A Tycoon to Be Reckoned With (Harlequin Presents)

by Julia James

  Even Max, when he’d asked for his intervention, had simply replied, ‘Sarah needs to work now. Don’t make any more difficulties for her.’

  So he’d stayed away. Till now.

  Tonight—tonight I have to speak to her. I have to.

  As the house lights went down and the audience started to settle, conversation dimming, he felt his vision blur. Saw images shape themselves—tantalizing, tormenting.

  Sabine, her eyes glowing with passion, gazing up at him as they made love.

  Sabine, smiling, laughing, holding his hand.

  Sabine—just being with her, hour by hour, day by day, as they ate, as they swam, as they sunbathed and stargazed.

  Sabine—so beautiful, so wonderful.

  Until I threw her away.

  He had let fear and suspicion poison what they’d had. Ruin it.

  I did not know what I had—until I lost it.

  Could he win it back? Could he win her back?

  He had to try—at least he had to try.

  * * *

  ‘OK, Sarah, this is it.’ Max was pressing his hands on her shoulders, his eyes holding hers. ‘You can do it—you know you can.’

  She couldn’t respond, could only wait while he spoke to the others, reassuring them, encouraging them. He looked impeccable in white tie and tails, but she could see the tension in him in every line of his slight body. She could hear the audience starting to applaud and the tuning up of the players in the orchestra die away as Max, their conductor for the evening, took the podium.

  She tried to breathe, but couldn’t. She wanted to die. Anything—anything at all to avoid having to do what she was going to have to do. What she had been preparing for all her life. What she had worked for in every waking second, allowing nothing else to lay claim to an instant of her time, a moment of her concentration.

  Least of all the man who had done what he had to her. Least of all him. The man who was despicable beyond all men, thinking what he had of her, judging and condemning her as he had, while all the while...all the while...

  He made love to me and thought me nothing better than a cheap little gold-digger. Right from the start—from the very moment he laid eyes on me. Everything was a lie—everything! Every moment I spent with him was a lie. And he knew it the whole time!

  No, she had not allowed such vicious, agonizing thoughts into her head. Not one. She’d kept them all at bay—along with all those unbearable texts and voicemails that she’d deleted without reading or listening to. Deleted and destroyed, telling him to go to hell and stay there. Never, ever to get in touch again.

  Because all there was in her life now was her voice—her voice and her work. She had worked like a demon, like one possessed, and blocked out everything else in the universe. And now this moment, right now, had come. And she wanted to die.

  Dear God, please let me do OK. Please let me get it right—for me, for all of us. Please.

  Then the small chorus was filing out on to the stage, and a moment later she heard Max start the brief overture. She felt faint with nerves. As they took their places the familiar music, every note of which she knew in every cell of her body, started to wind its way through the synapses of her stricken brain. The curtain rose, revealing the cavern of the auditorium beyond, and now the chorus was starting their low, haunting chant—their invocation to vanishing peace as the storm clouds of war gathered.

  She felt her legs tremble, turning to jelly. Her voice had gone. Completely gone. Vanished into the ether. There was nothing—nothing in her but silence...

  She saw the glare of the stage lights, the dimness of the auditorium beyond, and on his podium Max, lifting his baton for her entrance cue. She fixed her eyes on him, took a breath.

  And her voice came.

  High and pure and true. And nothing else in the universe existed any more except her voice.

  * * *

  Unseen, high above in the gods, Bastiaan sat motionless and heard her sing.

  The knife in his guts twisted with every note she sang.

  For the whole duration of the opera, as it wound to its sombre conclusion, Bastiaan could not move a muscle, his whole being riveted on the slender figure on the stage. Only once did he stir, his expression changing. During the heartrending aria of grief for her young husband’s death, with the agony of loss in every note. His eyes shadowed. The poignancy of the music, of her high, keening voice, struck deep within him.

  Then the drama moved on to its final scene, to her song to the unborn child she carried, destined to be another soldier, in yet another war. And she, the War Bride, would become in her turn the Soldier’s Mother, destined to bury her son, comfort his widow—the next War Bride, carrying the next unborn soldier...

  As her voice faded the light on the stage faded too, until there was only a single narrow spot upon her. And then that, too, faded, leaving only the unseen chorus to close the timeless tragedy with a chorale of mourning for lives yet to be lost in future conflicts. Until silence and darkness fell completely.

  For a palpable moment there was complete stillness in the house—and then the applause started. And it did not stop. Did not stop as the stage lights came up and the cast were there, Sarah, and the other soloists stepping forward. The applause intensified and the audience were rising to their feet as Max walked out on to the stage with Anton at his side, and then both of them were taking Sarah by the hand, leading her forward to a crescendo of applause.

  Bastiaan’s palms were stinging, but still the applause continued, and still his eyes were only for her—for Sarah—now dropping hands with Max, calling her tenor forward, and the other soloists too, to take their share of the ovation, breaking the line to let the chorus take theirs, and then all the cast joined in with applause for the orchestra taking their bows.

  He could see her expression—beatific, transfigured.

  He could stay still no longer. He rose from his seat, jolted down the staircase to the ground floor, out into the fresh night air. His heart was pounding, but not from exertion. Walking swiftly, purposefully, he pushed open the stage door, walked up to the concierge’s booth.

  ‘This is for Max Defarge. See that he gets it this evening.’ He placed the long white envelope he’d taken from his inside jacket pocket into his hand, along with a hundred-euro note to ensure his instruction was fulfilled. Then he walked away.

  He couldn’t do this. What the hell had he been thinking? That he could just swan into her dressing room the way he had that first night he’d seen her sing?

  Seen Sabine sing—not Sarah!

  But the woman he’d heard tonight had not been Sabine—had been as distant from Sabine as he was from the stars in the sky. That knife twisted in his guts again, the irony like acid in his veins. That he should now crave only the woman he had thrown away....distrusted and destroyed.

  His mobile phone vibrated. Absently he took it out—it was a text from Philip.

  Bast, you missed a sensation! Sarah was brilliant and the audience is going wild! Gutted you aren’t here. Am staying for the after-party soon as the audience clears. Can’t wait to hug her!

  He didn’t answer, just slid the phone away. His heart as heavy as lead.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SARAH WAS FLOATING at least six inches off the ground. The champagne that Max had splashed out on was contributing, she knew, but mostly it was just on wings of elation—the buoyancy of abject relief and gratitude that she had given the performance of her life.

  Elation filled them all—hugs and kisses, tears and laughter and joy lifting them all above the exhaustion that their efforts had exacted from them. But no one cared about exhaustion now—only about triumph.

  She could scarcely believe it, and yet it was true. All true. Finally all true.

  ‘Am I dreaming this?’ she cried to her parents as they swept her into their arms. Her mother’s face was openly wet with tears, her father’s glowing with pride.

  Her mother’s hand pressed hers. ‘Whoever he is, my da
rling—the man you sang about—he’s not worthy of you.’ Her voice was rich with sympathy and concern.

  Sarah would not meet her mother’s eyes.

  Her mother smiled sadly. ‘I heard it in your voice. You were not singing of the loss of your soldier. It was real for you, my darling—real.’

  Sarah tried to shake her head, but failed. Tried to stop the knife sliding into her heart, but failed. She could only be grateful that Max was now embracing her—for the millionth time—and drawing her off to one side. He found a quiet spot in the foyer area where the after-party was taking place and spoke.

  ‘This has just been given to me,’ he said.

  His voice was neutral. Very neutral. Out of his pocket he took a folded piece of paper and opened it, handing it to Sarah. She took it with a slight frown of puzzlement. Then her expression changed.

  ‘I’m glad for you,’ she said tightly. It was all she could manage. She thrust the paper back at Max.

  ‘And for yourself?’ The question came with a lift of the brow, speculation in his eyes, concern in his voice.

  She gave her head a sharp, negative shake. Turned away bleakly. Heading back into the throng, she seized up another glass of champagne, more hugs, more kisses. And suddenly, a huge bear hug enveloping her.

  ‘Oh, Sarah... Sarah—you were brilliant. Just brilliant! You were all brilliant!’

  It was Philip—sweet, lovely Philip—his face alight with pleasure for her. She hugged him back, glad to see him. But automatically, fearfully, she found her gaze going past him. And there was another emotion in her eyes—one she did not want to be there but which leapt all the same.

  It died away as he spoke again. ‘I just wish Bast could’ve been here. I told him I really, really wanted him to hear you do your real stuff—not all that inane Sabine garbage.’ He released her from his hug.

  She smiled fondly. ‘Thank you for all your loyalty and support. It means a great deal to me,’ she said sincerely, because his youthful faith in her had, she knew, been a balm to her. ‘And Philip?’ She pressed his hands, her voice serious now. ‘Listen—don’t ever let types like Max take money off you again. He was out of order.’

  He coloured again. ‘I wanted to help,’ he said.

  For a second, just a second, her eyes shadowed with pain. Philip’s ‘help’ had exacted a price from her and she had paid heavily. Was still paying.

  Would pay all her life...

  ‘You did,’ she said firmly. ‘And we’re all grateful—you helped make all this possible!’ She gestured widely at the happy scene around them.

  ‘Great!’ He grinned, relieved and reassured.

  She, too, was relieved and reassured. Philip’s crush on her was clearly over, there was no light of longing in his eyes any more. Just open friendliness. ‘We all liked you hanging around—with or without that hefty donation to us. Oh, and Philip?’ Her face was expressive. ‘That monster car you want to get for yourself—please, just do not smash yourself up in it!’

  He grinned again. ‘I won’t. Bast’s teaching me to drive it safely.’ He blew her a kiss as he headed off. ‘One day I’ll deliver you to the artists’ entrance at the Royal Opera House Covent Garden in it—see if I don’t.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she said fondly.

  She turned away. Covent Garden... Would she make it there? Was what had happened tonight the first step on her journey there?

  Fierce emotion fired through her.

  I have to make it. I have to!

  Work and work alone must consume her now. No more distractions.

  The words echoed in her head, mocking her. How often had she said them?

  Even right from the start, when her eyes had set on the man who had invaded her dressing room that night, invaded her life...

  Invaded my heart...

  She felt a choke rising in her throat, constricting her breathing. She forced it back. She would not give in to it. Would not give in to the bleakness that was like a vacuum inside her, trying to suck all the joy out of this moment for her.

  My work will be enough—it will be!

  That was all she had to remember. All she had to believe.

  Lie though it was...

  * * *

  An hour later she had had enough of celebration. The exhaustion she’d blanked out was seeping through her again.

  Her parents had gone, yawning, back to their hotel in the nearby spa town. Philip was getting stuck into the champagne with the chorus, with a lot of laughter and bonhomie.

  Helping herself to a large glass of water, Sarah found her feet going towards the French windows. Cool fresh air beckoned her, and she stepped out onto a paved area. There was an ornate stone-rimmed pond at the end of a pathway leading across the lawn, with soft underwater lights and a little fountain playing. She felt herself wandering towards it.

  Her elation had gone. Subsumed not just by exhaustion but by another mood. Seeing Philip had not helped her. Nor had what Max had disclosed to her. Both had been painful reminders of the man she wanted now only to forget.

  But could not.

  She reached the pond, trailed her fingers in the cool water, her gaze inward. Back into memory.

  Sun sparkling off the swimming pool as Bastiaan dived into it, his torso glistening with diamond drops of water. His arm tight around her as he steered the motorboat towards the gold of the setting sun. His eyes burning down at her with passion and desire. His mouth, lowering to hers...

  She gave a little cry of pain. It had meant nothing—nothing to him at all. False—all false!

  Bitter irony twisted inside her.

  I thought he wanted me to be Sabine—a woman of the world, alluring and sensual, willing and eager for an instant romance. But all along Sabine was the woman he wanted to destroy.

  And destroy her he had.

  Too late she had discovered, after a few brief, fleeting days of passion and desire, how much more she wanted. Wanted as Sarah—not Sabine.

  Pain shot through her again. And too late she had discovered what she was to Bastiaan...what she had been all along, through every kiss, every caress, every moment she’d spent with him.

  Discovered that she had lost what she had never had at all.

  The choke rose in her throat again, but she forced it back. She would not weep, would not shed tears. She snatched her hand from the water, twisted around, away from the stone pond.

  And looked straight at Bastiaan.

  * * *

  He walked towards her. There was a numbness in him, but he kept on walking. She stood poised, motionless, looking so achingly beautiful, with her gold hair coiled at her nape, her slender body wreathed in an evening gown of pale green chiffon.

  As he drew closer, memory flashed. The two of them sitting behind the wheel of his boat, moving gently on the low swell of the sea, her leaning into him, his arm around her waist, as he turned its nose into the path of the setting sun, whose golden rays had burnished them as if in blessing.

  Another memory, like a strobe light, of them lying together, all passion spent, during the hours of the night, her slender body cradled in his. Another flash, and a memory of the fragrance of fresh coffee, warm croissants, the morning sun reaching its fingers into the vine-shaded terrace as they took their breakfast.

  Each memory became more precious with every passing hour.

  Each one was lost because of him. Because of what he’d done to her.

  He could not take his eyes from her. Within him emotion swelled, wanting to overtake him, to impel him to do what he longed to do—sweep her into his arms. He could not—dared not. Everything rested on this moment—he had one chance...one only.

  A chance he must take. Must not run from as he had thought to do, unable to confront her in the throng inside, at the moment of her triumph in her art. But now as she stood there, alone, he must brave the moment. Reclaim what he had thrown from him—what he had not known he had possessed.

  But I did know. I knew it with every kiss, e
very embrace, every smile. I knew it in my blood, my body—my heart.

  As he came up to her, her chin lifted. Her face was a mask. ‘What are you doing here? Philip said you weren’t here. Why did you come?’

  Her words were staccato. Cold. Her eyes hard in the dim light.

  ‘You must know why I am here,’ he said. His voice was low. Intense.

  ‘No. I don’t.’ Still staccato, still that mask on her face. ‘Is it to see if I’m impressed by what you’ve done for Max? All that lavish sponsorship! Is it by way of apology for your foul accusations at me?’

  He gave a brief, negating shake of his head and would have spoken, but she forged on, not letting him speak.

  ‘Good. Because if you want to sponsor him—well, you’ve got enough money and to spare, haven’t you? I want none of it—just like I never wanted Philip’s.’ She took a heaving breath, ‘And just like I want nothing more to do with you either.’

  He shut his eyes, receiving her words like a blow. Then his eyes flared open again. ‘I ask only five minutes of your time, Sab—Sarah.’

  He cursed himself. He had so nearly called her by the name she did not bear. Memory stabbed at him—how he had wondered why Philip stammered over her name.

  If I had known then the truth about her—if I had known it was not she who had taken money from Philip...

  But he hadn’t known.

  He dragged his focus back. What use were regrets about the past? None. Only the future counted now—the future he was staking this moment on.

  She wasn’t moving—not a muscle—and he must take that for consent.

  ‘Please...please understand the reasons for my behaviour.’

  He took a ragged breath, as if to get his thoughts in order. It was vital, crucial that he get this right. He had one chance...one chance only...

  ‘When Philip’s father died I promised his mother I would always look out for him. I knew only too well that he could be taken advantage of. How much he would become a target for unscrupulous people.’

  He saw her face tighten, knew she was thinking of what Max had done, however noble a cause he’d considered it.