A Devilishly Dark Deal

by Maggie Cox

  But he couldn’t hide from it for ever. That would make for a very hard and unhappy existence, no matter how much money he had, Grace thought. Sooner or later everyone had to face the truth of their lives.

  She’d already personally learned that repeating the same patterns—going down old familiar roads where nothing challenged you any more—didn’t help ease or heal anything. It just brought more of the same silent despair that day by day ate away at your soul. Unless you turned and faced it, that was. That was why she’d gone out to Africa. At the time she’d been so scared of what she might encounter when she’d flown out there—the suffering she would undoubtedly see and have to find a way of dealing with—that she’d thought she would be more of a hindrance than a help. What Grace hadn’t been prepared for was the joy and satisfaction she’d experienced at having the trusting sweet smile of a previously distressed or despairing child turned on her. The very things she’d feared had turned out to be her salvation.

  Carefully disengaging her hand from Marco’s, she registered the flicker of unease that crossed his glance. ‘As lovely as that sounds, I’m afraid I’m going to have to say no. In fact I’m going to ask instead if I can have a little time to myself. There are a few things I need to think about.’

  ‘You mean like the baby dying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know he didn’t live for long, but he was a lucky boy to have someone like you looking after him Grace … even for a little while. You asked me if I ever thought about the past … if I’d ever loved anyone that had helped to take care of me. If I had had someone like you, I would have thought myself blessed beyond measure, believe me.’

  A hopeful breath shuddered through her. ‘You deserved to have the very best of care and attention, Marco … and love. It breaks my heart to think that you didn’t.’

  He said nothing for a while, but his tension of earlier had palpably eased. Then he considered her thoughtfully and said, ‘You came to the Algarve for a rest and a break from work … to enjoy yourself. Let’s go out to the yacht together. I guarantee you will not regret it.’

  It hurt Grace to deny him anything … especially in light of his previous confession about his childhood. To do so made her feel as if she was another adult who had let him down. That was hard to bear, when she knew that she loved him with all her heart.

  The realisation made her catch her breath. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. She was in love. She was completely and totally head over heels.

  It became even more imperative that she have some time to herself—to absorb this stunning revelation, to reflect and consider what to do next. ‘I’m sorry, Marco. I really just need to be by myself for a while. Please try and understand.’

  ‘Okay. Selfishly, it’s not what I want … to let you go for even an hour let alone an entire evening feels indescribably hard … but I see that you need time to come to terms with the baby’s death by yourself, so I won’t try to stop you from going.’

  Grace made herself breathe deeply. ‘Thanks for that. It’s only for this one evening. I promise I’ll come back in the morning—if you don’t mind asking Miguel to pick me up?’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. You might also bring a suitcase with some of your clothes in it when you return. It makes sense for you to stay here for the remainder of your holiday, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose it does. Well, then … I’d better get dressed.’ Moving to the edge of the bed, Grace tugged at one of the silk covers and wrapped it round her bare form, deliberately taking her time and not hurrying, in case Marco mistakenly believed she was eager to get away.

  The words ‘for the remainder of your holiday’ rang anxiously in her ears, confirming that he clearly didn’t believe they could have a future together.

  On leaden legs she moved quietly round the room, bit by bit gathering her scattered clothing as memories of the afternoon’s passionate lovemaking deluged her, making her want to run straight back to him and beg him to love her again … to confess that she loved him.

  Having not the slightest clue as to how he might receive such a confession, she knew it made even more sense that she have some time on her own to mull things over.

  Registering the sound of his moving behind her, Grace glanced over her shoulder to see him pulling on his chinos, his expression grim, absorbed in the private landscape of his thoughts. Then he scraped his fingers through the dark strands of hair that she loved so much to touch and turning to face her, exhaled deeply.

  ‘Although I’ve agreed to let you go, I hate the thought of you being upset tonight and my not being there to help comfort you.’

  The confession really touched her. ‘I’ll think about you saying that and just the thought will help comfort me, Marco. It’s only for this one evening, remember? The time will soon go. What will you do? Will you go out to your yacht as planned?’

  ‘Probably not. I think I’ll go and catch up with some friends of mine for the evening instead. I’m not often in the country, so I guess it would be a good opportunity.’

  ‘I agree. That sounds like a good idea. Your friends must miss not seeing you, Marco.’

  He didn’t respond. Instead he pulled his still buttoned white shirt over his head, slipped his bare feet into tan loafers and moved across the vast expanse of marble flooring to the door.

  ‘Help yourself to a shower before you leave,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘I’ll go and find Miguel to tell him I want him to drive you home. When you’re ready, just go and find him at the front of the house … he’ll be waiting for you there. I’ll also arrange for him to pick you up in the morning.’

  ‘Thanks …’ Her heart was beating double-time because he suddenly sounded so distant and businesslike. He plainly wasn’t going to kiss her goodbye either. Was it a mistake to insist that she needed some time to herself this evening? Grace prayed that it wasn’t …

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE inconsequential chatter of the people sitting with him round the restaurant table washed over Marco—as though the voices came from far away … as if he was locked inside a dream. Because Grace wasn’t with him, the evening was quickly taking on the quality of a nightmare. The two of them had only been apart for a few short hours, but already it felt like an eternity. There was a dull ache inside his chest, his appetite had completely disappeared, and he could hardly summon up the energy or interest to talk to his friends.

  Friends … The word seemed to mock him as he glanced round at the faces of colleagues past and present. Why were all his so-called friendships work-related? he pondered. The reason he’d agreed to accept the invitation to join them tonight and had scrapped his intention to go to his yacht was because he hadn’t wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He hadn’t wanted to be alone, per se. Yet it hardly helped that the people at dinner weren’t real friends at all.

  Marco reflected that no doubt his driven desire to be a success had severed any possibility of making genuine friends from all walks of life, instead of just the elite he’d worked so hard to join. The chances had simply passed him by because his focus had been too pointed to notice them. It didn’t help that most of his time was spent either at work, embroiled in some lengthy boardroom meeting, making deals with equally driven businessmen or women over lunch or dinner, or thinking about work in some way—even when he was meant to be relaxing, playing golf, or when he was at some glitzy party or casino.

  Apart from working and pleasure-seeking, what else had he done with his life? Yes, he supported several different charities by donating money and being a patron, but when had he ever put himself out to get more personally involved, like Grace did? What was he so afraid of?

  The answer came to Marco without any effort at all. Because he’d lived in what might be deemed an ivory tower for so long, he harboured a secret fear of exposing himself as hopeless when it came to everyday interactions with ordinary people. More than that, he feared he might have to face the fact that being so emotionally shut down was depri
ving him of some real joy and satisfaction in his life. The kind that came from really connecting with people and helping them make their lives better.

  Marco’s painfully analytical stream of thought didn’t exactly help him feel any better about the situation—even though he knew he needed to take a good hard look at these things. The only thing that had the remotest chance of improving his mood right now was seeing Grace. He had so easily let her go. Why hadn’t he argued more emphatically for her to stay? He hadn’t even kissed her goodbye.

  The arresting image of her standing in his bedroom with nothing but a silk sheet wrapped round her, to cover her shapely naked form, sent such a surge of longing pulsing through him that he briefly shut his eyes to contain it. What if he never saw her again? What if she concluded in their time apart this evening that he was too shut-down for her to get close to? Too removed from the so-called ‘real world’ for her ever to reach?

  Reaching for his wine glass, he was so deep in thought that he accidentally knocked it over with the heel of his hand, sending a wave of cranberry coloured liquid flying over the pristine white tablecloth. The two glamorous women sitting on either side of him jumped up in dismay—anxious not to get wine on their expensive outfits, but also quick to reassure him that accidents could happen to anyone.

  Marco had risen to his feet at the same time, grabbing a white linen napkin to mop up the spill, uncaring that some of it splashed the sleeve of his exclusive Armani suit. Seconds later a helpful waiter attended to the mopping up much more efficiently, and with the minimum of fuss. That was the moment when Marco made the decision to quit the party. The hot, prickling sensation of feeling hemmed in and trapped had started to creep up on him again, and he desperately craved some fresh air.

  Making his apologies, he accepted the generous offer from one of his colleagues to pay his share of the bill, wished everyone goodnight, and walked as if in a dream slowly down the restaurant’s lantern-lit walkway to the car.

  ‘Miguel?’ When they arrived back home Marco paused as he got out of the car.

  ‘Yes, senhor?’

  ‘Join me for a drink?’

  With a mute nod, Marco’s loyal chauffeur followed him back inside the villa. The two men strolled out onto one of the myriad balconies that decked the building, but not before Marco had stopped by the wine cellar in the basement and collected a bottle of vintage red wine and a couple of glasses on the way. Throwing his jacket with the stained sleeve onto a nearby wrought-iron bench, he pulled out a chair from the matching table and gestured to the other man to do likewise.

  Taking his time to pour the wine carefully, he gave a glass to Miguel, then made a toast. ‘To truth and beauty.’

  With a contemplative smile, the chauffeur touched his glass to Marco’s and silently concurred. They sat companionably for a while, with just the shrill sound of the cicadas interrupting the tranquil silence that fell around them. It was peaceful. It made Marco realise just how much he valued the steady, thoughtful presence of the other man.

  ‘You miss her.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Senhorita Faulkner … you miss her’

  Marco shook his head in wonder that his employee should intuit so much. ‘We have only been apart for one evening,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘It makes no difference.’ Miguel shrugged a shoulder. ‘When the most important woman in your life is lost to you even briefly it feels like you will never be whole again until you see her.’

  ‘What makes you think that Senhorita Faulkner is the most important woman in my life? She is not. How could she be when I have only known her for the shortest time?’

  Even as he rushed to deny his true feelings—so soon after drinking a toast to ‘truth and beauty’—Marco’s heart raced with longing to be with Grace, to gaze into her lovely blue eyes, bring her lush sweet body close to his and know that everything was right in his world because he was with her.

  ‘You can meet the woman of your dreams and fall in love with her in an instant. It does not matter that you have only just met her.’ The chauffeur’s gaze was unwavering and direct.

  ‘How did you get to be so wise about affairs of the heart, my friend? Is that what happened to you?’

  There was a distant look in Miguel’s dark eyes that told Marco he was remembering someone who had meant a great deal to him once upon a time. Knowing that the man was now single, he was genuinely sorry that they’d never had a conversation personal enough for him to enquire about the relationships that had been meaningful to him.

  ‘Yes … that is what happened to me.’ Pausing to curl his hand round the stem of his wine glass, Miguel raised it thoughtfully to his lips and took a sip of the blood-red vintage. ‘But sadly I lost the love of my life when she fell ill and what afflicted her turned out to be terminal. We only had the shortest time together, but it was intense and amazing, you know?’

  Marco did know. ‘I’m so sorry that you lost her,’ he murmured consolingly.

  Swallowing hard, Miguel shook off the anguish that must have shuddered through him and smiled. ‘That is why you must make the most of the time you have with Senhorita Faulkner. I only have to see the way the two of you look at each other to know that you are in love.’

  Even though it made him inwardly reel to hear the other man’s statement, Marco had to own privately that for his part at least it was the truth. Did he dare believe that Grace might feel the same?

  ‘Senhorita Faulkner … Grace … is an incredible woman—warm-hearted and brave. I am a poor bargain for someone like her, Miguel,’ he remarked soberly.

  ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘She’s not impressed with who I am in the world, what I’ve achieved or how much money I have.’

  ‘If that is so then you are a fortunate man indeed, senhor, because she must clearly desire you just for yourself.’

  Two of the charity workers at the African orphanage had gone down with a fever similar to that which had afflicted Azizi and were in hospital. Grace had heard the news from her dad, when she’d rung home yesterday evening. A senior member of the charity who hadn’t known Grace was in the Algarve had rung her parents’ number in a bid to contact her.

  As soon as her dad had revealed the news to her Grace had sensed his reluctance in passing it on, because he knew that she couldn’t fail to act on it—perhaps to the detriment of her own health. Now there were only two full-time volunteers remaining at the orphanage to help take care of the children—a young man hired by the charity in London, that had arrived in Africa on the same day that she’d flown out, and a local grandmother and midwife. Running over the scenario again in her mind, imagining the distress of not only the two remaining volunteers at what had happened, but the children too, Grace didn’t regret agreeing to fly out there at once to help.

  But even in the midst of hearing about the worrying events back in Africa she’d been consumed with an uncontainable longing to be with Marco. She shouldn’t have left him. Their difficult temporary parting—even though she had been the instigator of it—had left her feeling as if her heart had been cleaved in two, and she had spent a mostly miserable evening on her own, mulling over the fact that she was hopelessly in love with him and wondering how she was going to say goodbye and return to living without him?

  The knock on the door as she drank her breakfast coffee propelled her already anxious thoughts into overdrive. On the way out of the living room into the hallway, she glanced over at the compact powder-blue suitcase standing by the couch. She’d originally hoped to pack it and take it with her back to Marco’s. Now she would take it with her to a completely different destination.

  Just before opening the door she paused to glance down at the knee-length aubergine-coloured dress she wore. She checked the back of the chignon her blonde hair had been fashioned into to make sure that the tortoiseshell clasp held it secure. She’d deliberately made an effort with her appearance in a bid to feel more confident when it came to facing Marco and telling him about
her change of plans.

  But the man she had been expecting to see standing on the other side of the door was his enigmatic chauffeur Miguel … not Marco himself, wearing a stylish fitted black shirt and jeans, his black hair swept back by his sunglasses to reveal his strong, indomitable forehead. His dark eyes instantly devoured her, making her legs feel dangerously weak and insubstantial. He resembled some gorgeous dark angel, come to tempt her into an erotic realm she’d never want to be free of so long as he was there, and Grace could hardly think straight, let alone string words together to greet him.

  In the end it was he who spoke first. ‘Deus! You are looking especially beautiful this morning, Grace … elegant and sexy. I’m very glad that I came to pick you up myself rather than send Miguel.’

  ‘Thanks …’ she murmured, her cheeks glowing scarlet. She was torn between walking straight into his arms and affecting enough distance between them so that the temptation wouldn’t overwhelm her. ‘It’s good to see you … really good. Why don’t you come in? There’s plenty of coffee left in the cafetière … can you spare a few minutes to have a cup with me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Stepping inside, with a knowing little smile playing round the corners of his lips because he’d sensed that she was desperate to touch him, Marco glanced towards the family photos that lined the hallway walls. They were nearly all of Grace with her parents, at various stages of her growing up. The latter ones were more recent shots of her as an adult—at her graduation, and at the twenty-first birthday party they’d thrown for her.

  ‘I don’t know why my parents want to have them all on display.’ Her dismissive shrug was helplessly self-conscious, but Marco didn’t immediately halt his examination of the pictures. In fact, he seemed more than a little fascinated by them. An unhappy thought occurred to Grace. Had anyone ever documented the phases of his growing up? She wanted to weep at the notion that they hadn’t.