Destiny Unleashed

by Sherryl Woods

  Malcolm took a devilishly long time replying. “That’s the thing, you see. He sold it to Carlton Industries.”

  William choked on his whisky. That was the very last thing he’d anticipated. No wonder Malcolm looked so grim. There could be only one reason for Carlton to take an interest in such a small bookstore. The company intended to go after H&S Books.

  “You’re sure of that?” he asked Malcolm, though he already knew that Malcolm’s information was always reliable.

  “No question about it, sir.” Malcolm handed over an item clipped from a London newspaper, one William had obviously missed. “It’s all right here in black and white. I couldn’t believe my eyes, frankly, so I called and checked it out myself.”

  “You didn’t let on that you were calling on my behalf, did you?” William asked, frowning. He’d hate it getting around that this acquisition worried him in any way. It was never good business to show any hint of weakness.

  Malcolm regarded him with a chiding expression. “Of course not. Just said I’d read about it in the news and wanted to offer congratulations. Told Jameson I was a long-time customer and hoped things wouldn’t change too much.” He shook his head sadly. “You should have heard the gloating in the old man’s voice. Sounded like a boy again, he was so eager to tell me the details. He says they’re planning a huge expansion, a catalog business as well as stores all over Great Britain. For a man once so set in his ways, he’s embracing all the changes with astonishing enthusiasm.”

  William mulled that over. “I can see why he’s glad to be rid of it, and probably at a tidy profit, but why the dickens would Carlton Industries be interested in books?” he muttered. But the answer dawned on him almost immediately. “This is Destiny’s work, no question about it. She’s the only one who would know how I’d feel about an attack on H&S Books, which is obviously what she intends to do.”

  For the first time since his game had begun, William started to wonder if he hadn’t carried it too far. It was one thing to try to grab Destiny’s attention. It was quite another to make an enemy of her.

  Malcolm nodded. “I would say that has to be the case, sir, though her name never came up. It was all handled through a Carlton solicitor.”

  “And the papers are signed?”

  “The deal is airtight, sir. Jameson was happy to tell me the money is in his bank and that he’d be leaving for his little stone cottage in Cornwall, once he’s spent a few weeks consulting with the new company.”

  William sighed. So that was the way Destiny intended to play the game. This was meant as his wakeup call, a little greeting to let him know that she was on her way and that she didn’t intend to sit idly by while he wreaked havoc on her family’s business. He glanced at his assistant and saw that, if anything, Malcolm was taking the news even harder than he was.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” William reassured him. “Jameson’s has always been more like a gnat than any real threat.”

  “Because he didn’t have Carlton capital behind him, sir. I know that you can handle whatever they’re up to, but I also know how much H&S Books means to you. I’d have to say this particular strategy was personal, wouldn’t you?”

  “Definitely,” William agreed. In fact, it was the one bright aspect of the entire mess. It proved that Destiny’s coming to London wasn’t just about business. She was coming not just to shake up her own company, but him.

  And in that regard at least, Malcolm’s news couldn’t have been better.

  Destiny would have given anything to have been a fly on the wall when the news about Jameson’s Booksellers was given to William. Ah, well, she supposed she’d have a reaction from him soon enough.

  In fact, he might not even wait for her to arrive in London, where she was due in a few days. William was not the sort of man to waste time when he had something on his mind. That was one of the things she’d most admired about him when they’d first met so many long years ago. He’d been forthright and candid from the outset.

  He was also a man who knew his own mind. Though he’d paid precious little attention to the family business back then, and had, in fact, renounced it to be with her, she saw now that her belief that he had no head for it had been foolish. Once William had turned his attention to the family business, he’d obviously been quite capable of running Harcourt & Sons with cutthroat intensity and skill. Just as he’d startled her, she intended to surprise him with her own level of expertise and dedication.

  All of that meant that she could expect some sort of reaction, and perhaps retribution, for her daring purchase of the rival bookstore.

  When the phone rang, she jumped, her nerves jittery with anticipation. It was a letdown to hear Ben’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “You don’t sound especially thrilled to hear from me,” her youngest nephew teased. “Should I be insulted or were you hoping to hear from someone else?”

  “I am always thrilled to hear from you,” she said, avoiding the trickier question. “What’s going on in your life? How’s Kathleen?”

  “You could see for yourself, if you’ll join us for dinner.”

  “Not tonight, darling. It’s been a long day.”

  “The first of many, I imagine. Are you sure this new adventure isn’t going to be too much for you?” he asked worriedly.

  “Absolutely not,” she said emphatically.

  “Then it must be that you really want to sit by the phone in case it rings,” he said knowingly. “Expecting to hear from William, now that you’ve fired the first shot?”

  “You heard about that?” she asked, surprised.

  “Richard filled me in. He seemed quite proud of you, actually. Have you heard anything from the enemy camp?”

  “Not even a moan,” she told him. “And it’s far too late now in London for William to be calling, so don’t think I’m sitting around here hoping to hear from him so I can gloat a bit. I’d just like a good night’s rest so I’ll be ready for anything in the morning.”

  “Okay, then,” he said, giving up. “But we’re all having dinner at the farm on Sunday, so we can wish you bon voyage. No excuses, okay?”

  “Not a one,” she promised. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  After they’d said goodbye, she sat back and closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting to when it had all begun with William. Fate had definitely had a hand in things that night.

  Paris, 1980

  It had taken the considerable wiles of Madame Grégorie to convince Destiny that her paintings were worthy of a showing, even in such a small gallery on the Left Bank. Now that the doors were about to open, Destiny’s stomach was filled with butterflies. She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and drank it down.

  “Such a terrible waste of fine champagne,” Violetta Grégorie scolded, giving Destiny’s hand a squeeze. “You do not need it, ma chèrie. The critics will love you.”

  Destiny appreciated the attempt to reassure her, but she knew better. She understood the art world almost as well as Violetta did, knew that critics were ready to pounce with savage cruelty on a newcomer, especially a young American woman with little formal training and only modest talent.

  Violetta disagreed, of course. The gallery owner said Destiny’s work was fresh and innovative, while being extraordinarily commercial. That, of course, was precisely what the critics would find most offensive—that her paintings would sell like crazy to tourists because they were pretty, not to serious collectors because they were exceptional. Her work wasn’t pretentious, nor was she, but having a formal showing in a well-respected French gallery certainly was.

  She’d held out as long as she could, but from the moment Violetta had discovered her art in a small shop near Destiny’s home in Provence, she’d been relentless. The dark-haired, dark-eyed whirlwind of energy had barraged Destiny with persuasive arguments. All of Destiny’s protests had fallen on deaf ears. Finally she had been forced to give in, if she was ever to have any peace again. And, truthfully, she’d
been flattered that Violetta was so passionate about her work.

  Destiny told herself that if she could get through tonight, the worst would be over. She could be back at home before the dreaded reviews even appeared. Violetta wouldn’t be insensitive enough to send the worst ones to her, and few of Destiny’s friends in Provence paid attention to such things.

  What Destiny feared most about this night wasn’t the embarrassment and humiliation of a bad show. Rather, she was terrified that any criticism that did reach her would destroy her pleasure in painting, that the critics would undercut the passion she felt every time she put brush to canvas. She should never have agreed to the showing. She could have gone on for years, quietly selling her paintings, living in her studio in the south of France surrounded by the people and things she loved.

  But this…She heaved a sigh. This was asking to be flogged in public.

  Assaulted by another wave of butterflies, she went in search of more champagne and a secluded nook to hide in until she could gather her composure to face the invited guests, who were just now starting to arrive, a glittering assortment of French society and the Left Bank’s art and literary crowd.

  Standing in the shadows, she assumed a cool, bored expression, a haughty look she’d perfected at social events back home in Virginia to cover for her innate shyness. Few people had any idea just how self-conscious and uncertain she was, because she masked it so well. This particular look kept people away, which was something she devoutly hoped to do tonight.

  She spotted the man coming toward her only an instant before he arrived in her secluded corner. He was her own age—close to thirty, most likely—with the athletic build of a polo player and the tanned complexion of a man who spent much of his time outdoors. The tan made his blue eyes the same brilliant shade as the turquoise sea. Sun had streaked gold through his light brown hair. His clothes fit in a way that screamed expert tailoring, rather than off the rack.

  Not a critic, she concluded with relief. More likely, one of the many rich, available men Violetta tried to lure to these events to make the occasions that much more attractive to the women most inclined to come and spend money on the art. Champagne and flirting tended to loosen their purse strings.

  The stranger slid into the shadows beside her and whispered, “Mind if I try to be unobtrusive with you?”

  She found his conspiratorial tone amusing and the glint of mischief in his eye alluring. One on one like this, she could handle almost anyone. It was crowds she found daunting.

  “Who are you hiding from?” she asked, matching his confiding tone.

  “Violetta, of course. She’s dead set on me meeting the woman of the hour. She says I’ll be fascinated. What she really means, of course, is that she hopes I’ll become so infatuated I’ll spend a bloody fortune buying these paintings.”

  “Do you have a bloody fortune?” Destiny inquired, only mildly curious since she had more than her own share of inherited wealth. It was his casual mention of money that spoke volumes. Only the very rich had that careless air.

  He shrugged. “And then some, I suppose.”

  “Then why not spend a bit of it on art?” she challenged. “Would it cut into the funds available for polo ponies?”

  “I have enough for both, but this art?” he asked with a shudder. “Too saccharine. There’s talent there, of course, but it’s being wasted.”

  Destiny’s temper stirred. “Is that so?”

  He gave her a sharp look. “You like it, I imagine. I suppose it does suit a woman’s romantic sensibilities.”

  “It certainly suits mine,” she said. She gave him her most chillingly polite smile and held out her hand. “Destiny Carlton.”

  He blinked and a dull red flush crept up his neck. “The artist,” he said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Though I probably should slink away without admitting it, I’m William Harcourt,” he said, giving her an abashed look even as he took her hand and held it long enough for her blood to stir as heatedly as her temper had moments before. “And I’m dreadfully sorry. I usually don’t set out to jam my foot in my mouth so quickly.”

  Destiny hid her hurt pride. He had taken only a tiny nip, after all. “Why be sorry? You were being honest. And art is subjective, isn’t it? There are very few, I imagine, who fall in love with both Monet and Jackson Pollock.” She surveyed him. “I would guess Pollock is more to your taste.”

  When he realized that she hadn’t taken serious offense, that she could talk calmly and reasonably about the pros and cons of various works of art—including her own—he gave her a considering look that made her pulse hum.

  “Perhaps Violetta wasn’t so far off the mark when she said she wanted to introduce us,” he said with a quiet intensity that shook her. “Would you care for coffee after this affair is over? I imagine we can find any number of topics to pursue without me tripping all over myself to offend you.”

  Destiny gazed into his fathomless, sea-green eyes and found herself intrigued, too fascinated to write off the encounter and head immediately home as she’d planned. There was more than a simmering attraction she didn’t want to ignore. She liked his directness, even when it came at her expense, and the promise of challenging, witty conversation. He would fit quite nicely into the assortment of friends she’d found since settling in France.

  “Coffee would be lovely,” she said, impulse overruling whatever qualms she might have had. Violetta would never have invited this man here tonight to meet her if she hadn’t believed him to be respectable. And Destiny trusted her own judgment, too. Even as she voiced the mundane words, she knew that the end of the evening was going to be so much better than its start. It was going to be the beginning of something extraordinary.

  Anxious to begin, she smiled up at him. “Why wait?”

  William’s eyes lit up. “No coy games?”

  “I don’t believe in them,” she told him. “Neither, it seems, do you.”

  “No,” he agreed. “When I see something I want, I go after it. Let that be a warning to you.”

  She smiled. “Well taken,” she said. “But just so you know, I’m no amateur at getting what I want, as well.”

  William laughed. “Then it seems we’re a perfect match. We’ll have to thank Violetta one day,”

  “Perhaps we will,” Destiny said. “When we’re much older and spending a holiday in Paris.”

  She was only partially joking. Somewhere deep in her soul she already knew that William was going to be an important part of her life, perhaps the best part.

  Twenty-five years later as Destiny walked off the plane in London ready for battle, she looked back on the young, naive woman she had been when she’d first met William with something akin to pity. Back then she had been so certain that William was the man of her dreams, an equal with nothing to prove, nothing to gain from a liaison with a Carlton. She’d thought their love was not only inevitable, but invincible.

  As she waited at Heathrow for her luggage, she recalled that, to her shock and dismay, William had been damn quick to let her go after her brother’s and sister-in-law’s tragic deaths. He’d sent her back to the States with a kiss and a promise to be waiting for her when she returned. She should have seen the handwriting on the wall when he’d refused to come with her.

  “It’s a private time for your family,” he’d said, his tone perfectly reasonable, even considerate. “I don’t belong there. I’d only be an unwelcome distraction.”

  Destiny hadn’t begged. She’d been too grief stricken and too proud to waste the energy. If there was one thing she knew with certainty by then, it was that William rarely changed his mind once it was set. It certainly hadn’t changed once he’d set his sights on her that night at Violetta’s gallery. His attention had been unwavering despite the very significant price he’d had to pay for choosing her over his own family.

  At first, back home in Virginia and facing the unbearable grief of her nephews and their need for all of her attention, it had been ea
sy for Destiny to accept that William had been right to stay behind, that he was sincerely trying to be thoughtful, even if she felt the attempt was misguided. Their phone calls were brief and hurried and lacked the kind of detailed, intimate conversation they had shared for the three years they had been inseparable.

  But as time passed, even those contacts had dwindled and fury had set in to fill the void. She had needed him so desperately and he hadn’t been there for her. She’d lost respect for him—or told herself she had—because it was the only way to bear that loss on top of everything else. Changes were flying at her too fast for her to absorb them all.

  As yet more time passed and she realized the enormity of what was being expected of her, she’d had little time to waste on a man who didn’t seem the least bit interested in pursuing their relationship now that it was no longer uncomplicated.

  Destiny moved on to Customs and another wait. It have her more time to think about how she had continued to mourn his loss as she had her beloved brother’s. She’d missed what she and William had had together—the meeting of minds, the exuberant passion, the teamwork, the idle hours spent wandering the beach or flower-strewn fields, stormy nights in front of a cozy fire, the sudden spark of lust while sipping wine at a sidewalk café. She’d been desperately and completely besotted by him, then wildly disappointed to discover how flawed he was.

  Obviously he hadn’t shared that same depth of feeling. She’d had to accept that eventually and move on. There were too many crises in the present to squander time on memories or old emotions.

  Even now, all these lonely years later, she didn’t hate him for fooling her or for letting her go, she realized as she sat in the taxi that would take her from the airport to her new home. She merely wanted a chance to show him what he’d given up. She’d taken to heart an old Dorothy Parker adage. Living well was, indeed, the best revenge. And she intended to show William that she had lived an extraordinarily rich and challenging life without him. She intended to take on London in a way that would dazzle him and make him rue the day he’d crossed her or her family.