by Julia James
He was looking at her curiously and she could see he was about to pursue the subject. She knew she must head him off instantly. It was dangerous ground—far, far too dangerous!
‘How … how does eighteenth-century style in Britain compare with its equivalent in South America?’ she asked, trying to find an anodyne topic, the kind of neutral small talk she made when at her father’s social gatherings, to draw him away from her own situation. ‘I’ve never been anywhere in Latin America, but the historic colonial style is very distinctive, and so attractive—both in the town houses and in the country estancias.’
Leon’s voice, when he replied, was dry. ‘Yes, indeed. For those few fortunate enough to live in such style. Unfortunately most of the population does not. It was not until I visited my country for the first time in a dozen years since I left for Europe that I was able to set foot in such a property—one that had been converted into a luxury hotel. Until then my only experience of accommodation in my native land was in a shanty town.’
Flavia stared. Frowned. ‘A shanty town?’ she echoed.
‘A favela—though strictly speaking that is a Brazilian term.’ He paused, looking at her openly astonished expression. Questioning it. ‘I was raised in a city slum,’ he said. ‘I came to this country, penniless, at the age of fifteen.’
Flavia set down her fork. ‘I had no idea,’ she said.
Leon’s frown deepened. Could it be true that she had no idea of his background? There had been astonishment in her voice.
But not revulsion.
He could feel hope flare within him again. Were his doubts about her unnecessary? Let them be so …
‘How did you manage to get here?’ she asked. There was genuine enquiry in her voice, interlaced with her astonishment.
She wanted to know? Well, he would tell her. Tell her the grim, difficult story of his rise from penury to wealth. See how she reacted to it.
‘I came with my uncle—he spent his life savings getting us here. He wanted a better future for me, his dead sister’s son, than could ever have been possible at home.’
She was still staring at him. ‘But how on earth did you manage to get from that to … to what you are now?’
There was a note of disbelief in her voice, as if she thought he must be exaggerating the poverty of his origins. But what there was not, Leon could tell—and the realisation surged through him—was any note of repugnance or revulsion at his lowly start in life.
‘I worked,’ he said simply. ‘To anyone from the Third World Europe is a place of incredible opportunity to make good. So I worked non-stop. And, though it was hard, little by little I put money aside. My uncle, to my grief, became ill three years later and died, but by then I was on my way. I studied at evening college to understand the financing of business, and did any work going to increase my savings.’
He warmed to his theme, feeling memories leap in his head from a dozen years ago. ‘What I spent them on was others like me, striving to make good. I chose very carefully, and if I thought they were serious and dedicated, and above all, hardworking, I loaned them the small amounts of money that they needed to buy inventory, rent premises, machinery, transport—to start their own businesses. I took a share in their profits—a fair one, no more as they prospered, and little by little I prospered, too. I increased my investments, my loans, nearly always amongst the immigrant community who understood—still understand—how much the West has in comparison with the Third World, how hard work can lift them out of poverty with an ease that is almost impossible in the Third World primarily because of the lack of credit, the mass poverty there. And that is why,’ he finished, ‘now that my investments are on a corporate scale, and my profits, too, I run an extensive financing programme in microloans and similar on-the-ground investment back in South America.’
There was a caustic note in his voice now, Flavia heard, listening with growing astonishment and attention as he went on. ‘Some economists who are used to vast government-backed investments from the global banking community, and they might consider my efforts small fry. But—’ his eyes narrowed, becoming piercing with his intense emotion ‘—they have never lived in those shanty towns, never realised that it is individuals who are poor—not populations. National prosperity is built from the ground up, family by family, and that is my focus. My goal. My mission in life.’
He fell silent at last, burningly conscious that he had done something he had never done before—bared his soul about what was most important in his work. She was gazing at him, lips parted. The expression in her eyes was different from any he had yet seen there.
And it filled him with an emotion he had never yet felt.
‘I think it’s extraordinary,’ she said quietly. ‘An extraordinary achievement.’ She paused, picked up her fork again. ‘No wonder you think me shallow and spoilt for not working.’ Her voice was small, subdued, and she would not look at him.
Emotion was coursing through Leon. Not just because he had bared his soul, but because of how Flavia had reacted. Relief—more than relief—leapt in his breast.
She didn’t know I was born poor—and she is not offended or contemptuous of it!
If there was any hint of contempt it was for herself.
He was swift to dissolve it.
‘None of us is responsible for our background. Only for what we do, how we live our lives, the decisions we make,’ he said.
It was meant to be a gentle remark, a soothing one. Yet before his eyes her face changed. The animation that had been there a moment ago as she’d spoken to him vanished. Tension leapt again, and it was as if a mask had shut down over her. Her eyes dropped and she swallowed, reaching for her wine glass.
She took a mouthful, feeling the need for it. His words burnt like a new brand on her skin. Consciousness of what she was doing here—why she was there, at whose bidding and for what purpose—scalded her. But there was nothing she could do—nothing! If she did not go along with what her father wanted he would turn her grandmother out of the house she loved, sell it from under her feet, without pity or compunction or remorse.
But if she’d felt bad before about what she was doing at her father’s behest, now, having heard just what kind of man Leon Maranz truly was, she was excruciated.
I thought him just one more fat cat financier, born to some wealthy South American family, cocooned in money, caring only about the next profit-making deal to be made.
The truth was utterly different.
Involuntarily her eyes went to him again, seeing for the first time not the five-thousand-pound Savile Row suit, the silk tie, the gold watch snaking around his lean wrist—all the appurtenances of wealth and luxury. Seeing something quite different.
The young, impoverished, desperate immigrant, striving with all his determination, all his dedication and perseverance, to transform his destiny from what would have awaited him in his place of birth—the teeming, fetid favela—to one he had wrought for himself out of the opportunities he had been given in coming to Europe, to the rich Western world.
And not just for himself. Leon Maranz had not turned his back on his origins, not left his compatriots to rot, but had determined to use the wealth he’d made to help lift them out of the same poverty he’d once known. He’d have to have faith in them, offered them a chance just as he’d once had.
Emotions clashed within her. One, she knew, was a strong, bright glow—a shining sense of admiration for what Leon Maranz had achieved, was still achieving. An admiration that brought with it something else.
He’s a man I need have no reservations about, no qualms—he’s free from the venal, avaricious taint of my father, who built his fortune ruthlessly and without any compunction for anyone else. He’s nothing like my father—for all his wealth—nothing like him at all!
Yet even as the realisation sent that glow through her it brought in its wake more bitter anguish. A burning, shaming consciousness of being her despised father’s tool, being used by him for his own ends,
forced into deceit, manipulation, lies, to safeguard what she held so dear.
It was unbearable—unbearable!
Her eyes dropped again, tension once more racking her body.
Across the table, Leon watched the transformation. He had almost broken through the web of constraint and nerves that had been so visibly possessing her since she had walked into the restaurant—almost! But now it had webbed around her again, and she was back to being as tense as a board …
For the rest of the evening he strove to break through again, to see once more that spark of contact, of communication with her. But it was gone. Extinguished. All he could achieve was a strained, awkward conversation, with him doing nearly all the talking, about one anodyne subject after another. Frustration bit in him. Just as she’d started to thaw towards him she’d frozen solid again. Yet something had changed between them, making his fears about her attitude towards him dissolve. And on that he could build—work. Work to rekindle that small but so-revealing spark of human warmth he had seen in her. Work to draw her out, draw her to him—win her to him.
And if that took time—well, so be it, then.
He accepted her halting conversation, making the evening as easy for her as he possibly could. And when the meal was over he thanked her for her company, evinced his pleasure at it, told her his car would take her back to her father’s apartment and then asked if he might see her again.
Flavia stood on the pavement outside the restaurant. At the kerb the large black limo was hovering, its driver dutifully holding open the door for her. Leon was smiling down at her.
‘Can I persuade you, if not to Shakespeare, then to something else at the theatre? Is there anything playing that might tempt you? Or perhaps,’ he elaborated, wanting to give her not the least reason to turn down his seeing her again, ‘you might prefer the opera, or a concert? Or what about an art exhibition?’ he finished, wanting to give her as many options as he could in the fervent hope that something—anything!—might trigger her interest, be the key to break down her constraint.
But all he got was a low-pitched, awkward, ‘I don’t really mind … Whatever you would like …’
What I would like, thought Leon frustratedly, is what you would like. But all he said in response to her lukewarm reply was a measured, ‘Well, I’ll see what I can come up with, OK?’ He delivered it with a smile he hoped was reassuring and complaisant. Then, in a slightly brisker tone, he said, ‘Till tomorrow, then—will seven o’clock be all right for you?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Thank you for this evening. Um—goodnight.’
She flickered her hesitant social smile at him and climbed into the car, murmuring a semi-audible thank you to the driver holding the door. Then she sank back into the deep leather of the interior.
Misery writhed within her. Seeing Leon Maranz again had been a torment of exquisite proportions! To sit opposite him, across that small table lit by candlelight, to want to do nothing more than drink in everything about him! But to be every single moment tormentingly conscious that she was there at her father’s bidding, the tool of his machinations—pimped out to the man he wanted to save his riches for him …
Shame burnt along every nerve-ending, inflamed with anger at her father—anger at his threat to her frail, vulnerable grandmother; anger that he was prepared to use his own daughter to try and save his sorry skin; and anger, above all—the realisation came like a blow to the heart—that he was poisoning something that could have been so incredibly special to her.
For the first time in my life I have met someone like no one I have ever met before! Whatever it is about Leon Maranz, he can affect me as no one else ever has! For the first time, I have known what desire truly is …
But it had been poisoned by deceit. Polluted by her father’s blackmail.
Making it impossible for her to be as she truly wanted to be with Leon. Making her frozen with the shame twisting inside her like wires of guilt. Holding him at bay because of the unspoken lie between them, the threat hanging over her head that she dared not tell him about yet which held her in unbreakable talons.
Misery welled dully within her as Leon’s car drove her away. Back to the father she hated with all her being for what he was doing to her. Making a cruel mockery of her tormented, anguished feelings.
Alone on the pavement, Leon watched the car disappear into the London traffic. Frustration warred within him, against a steely determination. There must be a way of getting through to her! A way to persuade her to finally lower her guard against him and start to respond to him. He had seen a precious, essential glimpse of it as he’d told her of his background—but then she had clammed up again!
But at least, he reasoned, as he hailed a taxi to take him back to his apartment, she’d agreed to see him again—and the very next night. He had till then to come up with something that might appeal to her—something that might help her relax a little towards him. But what? She’d sounded nothing more than polite about any of his suggestions.
His brow furrowed as the taxi turned into Shaftesbury Avenue. All around London buzzed and blared with noise from the traffic, garish neon lights from the shops, restaurants and the theatres that lined the road, and the pavements were thronged with people out for the evening. Suddenly it dawned on him. An echo of her terse comment when he’d asked where she lived sounded in his memory.
‘I don’t like cities.’
Of course—that was it! Enlightenment hit him. No matter how carefully he’d chosen the restaurant tonight, it was London itself she didn’t care for.
Relief at his realisation filled him. He slid his mobile out of his breast pocket and tapped in an internet search. Moments later he’d connected to the phone number provided and made the reservation he wanted.
He sat back, his shoulders relaxing into the seat. Tomorrow night would be very, very different from tonight. He was sure of it.
He shut his eyes, letting the image of Flavia, in all her beauty, infuse his retinas.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘THE limo’s here, sweetie. Don’t keep him waiting!’
Anita’s voice was sugared, but Flavia could hear an acid note in it as well. Her father’s girlfriend was making a poor job of failing to conceal both her irritation and her jealousy of her. As she walked past the other woman, Flavia could see Anita, glass of wine lolling from scarlet-tipped fingers, subjecting her to a scornful scrutiny.
‘God, I hope he’s got a taste for seducing nuns!’ Anita sneered. ‘Why the hell you don’t take my advice on how to dress to impress, I don’t know!’
Yes, well, thought Flavia silently, making no comment, that depends on just what impression one wants to make. Her eyes flicked dismissively over Anita’s clingy leopard-print dress.
She knew what impression she herself wanted to make, and the round-necked, sleeveless black shift over which she wore a silk-knit jacket fitted the bill. As she reached the front door, she caught a last jibe from Anita.
‘I hope you’ve got a spare pair of knickers for the morning in your handbag, sweetie. We don’t want to see you back here tonight! This time make sure you don’t cop out—just do whatever it takes to keep Leon happy. Your father’s counting on it. Or ga-ga Granny’ll be popping her senile clogs in a council house. And don’t think your father won’t see to it! If he goes down—you go down!’ she promised venomously. ‘So keep that gorgeous Latino hunk of yours sweet on us, if you know what’s good for you!’ Her tone changed, becoming barbed and accusatory. ‘It’s not like it’s going to be any kind of bloody ordeal, is it? Going to bed with a guy like that! So stop looking like Little Miss Martyr! Hell, I’d trade places with you like a shot—believe me!’ She took another swig from her wine glass, and glared balefully at Flavia.
Face set, jaw as tight as steel, hatred for her father and for Anita biting in her blood, Flavia snapped the apartment door shut behind her, shutting out Anita’s crude, cruel words, her sleazy innuendo, and stalking towards the lift. Mortification burned in her—a
nd shame, and anger, and bitter, bitter resentment. All twisting and writhing like snakes.
But as she walked out of the apartment block she crushed her tormenting emotions back down inside her. The evening stretched ahead of her, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Leon’s driver was getting out of the car, tipping his cap to her as he opened the rear passenger door, and she stepped inside. But as she sank back into the seat she froze.
Leon was also in the car.
For a moment she felt panic flare in her eyes. She subdued it as swiftly as she could, stiffly returning his greeting as the car pulled away.
Leon gave her time to compose herself whilst, with a catch in his throat, he took in just how stunningly beautiful she looked all over again. The black of the dress, severe though it was, illuminated the pearlescence of her skin, the soft sheen of her hair in its customary chignon. And the faint floral scent she was wearing was winding into his senses. How incredibly beautiful she was! Emotion welled through him, and for a moment he could only drink her in.
But he could see that she was just as tense tonight—there was no lowering of her guard. Determination scythed through him. Well, perhaps this evening would be more propitious …
‘You said last night,’ he began, ‘that you would be happy to let me choose what to do this evening. So …’ He took a breath. ‘I hope I’ve made a good choice. Tell me—’ he looked at her enquiringly ‘—have you ever been to Mereden?’
She looked slightly confused. ‘Mereden? No. I’ve heard of it, but …’ She paused. ‘Isn’t it way out of London?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. You let slip last night that you didn’t care for cities, so I thought you might enjoy somewhere like Mereden instead. It shouldn’t take more than maybe half an hour to get there. I hope that’s OK with you?’
‘Um—yes. Yes. Of course.’
He threw a glancing smile at her. ‘Good. While we’re travelling there, I hope you won’t mind if I use the time to finish off some work. There’s some magazines if you’d like something to flick through.’
