setting out their next round of pro bono proposals for funding. Leon knew he should be paying more attention, but his mind was distracted. Focussed elsewhere.
It had been for days now. Focussed on the mobile phone in his jacket pocket. Whenever it rang he was aware of a distinct jolt of expectation and hope. Would it finally, this time, be Flavia Lassiter returning his calls?
But it never was.
He’d hoped that leaving London would stop him being constantly on the alert for her, but here he was on the point of heading back east across the Atlantic and he was just as frustrated by her silence as ever. He’d tried accepting that she just didn’t want to know, tried putting her out of his mind, even tried looking out for another woman to take his mind off Flavia Lassiter.
But even the famed beauty of South American womanhood had failed to beguile him. The more he’d tried to be beguiled, the less he had been. The more he’d kept seeing Flavia in his mind’s eye, feeling her lips beneath his in his memory, the pliant softness of her body in his embrace …
It was infuriating. It was exasperating. It was unnerving.
I’m becoming obsessed …
The unwelcome notion played in his head, disturbing and disquieting. He tried to rationalise it away, reminding himself that up till now he’d never had to face female rejection—that was why he was reacting so badly to Flavia doing it. But he could rationalise it all he wanted—what he couldn’t do was expunge her from his memory or cease to want her.
They’d reached the end of the proposals, and he realised he must make the appropriate answers. Forcing his mind to focus on the subject in hand, he found himself simply giving blanket approval to everything. And why not? he reasoned impatiently. His team were first class, reliable and hardworking, with excellent judgement—it was why he’d picked them in the first place. So their proposals would be fine. He need not check them. Instead he would do what he’d been itching to do all through the meeting. Check his incoming texts.
