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Blackmailed By Diamonds, Bound By Marriage
The unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed around the ancient stone stairs that led to the basement of the museum.
Angie Littlewood glanced up from the notes she was making, distracted by the unexpected disturbance. Upstairs the museum was heaving with visitors but down here in the bowels of the old listed building there was an almost reverential silence, a silence created by thick stone walls and the academic purpose of the researchers and scientists who worked behind the scenes.
Angie felt a flicker of surprise as she saw Helen Knightly appear in the doorway. As Museum Curator, Helen was usually fully occupied upstairs with the public at this time of day and Angie’s surprise turned to consternation as she saw the distressed expression on her colleague’s face.
“Are you all right, Helen? Is something the matter?” ‘I don’t know how to tell you this, dear.” Helen’s face was slightly paler than usual and Angie’s heart took an uncomfortable dive as her mind raced ahead, anticipating the problem.
Obviously it was something to do with her mother. Gaynor Littlewood had been so traumatized by the events of the last six months that Angie was sometimes afraid to leave her alone in the house.
“What’s happened?” ‘There’s someone upstairs asking to see you.” With an inward sigh, Angie carefully replaced the piece of ancient pottery she’d been examining and rose to her feet, still holding her pen. “If it’s my mother again, then I apologise,’she said huskily, adjusting her glasses and her white coat as she walked towards the curator. “She’s found the last six months very hard and I do keep explaining that she can’t just turn up here unannounced–”
“It’snot your mother.’The curator gave a nervous cough, a gesture that did nothing to ease Angie’s growing feeling of unease.
If it wasn’t her mother then it had to be a funding issue. Research posts were always precarious and money was always in short supply. She felt a sudden stab of panic. How would they manage without the money from her job? Angie opened her mouth to prompt the other woman but the heavy tread of male footsteps on the stairs distracted her.
She glanced towards the door as a man strolled into the room without waiting for either invitation or introduction.
For a brief moment Angie stared at him, her attention caught by the strength and perfection of his coldly handsome face. He resembled one of the legendary Greek gods, she thought, her mind wandering as she studied the perfect bone structure, the masculine jaw and the hard, athletic physique. All the Greek myths she’d ever read rushed through her head and for an extremely unsettling moment she imagined him stripped to the waist, bronzed muscles glistening with the sweat of physical exertion as he did battle with the Minotaur or some other threatening creature while some hapless female lay in chains on the floor waiting to be rescued.
“Dr Littlewood? Angie!” Helen’s tone was sharp enough to disturb Angie’s vision and she gave herself a mental shake, reminding herself that sponsors didn’t expect archaeologists to be dreamy. And this man was obviously someone extremely important. He had an unmistakable air of command and authority and her eyes slid to the two men who had planted themselves in the doorway behind him. Their manner was respectful and watchful, and added to her feeling that the man was hugely influential; he was probably considering making an extremely large donation to the museum. Although she would rather be left in peace to do her research, she was only too aware that posts such as hers existed only because certain organisations or individuals were financially generous. Clearly Helen Knightly was expecting her to fly the flag and make a good impression so she pushed down her natural shyness, ignored her deep-rooted belief that men as glamorous and sophisticated as this one never looked twice at women like her, and stepped forward.
It didn’t matter that she wasn’t beautiful or elegant, she told herself firmly. She’d graduated top of her year from Oxford University. She spoke five languages fluently, including Latin and Greek, and her academic record was excellent. If he was interested in funding a position at the museum, then those were the qualities that would interest him.
“I’m very pleased to meet you.” Still holding the pen, Angie stretched out a hand and heard Helen make a distressed sound.
“Angie, this isn’t–I mean, I should probably introduce you,” she began, but the man stepped forward and took the hand that Angie had extended.
“You are Miss Littlewood?’The voice was strong and faintly accented. The grip of his strong bronzed fingers matched the power of his physique. Which god did he most closely resemble? Apollo? Ares? Angie felt her mind drift again until she heard Helen’s voice in the background. “This is Nikos Kyriacou, Angie, the President of Kyriacou Investments.”
A Greek name? Given the comparisons she’d been making, Angie almost smiled and then Helen’s words and the urgent emphasis of her tone finally registered.
Nikos Kyriacou.
The name hung in the air like a deep, dark threat and then reality exploded in Angie’s head and she snatched her hand away from his and took an involuntary step backwards, the shock so great that the pen she was holding clattered to the floor.
She’d never heard of Kyriacou Investments but she’d heard of Nikos Kyriacou. For the last six months his name had been on her mother’s lips as she’d sobbed herself to sleep each night.
Clearly aware of the sudden escalation of tension in the room, Helen cleared her throat again and gestured towards the door. “Perhaps we should all–”
“Leave us.” His dark, brooding gaze fixed on Angie. Nikos Kyriacou issued the command without a flicker of hesitation or the faintest concession towards manners or protocol. “I want to talk to Miss Littlewood alone.”
“But–” ‘It’s fine, Helen.’Angie spoke the words with difficulty. It was far from fine. Already she could feel her knees shaking. She didn’t want to be left on her own with this man. The fact that he was rude came as no surprise. She’d already deduced that he was a man devoid of human decency–a man with no morals or ethics. Now she knew which Greek god he most closely resembled. Ares, she thought to herself. The god of war. Cold and handsome but bringing death and destruction.
Her slim shoulders straightened as she braced herself for conflict. This wasn’t the time to be pathetic. She owed it to her family to stand up to him. The problem was, she hated conflict. Hadn’t her sister continually mocked her becauseAngie always chose the peaceful route? The only argument that interested her was an academic one. All she really wanted was to be left in peace with her research.
But that wasn’t an option.
Staring at him now, she decided that he was every bit as cold and intimidating as his reputation suggested and suddenly all she wanted to do was run. But then she remembered her sister as a child, so blonde and perfect, always smiling. And she remembered her mother’s limp, sobbing form–remembered all the things she’d resolved to say to Nikos Kyriacou if she ever met him face to face.
Why should she be afraid of being alone with him? What could he do to her family that he hadn’t already done?
His dark, disturbing gaze remained fixed on her face as he waited for the echo of Helen’s footsteps to recede.
He had nerve, she had to give him that. To be able to look her in the eye and not appear to feel even the slightest shred of remorse.
Only when he was sure that Helen Knightly had moved out of earshot did he speak. “First, I wish to offer my condolences on the death of your sister.”
His directness shocked her almost as much as the hypocrisy of his statement. The words might have meant more had they been spoken with the slightest softening of the voice but his tone was hard. The coldness injected into that statement somehow turned sympathy to insult.
She inhaled sharply and pain lanced through her body. “Your condolences?” Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak the words. “Next time you’re offering your condolences, at least try and look as though you mean it. In the circumstances, your sympathy is rather out of place, don’t you think? In fact, I think you have a complete nerve coming here and offering “condolences” after what you did!” It was the first time she’d ever spoken to anyone in such a way and she reached out a hand and held on to the table, needing the support.
A frown touched his proud, handsome face, as if he were unaccustomed to being questioned or criticised. “Your sister’s death at my villa was extremely unfortunate, but–”
“Extremely unfortunate?” She, who never raised her voice, who always preferred logic and reasoned argument to mindless aggression, raised it now. A vision of her sister flew into her mind. The sister she’d never be able to hug and laugh with again. “Unfortunate? Is that how you justify it to yourself, Mr Kyriacou? Is that how you appease your conscience? How you manage to sleep at night…”
Something dangerous flared in those dark eyes. “I have no trouble sleeping at night.”
She was suddenly aware of her pounding heartbeat and the dampness of her palms. An instinctive urge of violent aggression swarmed through her and she must have betrayed that urge in some way because the two men in the doorway suddenly stepped forward, ready to intervene.
Angie realised that she’d actually forgotten their presence. “Who are they?”
“My security team.” Nikos Kyriacou dismissed them with an impatient gesture and they melted into the background, leaving Angie alone with the one man in the world she would have preferred never to meet in person.
“I can understand why a man like you would need a security team if you treat everyone the way you treated my sister! Clearly you have no conscience!”
She placed both hands on her desk. It was that or punch him hard. “My sister died in a fall from your balcony and you’re standing there telling me that your conscience is clear?”
The Sultan’s Virgin Bride
Everything was in place.
Like a predator he lay in wait, his powerful body still and his eyes alert and watchful.
Remote and unapproachable, Sultan Tariq bin Omar al–Sharma lounged silently in his chair and surveyed the ballroom from the best table in the room. The arrogant tilt of his proud head and the cynical glint in his cold dark eyes were sufficient to keep people at a respectful distance. As an additional precaution, bodyguards hovered in the background, ready to apprehend anyone brave or foolish enough to approach.
Tariq ignored them in the same way that he ignored the stares of everyone in the room, accepting the attention with the bored indifference of someone who had been the object of interest and speculation since birth.
He was the most eligible bachelor in the world, relentlessly pursued by scores of hopeful women. A man of strength and power, hard and tough and almost indecently handsome.
In a room filled with powerful, successful men, Tariq was the ultimate catch and the buzz of interest built to fever pitch. Women cast covetous glances in his direction, each one indulging in her own personal fantasy about being the one to draw his eye because to do so would be the romantic equivalent of winning the lottery.
Ordinarily he might have exploited that appeal to ruthless advantage, but tonight he was interested in only one woman.
And so far she hadn’t arrived. Nothing about his powerful, athletic frame suggested that his presence in the room stemmed from anything other than a desire to patronize a high profile charity ball. His handsome, aristocratic face was devoid of expression, giving nohint that this evening was the culmination of months of meticulous planning.
For him, tonight was all about business.
He needed control of the Tyndall Pipeline Corporation. The construction of the pipeline was essential to the successful future of Tazkash–crucial for the security and prosperity of his people. He needed to pump oil across the desert. The project was economically, environmentally and financially viable. Everything was in place.
But Harrison Tyndall, Chief Executive Officer, wasn’t playing ball. He wasn’t even willing to negotiate. And Tariq knew the reason why.
The girl.
Farrah Tyndall.
Daddy’s baby. Spoiled little rich girl. Party girl. ‘It’ girl. The girl who’d always had everything she wanted.
Except him.
Tariq’s hard mouth curved into a smile. She could have had him, he recalled. But she hadn’t liked his terms.
And Harrison Tyndall hadn’t liked them either. Weeks of delicate negotiation between the state of Tazkash and the Tyndall Pipeline Corporation had broken down and there had been no further communication on the subject for five long years.
It was a sorry state of affairs, Tariq mused silently, when the wishes of a woman dictated the flow of business.
Seated at his elbow, HasimAkbar, his Minister for Oil Exports, cleared his throat respectfully. ‘Perhaps I should walk around the room, Your Excellency. See if the Tyndall girl has arrived yet.”
“She hasn’t arrived.” Tariq spoke in a lazy drawl, his fluent, perfectly accented English the product of the most expensive education money could buy. ‘If she were here, I would know.”
Hasim tapped his fingers on the table, unable to conceal his mounting anxiety. ‘Then she is extremely late.”
Tariq gave a faint smile. ‘Of course she is extremely late. To be on time or even slightly late would be a wasted opportunity.”
He had no doubt that Farrah Tyndall was currently loitering in the wings somewhere, poised to make her entrance as dramatic as possible. After all, wasn’t socializing the entire focus of her shallow, pampered existence? Having spent all day with her hairdresser and her stylist, she would be more than ready to display the fruits of their labour. Living up to her mother’s reputation. Farrah Tyndall was just like every other woman he’d ever had dealings with. She cared about nothing more important than shoes, hair and the state of her nails.
“It is getting late. Maybe she’s here somewhere,” Hasim suggested nervously, ‘but we just haven’t noticed her.”
“Clearly you’ve never seen a picture of Farrah Tyndall.”Tariq turned his head, a slightly cynical inflection to his tone as he surveyed the man next to him. ‘If you had, then you would know that being noticed is the one thing she does really, really well.”
“She is beautiful?” ‘Sublime.” Tariq’s gaze slid back to the head of the staircase. ‘Farrah Tyndall can light up a room with one smile from her perfectly painted mouth. If she were already here then the men in the room would be glued to the spot and staring.”
As he had stared on that first day, standing on the beach at the desert camp of Nazaar.
Her beauty was enough to blind a man. Enough to blind him to her truly shallow nature.
But it wasn’t her beauty or her personality that interested him now. For the past few months his staff had been discreetly buying every available share in the Tyndall Pipeline Corporation. Control was finally within his reach. All he needed to take over the company and guarantee the pipeline project was a further twenty per cent.
And Farrah Tyndall owned twenty per cent. Hasim was breathing rapidly. ‘I still think this plan is impossible.”
Tariq gave a slow smile, totally unperturbed. ‘The challenge and stimulation of business comes from making the impossible possible,”he observed, his long fingers toying idly with the stem of his glass, ‘and to find a solution where there appears to be none.”
“But if you carry out your plan then you will have to marry her—”
Confronted by that unpalatable truth, Tariq’s fingers tightened on the glass. Despite his outward display of indifference, his internal reaction to the prospect of marriage bordered on the allergic. ‘Only in the short term,”he drawled and Hasim’s expression transformed from mild concern to one of extreme anxiety.
“You are seriously considering invoking the ancient law that allows you to divorce after forty days and forty nights?”
“Everything my wife owns, and I do mean every– thing,” Tariq inserted with silken emphasis, ‘becomes mine on marriage. I want those shares but I have no wish to stay married.”
The plan was perfect. Masterly.
Hasim fiddled nervously with the cloth of his suit. ‘To the best of my knowledge, that particular divorce law has not been applied for centuries.”
“And most people have forgotten its existence, which is clearly to our advantage.”
“It is an insult to a bride and her family, Your Excellency.” Hasim’s voice was hoarse and Tariq lifted an ebony brow.
“How is it possible to insult a woman who thinks only of partying and possessions?” His tone was sardonic. ‘If you’re expecting me to feel sorry for Farrah Tyndall then you’re wasting your time.”
“But what if she doesn’t come tonight? Everything depends on the girl.” The Minister shifted on his chair, beads of sweat standing out on his brow as the prolonged wait started to affect his nerves.
By contrast Tariq, who had nerves of steel and had never doubted his own abilities, sat relaxed and confident, his gaze still focused on the sweep of stairs that led down into the ballroom. ‘She will come. Her father is patron of this charity and she’s never been one to miss a good party. You can safely leave the girl to me, Hasim.”
And even as he said the words she appeared at the top of the staircase.
Poised like a princess, her golden hair piled high on her head in a style no doubt selected in order to display her long slender neck to greatest advantage, the dress a sheath of glittering gold falling from neck to ankles and hugging a body that was nothing short of female perfection.
Clearly he’d been right in his assumption that she’d spent the entire afternoon at the hairdresser and with her stylist, Tariq thought with cold objectivity, his expert gaze sliding slowly down her body.
Which meant that her priorities hadn’t changed at all in the five years since they’d last met.
But there were changes, he noticed, as he watched the way she drifted down the stairs with the effortless grace of a dancer. She carried herself differently. No longer the leggy teenager who had appeared slightly awkward and self–conscious, she’d developed poise and sophistication. She’d grown into her stunning looks.
The girl he’d once known had become a woman. Although he was careful to betray nothing, he felt everything inside him tighten in a vicious attack of lust. Desire, hot and fierce, gripped his lean, athletic frame and, for a moment, he was sorely tempted to drag her from the ballroom and make use of the nearest available flat surface.
Which just went to prove, he thought grimly, that the male libido was no judge of character and completely disconnected from the brain.
Irritated by the violence of his own response to her, he watched in brooding silence as she weaved between tables, pausing occasionally to meet and greet. Her smile was an intriguing mix of allure and innocence and she used it well, captivating her male audience with the gentle curve of her lips and the teasing flash of her eyes.
She was an accomplished flirt. A woman of exceptional beauty who knew exactly how to use the gifts that nature had bestowed upon her to best advantage. And she used each gift to its full as she worked the room, shining brighter than any star as she moved towards her table with a group of friends.
Her table was next to his. He knew that because his instructions to his staff had been quite specific and, like a jungle cat lying in wait for its prey, Tariq remained still, poised for her to notice him.
The tension inside him rose and anticipation thrummed in his veins.
Any moment now…
She exchanged a few words with a passing male, who laughed and kissed her hand. Then she dropped her tiny bag on the table and turned, the smile still on her lips.
And saw him.
The Sicilian Doctor’s Proposal
Giovanni Moretti stood at the top of the narrow cobbled street, flexed his broad shoulders to try and ease the tension from the journey and breathed in the fresh, clean sea air. Above him, seagulls shrieked and swooped in the hope of benefiting from the early morning catch.
Sounds of the sea.
He paused for a moment, his fingers tucked into the pockets of his faded jeans, his dark eyes slightly narrowed as he scanned the pretty painted cottages that led down to the busy harbour. Window-boxes and terracotta pots were crammed full with brightly coloured geraniums and tumbling lobelia and a smile touched his handsome face. Before today he’d thought that places like this existed only in the imagination of artists. It was as far from the dusty, traffic-clogged streets of Milan as it was possible to be, and he felt a welcome feeling of calm wash over him.
He’d been right to agree to take this job, he mused silently, remembering all the arguments he’d been presented with. Right to choose this moment to slow the pace of his life and leave Italy.
It was early in the morning but warm, tempting smells of baking flavoured the air and already the street seemed alive with activity.
A few people in flip-flops and shorts, who he took to be tourists, meandered down towards the harbour in search of early morning entertainment while others jostled each other in their eagerness to join the queue in the bakery and emerged clutching bags of hot, fragrant croissants and rolls.
His own stomach rumbled and he reminded himself that he hadn’t eaten anything since he’d left Milan the night before. Fast food had never interested him. He preferred to wait for the real thing. And the bakery looked likethe real thing.
He needed a shower and a shave but there was no chance of that until he’d picked up the key to his accommodation and he doubted his new partner was even in the surgery yet. He glanced at his watch and decided that he just about had time to eat something and still time his arrival to see her just before she started work.
He strolled into the bakery and smiled at the pretty girl behind the counter. ‘Buongiorno—good morning.’
She glanced up and caught the smile. Her blue eyes widened in feminine appreciation. ‘Hello. What can I offer you?’
It was obvious from the look in those eyes that she was prepared to offer him the moon but Gio ignored the mute invitation he saw in her eyes and studied the pastries on offer, accustomed to keeping women at a polite distance. He’d always been choosy when it came to women. Too choosy, some might say. ‘What’s good?’
‘Oh—well ’ The girl lifted a hand to her face, her cheeks suddenly pink. ‘The pain au chocolat is my favourite but the almond croissant is our biggest seller. Take away or eat in?’
For the first time Gio noticed the small round tables covered in cheerful blue gingham, positioned by the window at the back of the shop. ‘Eat in.’ It was still so early he doubted that his partner had even reached the surgery yet. ‘I’ll take an almond croissant and a double espresso. Grazie.’
He selected the table with the best view over the harbour. The coffee turned out to be exceptionally good, the croissant wickedly sweet, and by the time he’d finished the last of his breakfast he’d decided that spending the summer in this quaint little village was going to be no hardship at all.
‘Are you on holiday?’ The girl on the till was putting croissants into bags faster than the chef could take them from the oven and still the queue didn’t seem to diminish.
Gio dug his hand into his pocket and paid the bill. ‘Not on holiday.’ Although a holiday would have been welcome, he mused, his eyes still on the boats bobbing in the harbour. ‘I’m working.’
‘Working?’ She handed him change. ‘Where?’
‘Here. I’m a doctor. A GP, to be precise.’ It still felt strange to him to call himself that. For years he’d been a surgeon and he still considered himself to be a surgeon. But fate had decreed otherwise.
‘You’re our new doctor?’
He nodded, aware that after driving through the night he didn’t exactly look the part. He could have been evasive, of course, but his new role in the community was hardly likely to remain a secret for long in a place this small. And, anyway, he didn’t believe in being evasive. What was the harm in announcing himself? ‘Having told you that, I might as well take advantage of your local knowledge. How does Dr Anderson take her coffee?’
All that he knew about his new partner was what David had shared in their brief phone conversation. He knew that she was married to her job, very academic and extremely serious. Already he’d formed an image of her in his mind. Tweed skirt, flat heels, horn-rimmed glasses—he knew the type. Had met plenty like her in medical school.
‘Dr Anderson? That’s easy.’ The girl smiled, her eyes fixed on his face in a kind of trance. ‘Same as you. Strong and black.’
Ah.’ His new partner was obviously a woman of taste. And what does she eat?’
The girl continued to gaze at him and then seemed to shake herself. ‘Eat? Actually, I’ve never seen her eat anything.’ She shrugged. ‘Between the tourists and the locals, we probably keep her too busy to give her time to eat. Or maybe she isn’t that interested in food.’
Gio winced and hoped it was the former. He couldn’t imagine developing a good working partnership with someone who wasn’t interested in food. ‘In that case, I’ll play it safe and take her a large Americano.’ Time enough to persuade her of the benefits of eating. ‘So the next thing you can do is direct me to the surgery. Or maybe Dr Anderson won’t be there yet.’
It wasn’t even eight o’clock.
Perhaps she slept late, or maybe—
‘Follow the street right down to the harbour and it’s straight in front of you. Blue door. And she’ ll be there.’ The girl pressed a cap onto the coffee-cup. ‘She was up half the night with the Bennetts’ six-year-old. Asthma attack.’
Gio lifted an eyebrow. ‘You know that?’
The girl shrugged and blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. Around here, everyone knows everything.’ She handed him the coffee and his change. ‘Word gets around.’
‘So maybe she’s having a lie-in.’
The girl looked at the clock. ‘I doubt it. Dr Anderson doesn’t sleep much and, anyway, surgery starts soon.’
Gio digested that piece of information with interest. If she worked that hard, no wonder she took her coffee strong and black.
With a parting smile at the girl he left the bakery and followed her instructions, enjoying the brief walk down the steep cobbled street, glancing into shop windows as he passed.
The harbour was bigger than he’d expected, crowded with boats that bobbed and danced under the soft seduction of the sea. Tall masts clinked in the soft breeze and across the harbour he saw a row of shops and a blue door with a brass nameplate. The surgery.
A few minutes later he pushed open the surgery door and blinked in surprise. What had promised to be a small, cramped building proved to be light, airy and spacious. Somehow he’d expected something entirely different—somewhere dark and tired, like some of the surgeries he’d visited in London. What he hadn’t expected was this bright, calming environment designed to soothe and relax.
Above his head glass panels threw light across a neat waiting room and on the far side of the room a children’s corner overflowed with an abundance of toys in bright primary colours. A table in a glaring, cheerful red was laid with pens and sheets of paper to occupy busy hands.
On the walls posters encouraged patients to give up smoking and have their blood pressure checked and there were leaflets on first aid and adverts for various local clinics.
It seemed that nothing had been forgotten.
Gio was just studying a poster in greater depth when he noticed the receptionist.
She was bent over the curved desk, half-hidden from view as she sifted through a pile of results. Her honey blonde hair fell to her shoulders and her skin was creamy smooth and untouched by sun. She was impossibly slim, wore no make-up and the shadows under her eyes suggested that she worked harder than she should. She looked fragile, tired and very young.
Gio’s eyes narrowed in an instinctively masculine assessment.
She was beautiful, he decided, and as English as scones and cream. His eyes rested on her cheekbones and then dropped to her perfectly shaped, soft mouth. He found himself thinking of summer fruit—strawberries, raspberries, redcurrants
Something flickered to life inside him.
The girl was so absorbed in what she was reading that she hadn’t even noticed him and he was just about to step forward and introduce himself when the surgery door swung open again and a group of teenage boys stumbled in, swearing and laughing.
They didn’t notice him. In fact, they seemed incapable of noticing anyone, they were so drunk.
Gio stood still, sensing trouble. His dark eyes were suddenly watchful and he set the coffee down on the nearest table just in case he was going to need his hands.
One of them swore fluently as he crashed into a low table and sent magazines flying across the floor. ‘Where the hell’s the doctor in this place? Matt’s bleeding.’
The friend in question lurched forward, blood streaming from a cut on his head. His chest was bare and he wore a pair of surf shorts, damp from the sea and bloodstained. ‘Went surfing.’ He gave a hiccup and tried to stand up without support but failed. Instead he slumped against his friend with a groan, his eyes closed. ‘Feel sick.’
‘Surfing when you’re drunk is never the best idea.’ The girl behind the desk straightened and looked them over with weary acceptance. Clearly it wasn’t the first time she’d had drunks in the surgery. ‘Sit him down over there and I’ll take a look at it.’
‘You?’ The third teenager swaggered across the room, fingers tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He gave a suggestive wink. ‘I’m Jack. How about taking a look at me while you’re at it?’ He leaned across the desk, leering. ‘There are bits of me you might be interested in. You a nurse? You ever wear one of those blue outfits with a short skirt and stockings?’
‘I’m the doctor.’ The girl’s eyes were cool as she pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and walked round the desk without giving Jack a second glance. ‘Sit your friend down before he falls down and does himself more damage. I’ll take a quick look at him before I start surgery.’
Gio didn’t know who was more surprised—him or the teenagers.
She was the doctor?
She was Alice Anderson?
He ran a hand over the back of his neck and wondered why David had omitted to mention that his new partner was stunning. He tried to match up David’s description of a serious, academic woman with this slender, delicate beauty standing in front of him, and failed dismally. He realised suddenly that he’d taken ‘single’ to mean ‘mature’. And ‘academic’ to mean ‘dowdy’.
‘You’re the doctor?’ Jack lurched towards her, his gait so unsteady that he could barely stand. ‘Well, that’s good news. I love a woman with brains and looks. You and I could make a perfect team, babe.’
She didn’t spare him a glance, refusing to respond to the banter. ‘Sit your friend down.’ Her tone was firm and the injured boy collapsed onto the nearest chair with a groan.
‘I’ll sit myself down. Oh, man, my head is killing me.’
‘That’s what happens when you drink all night and then bang your head.’ Efficient and businesslike, she pushed up the sleeves of her plain blue top, tilted his head and took a look at the cut. She parted the boy’s hair gently and probed with her fingers. Her mouth tightened. ‘Well, you’ve done a good job of that. Were you knocked out?’
Gio cast a professional eye over the cut and saw immediately that it wasn’t going to be straightforward. Surely she wasn’t planning to stitch that herself? He could see ragged edges and knew it was going to be difficult to get a good cosmetic result, even for someone skilled in that area.
‘I wasn’t knocked out.’ The teenager tried to shake his head and instantly winced at the pain. ‘I swallowed half the ocean, though. Got any aspirin?’
‘In a minute. That’s a nasty cut you’ve got there and it’s near your eye and down your cheek. It’s beyond my skills, I’m afraid.’ She ripped off the gloves and took a few steps backwards, a slight frown on her face as she considered the options. ‘You need to go to the accident and emergency department up the coast. They’ll get a surgeon to stitch you up. I’ll call them and let them know that you’re coming.’
‘No way. We haven’t got time for that.’ The third teenager, who hadn’t spoken up until now, stepped up to her, his expression threatening. ‘You’re going to do it. And you’re going to do it here. Right now.’
She dropped the gloves into a bin and washed her hands. ‘I’ll put a dressing on it for you, but you need to go to the hospital to get it stitched. They’ll do a better job than I ever could. Stitching faces is an art.’
She turned to walk back across the reception area but the teenager called Jack blocked her path.
‘I’ve got news for you, babe.’ His tone was low and insulting. ‘We’re not going anywhere until you’ve fixed Matt’s face. I’m not wasting a whole day of my holiday sitting in some hospital with a load of sickos. He doesn’t mind a scar. Scars are sexy. Hard. You know?’
‘Whoever does it, he’ll be left with a scar,’ she said calmly, ‘but he’ll get a better result at the hospital.’
‘No hospital.’ The boy took a step closer and stabbed a finger into her chest. ‘Are you listening to me?’
‘I’m listening to you but I don’t think you’re listening to me.’ The girl didn’t flinch. ‘Unless he wants to have a significant scar, that cut needs to be stitched by someone with specific skills. It’s for his own good.’
It happened so quickly that no one could have anticipated it. The teenager backed her against the wall and put a hand round her throat. ‘I don’t think you’re listening to me, babe. It’s your bloody job, Doc. Stitchhimup! Do it.’
Gio crossed the room in two strides, just as the teenager uttered a howl of pain and collapsed onto the floor in a foetal position, clutching his groin.
She’d kneed him.
Public Wife, Private Mistress
SHE was not going to die.
Rico Crisanti, billionaire President of the Crisanti Corporation, stared grimly through the window that sep- arated the relatives’ room from the intensive care unit, oblivious to the dreamy stares of the nurses working on the unit. He was used to women staring. Women always stared. Sometimes he noticed. Sometimes he didn’t.
Today he didn’t.
His gaze was fixed on the still body of the girl who lay on the bed, surrounded by doctors and high-tech machinery.
The jacket of his designer suit had long since been removed, tossed with careless disregard for its future appearance over the back of a standard issue hospital chair, and he now stood in a state of rigid tension, silk shirtsleeves rolled back to reveal bronzed forearms, his firm jaw grazed by a dark stubble that made him more bandit than businessman.
For a man as driven as Rico, a man accustomed to controlling and directing, a man accustomed to action, the waiting was proving to be the worst kind of torture.
Waiting for anything was not his strong point. He wanted the problem fixed now. But for the first time in his life he’d discovered that there was something that he couldn’t control. Something that money couldn’t buy.
The life of his teenage sister.
Rico swore softly under his breath, fighting the temp- tation to punch his fist through the glass.
He’d been at the hospital for the best part of two weeks and never had he felt so helpless. Never had he felt so ill-equipped to solve a problem that confronted him.
Blocking out the muted sobs of his mother, grand- mother, aunt and two cousins, he stared in brooding, frustrated silence at the still figure, as if the very force of his personality might be sufficient to rouse her from her unconscious state.
There must be something more he could do. He was the man with a solution for everything and he refused to give up.
He sucked in a breath and tried to think clearly, but he’d recently discovered that lack of sleep, grief and worry were not a combination designed to focus the mind. Fear had induced a mind-numbing paralysis that was becoming harder to shake with each passing hour.
Trying to clear his head, he inhaled deeply and ran a hand over the back of his neck, clenching his jaw as his mother gave another poorly disguised sob of dis- tress. The sound cut like a blade through his heart. The expectation of his family weighed on him heavily and for the first time in his life he knew what it felt like to be truly helpless.
He’d flown in a top neurosurgeon who had operated to relieve the pressure on Chiara’s brain caused by the bleed. She was breathing on her own but still hadn’t recovered consciousness. Her life hung in the balance and no one could predict the outcome. No one could answer the question.
Life or death.
And if it were life, would it be life with disability, or life as Chiara had known it before the horse had thrown her?
He swore softly and raked strong fingers through his hair. To Rico, that was the hardest aspect to cope with. The exquisite, drawn out mental torture of waiting. He’d seen his mother worn down by it, had watched the black shadows grow under her eyes as she lived under the cruel shadow of uncertainty on a daily basis. Had watched her wither slightly as she was forced to ask herself whether this would be the day when she lost her only daughter —
Suddenly his own powerlessness mocked him and had he not been too drained for laughter, then he would have laughed at his own arrogance.
Had he really thought that he could control destiny? The vow he’d made to his father, the vow he’d made to look after the family, seemed suddenly empty and worthless. What did it matter that he’d created an em- pire from nothing but dust using only fierce determi- nation? What did it matter that his success in building that empire had been nothing short of staggering? Somewhere along the way he’d started to believe that there was nothing he couldn’t control. Nothing he couldn’t do if he set his mind to it. And it had taken this accident to remind him that no amount of riches could protect a man from the hand of fate.
Driven by the monumental frustration of doing noth- ing, he loosened another button on his silk shirt with impatient fingers and paced the room, his long strides and the confined space combining to provide little in the way of relief. Emotion, as unwelcome as it was unfamiliar, clogged his throat and for the first time since he was a small child he felt the hot sting of tears threaten his usually icy composure.
Cursing his own weakness, he closed his eyes and rubbed long fingers along the bridge of his nose as if he could physically hold back the building pressure of grief.
It would help no one if he crumbled. The whole family was on the edge, grasping on to fragile threads of hope extended by grim-faced doctors. His was the strength that they used. The rock that they leaned on. If he caved in, gave in to the desire to howl like a baby, then the morale of the whole family would disintegrate. The game they were playing — the game of hope — would be ended.
So instead he stared in brooding silence at the bruised, immobile body of his sister, willing her to wake up, and he was still staring when the door opened again, this time to admit the doctor who was in charge of his sister’s case together with several more junior doctors.
Ignoring the minions and the immediate response of his own security team to this latest intrusion, Rico’s attention zeroed in on the man in charge, sensing from his manner that he had news to impart. Suddenly he was almost afraid to ask the question that needed to be asked.
“Any change?” His voice was hoarse with strain, lack of sleep and something much worse. The fear of prompting bad news. “Has there been any change?”
“Some.” The doctor cleared his throat, clearly more than a little intimidated by the formidable status of the man standing in front of him. “Her vital signs have im- proved slightly and she regained consciousness briefly,” he announced quietly. “She spoke.”
“She spoke?” Relief flooded through him and for the first time in days he felt lighter. “She said something?”
The doctor nodded. “She was very difficult to under- stand, but one of the nurses thinks that it was a name.” He hesitated and looked at them questioningly. “Stasia? It sounded like Stasia. Could that be right?”
Stasia?
Rico froze, momentarily stunned into shocked si- lence, while behind him his mother gave a strangled gasp of horror and his grandmother gave another wail.
Rico gritted his teeth and tried to shut out the sound. He would have done anything to banish his well- meaning family to the privacy of his estate but he knew that, for the time being, that option was out of the ques- tion. They needed to be here with Chiara. It was just unfortunate that their hysterical display of emotion was making his job harder, not easier.
And now that Stasia had been mentioned the situation was about to deteriorate rapidly.
The mere sound of her name was enough to detonate an explosion within his family.
And as for his own feelings — He closed his eyes briefly and rubbed long fingers over his bronzed forehead. With his sister fighting for her life, he didn’t need to be thinking about Stasia. It seemed that fate was determined to make further efforts to crush him.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Well, whoever she is — could she be brought to the hospital?”
Ignoring his mother’s moan of denial, Rico forced himself to focus on the main issue. His sister’s recovery. Somehow he voiced the words. “Would it make a dif- ference?”
“It might.” The doctor shrugged. “Difficult to say, but anything is worth a try. Can she be contacted?”
Not without considerable emotional sacrifice.
His mother rose to her feet, her face contorting with anger and pain. “No! I won’t have her here! She —”
“Enough!” Rico felt the ripple of curiosity spread through the medical team and silenced his mother with one cool, quelling flash of his unusually expressive black eyes.
It was bad enough that the world’s press was camped on their doorstep, tracking every moment of their darkest hour, without supplying them with further fod- der for gossip.
Stasia.
How ironic that this should happen now, he reflected, when the connection between them was about to be sev- ered permanently. He had thought that there was no circumstance that would ever require him to lay eyes on his wife again. For the past few months he’d had a team of lawyers working overtime to draw up a divorce settlement that he thought was fair. Enough to buy her out of his life and leave him with a clear conscience to marry again. This time to a gentle, compliant Italian girl who understood what it meant to be the wife of a tra- ditional Italian male.
Not a fiery English redhead who was all heat and spark and knew nothing about compliance.
He sucked in a breath as a clear vision of Stasia — wild, beautiful Stasia — flared in his mind and he felt the immediate throb of raw sexual heat pulse through his body. It had been a year since their final, blistering en- counter and despite the distasteful circumstances of their parting, his body still craved her with almost in- decent desperation. And he didn’t trust himself to see her again. She affected his judgement in ways that he didn’t want to admit, even to himself.
Despite everything she’d done, Stasia was as addic- tive as any drug and seeing her again was not a sensible move. In the past year he’d learned to hate her, had learned to see her for what she was.
A mistake.
Rico paced back to the window and studied his sister in brooding silence, an ominous expression on his hand- some face as he reviewed his options. They were de- pressingly limited. Reaching the unpalatable conclusion that his own needs and wishes had to be secondary to the issue of his sister’s recovery, he forced himself to accept that he was going to have to see Stasia again.
He’d fully intended to end the entire fiasco of their marriage through lawyers and there was no reason why this couldn’t still happen, he assured himself swiftly. This was just a temporary stasis in proceedings. He could fly her out and she could do whatever needed to be done and then he could have her flown home again.
It was entirely possible that they could avoid all but the briefest of conversations. Which would suit him per- fectly. He had no desire whatsoever to indulge in any reminiscence of the past. And even less desire to spend time with the woman.
He gave a grim smile, knowing that the irony of the situation wouldn’t be lost on Stasia. Dazzling, uncon- ventional Stasia. The woman who had never conformed to his family’s perceptions of the perfect Sicilian wife.
Or his.
He’d given her everything. Had done everything a husband should do. And still, apparently, it had not been enough.
The doctor cleared his throat discreetly and Rico stirred, making the only decision that he was in a po- sition to make.
“I will send for her.” He turned to Gio, his head of security. “Contact her and make arrangements for her to be flown out immediately.”
He caught the startled glance of the man who’d known him from childhood, heard the shocked gasp of his mother and gritted his teeth as he battled to come to terms with the fact that he was going to have to do the one thing he’d promised himself that he’d never have to do again. Come face to face with Stasia.
One day soon he was going to put her behind him, he vowed. One day soon he’d be able to think of her without feeling an instantaneous reaction in every male part of himself. And the sooner that day came the better.
Million Dollar Love-Child
She’d never known fear like it.
Breathing so rapidly that she felt light-headed, Kimberley stood in the imposing glass-walled board-room on the executive floor of Santoro Investments, staring down at the throbbing, vibrant streets of Rio de Janeiro.
The waiting was torture.
Everything rested on the outcome of this visit–everything–and the knowledge made her legs weaken and her insides knot with vicious tension.
It was ironic, she thought helplessly, that the only person who could help her now was the one man she’d sworn never to see again.
Forcing herself to breathe steadily, she closed her eyes for a moment and tried to modify her expectations. He’d probably refuse to see her.
People didn’t just arrive unannounced and gain access to a man like Luc Santoro.
She was only sitting here now because his personal assistant had taken pity on her. Stammering out her request to see him, Kimberley had been so pale and anxious that the older woman had become quite concerned and had insisted that she should sit and wait in the privacy of the air-conditioned board-room. Having brought her a large glass of water, the assistant had given her a smile and assured her that Mr Santoro really wasn’t as dangerous as his reputation suggested.
But Kimberley knew differently. Luc Santoro wasn’t just dangerous, he was lethal and she knew that it was going to take more than water to make her face the man on the other side of that door.
What was she going to say?
How was she going to tell him?
Where was she going to start?
She couldn’t appeal to his sense of decency or his conscience because he possessed neither. Helping others wasn’t high onhis agenda. He used people and, more especially, he used women. She knew that better than anyone. Pain ripped through her as she remembered just how badly he’d treated her. He was a ruthless, self-seeking billionaire with only one focus in his life. The pursuit of pleasure.
And for a short, blissful time, she’d been his pleasure.
Her heart felt like a heavy weight in her chest. Looking back on it now, she couldn’t believe how naïve she’d been. How trusting. As an idealistic, romantic eighteen-year-old, she’d been willing and eager to share every single part of herself with him. She’d held nothing back because she’d seen no reason to hold anything back. He’d been the one. Her everything. And she’d been his nothing.
She curled her fingers into her palms and reminded herself that the objective of today was not to rehash the past. She was going to have to put aside the memory of the pain, the panic and the bone-deep humiliation she’d suffered as a result of his cruel and careless rejection.
None of that mattered now.
There was only one thing that mattered to her, only one person, and for the sake of that person she was going to bite her tongue, smile, beg or do whatever it took to ingratiate herself with Luc Santoro–because there was no way she was leaving Brazil without the money she needed.
It was a matter of life and death.
She paced the length of the room, trying to formulate some sort of plan in her mind, trying to work out a reasonable way to ask for five million dollars from a man who had absolutely no feelings for her.
How was she going to tackle the subject? How was she going to tell him that she was in serious trouble?
And how could she make him care?
She felt a shaft of pure panic and then the door opened and he strolled into the room unannounced, the sun glinting on his glossy black hair, his face hard, handsome and unsmiling.
And Kimberley realised that she was in even more trouble than she’d previously thought.
She looked like a baby deer caught in an ambush.
Without revealing any of his thoughts, Luc surveyed the slender, impossibly beautiful redhead who stood shivering and pale on the far side of his boardroom.
She looked so frightened that he almost found it possible to feel sorry for her. Except that he knew too much about her.
And if he were in her position, he’d be shaking, too. She had one hell of a nerve, coming here!
Seven years. He hadn’t seen Kimberley Townsend for seven years and still she had the ability to seriously disturb his day.
Endless legs, silken hair, soft mouth and a wide, trusting smile–
For a time she’d truly had him fooled with that loving, giving, generous act that she’d perfected. Accustomed to being with women who were as sophisticated and calculating as himself, he’d been charmed and captivated by Kimberley’s innocence, openness and her almost childlike honesty.
It was the first and only occasion in his adult life when he’d made a serious error of judgement.
She was a greedy little gold-digger.
He knew that now. And she knew that he knew. So what could possibly have possessed her to throw herself in his path again?
She was either very brave or very, very stupid. He strolled towards her, watching her flinch and tremble and decided that she didn’t look particularly brave.
Which just left stupid.
Or desperate?
Kimberley stood with her back to the wall and wondered how she could have forgotten the impact that Luciano Santoro had on women. How could she ever have thought she could hold a man like him?
Time had somehow dimmed the memory and the reality was enough to stun her into a temporary silence.
She was tall but he was taller. His shoulders were broad, his physique lithe and athletic and his dark, dangerous looks alone were enough to make a woman forget her own name. The truth was that, even among a race renowned for handsome men, Luc stood out from the crowd.
She stared at him with almost agonizing awareness as he strolled towards her, her eyes sliding over the glossy blue-black hair, the high cheekbones, those thick, thick lashes that shielded brooding, night-dark eyes and down to the darkened jaw of a man who seemed to embody everything it meant to be masculine. He was dressed formally in standard business attire but even the tailored perfection of his dark suit couldn’t entirely disguise a nature that bordered on the very edges of civilised. Although he moved in a conventional world, Luc could never be described as ‘safe’ and it was that subtle hint of danger that added to his almost overwhelming appeal.
His attraction to the opposite sex was as powerful as it was predictable and she’d proved herself to be as susceptible as the rest when it came to his particular brand of lethal charm.
Feeling her heart pound against her chest, she wondered whether she’d been mad to come here.
She didn’t move in his league and she never had. They played by a completely different set of rules.
And then she reminded herself firmly that she wasn’t here for herself. Given the choice she never would have come near Luc again. But he was her only hope.
“Luciano.”
His eyes mocked her in that lazy, almost bored way that she used to find both aggravating and seductive. “Very formal. You used to call me Luc.”
He spoke with a cultured male drawl that held just a hint of the dark and dangerous. The staggeringly successful international businessman mingled with the raw, rough boy from the streets.
There was enough of the hard and the tough and the ruthless in him to make her shiver. Of course he was tough and ruthless, she reasoned, trying to control the exaggerated response of her trembling body. Rumour had it that he’d dragged himself from the streets of Rio before building one of the biggest multinational businesses in the world.
“That’s in the past.” And she didn’t want to remember the past. Didn’t want to remember the times she’d cried out his name as he’d shown her yet another way to paradise.
He raised an eyebrow and from the look in his dark eyes she knew that he was experiencing the same memories. The temperature in the room rose by several degrees and the air began to crackle and hum. “And is that what this meeting is about? The past? You want closure? You have come to beg forgiveness and repay the money you stole?”
It was typical of him that the first thing he mentioned was the money.
For a moment her courage faltered. “I know it was wrong to use your credit cards–” she licked her lips ‘–but I had a good reason–” She broke off and the carefully prepared speech that she’d rehearsed and rehearsed in her head dissolved into nothing and suddenly she couldn’t think how on earth she was going to say what needed to be said.
Now, she urged herself frantically, tell him now!
But somehow the right words just wouldn’t come. “You did give me the cards–” ‘One of the perks of being with me,” Luc said silkily, “but when you spent the money, you were no longer with me. I have to congratulate you. I thought that no woman had the ability to surprise me–” he paced around her, his voice a soft, lethal drawl ‘–and yet you did just that. During our relationship you spent nothing. You showed no interest in my money. At the time I thought you were unique amongst your sex. I found your lack of interest in material things particularly endearing.’His tone hardened. “Now I see that you were in fact just clever. Very clever.You held back on your spending but once you realised that the relationship was over, you showed your true colours.”
Kimberley’s mouth fell open in genuine amazement. What on earth was he implying? It was definitely time to tell him the truth. “I can explain where the money went–” She braced herself for the ultimate confession but he gave a dismissive shrug that indicated nothing short of total indifference.
“If there is one occupation more boring than watching a woman shop, it’s hearing about it after the event.” Luc’s tone was bored. “I have absolutely no interest in the finer details of feminine indulgence.”
“Is that what you think it was?” Kimberley stared at him, aghast. “You think I spent your money in some sort of childish female tantrum?”
