by Julia James
Relieved that she did not have to make painful conversation with him yet, Flavia took one of the magazines at random while Leon focussed on his laptop. Every sense was super-aware of him sitting there, a few feet away from her, and every part of her mind was leaping with the memory of what had happened the last time she’d sat in this limo with him …
He’d swept away her reserve, her resistance, as if they were nothing. Nothing at all! Melting her with his kiss, dissolving her very bones with it!
It had been the most devastating experience of her life—changing everything she’d been. Making her feel what she had never felt before!
She could feel her heart-rate quicken as the memory seared across her brain, feel her breath catch. Urgently she fought for control, lest he turn his head, see the hectic flush in her cheeks—and know just what had caused it.
Somehow she managed to regain at least an outer semblance of the composure she was trying to hang on to with all her might. Inwardly, her emotions were in turmoil—currents swirling inchoately as she tried not to think about what might lie ahead at the end of the evening …
She was grateful for the journey out of London. By the time the car was making its way off the motorway into the Thames Valley she was able to take some cognisance of where they were going. They were driving through hilly woodland along quiet, country roads that seemed a universe away from London, only that short journey behind them.
The car slowed to turn through imposing ironwork gates, to move along a drive bordered by rhododendrons in vivid bloom, with glimpses of extensive parkland beyond. Early evening sunshine lit up the landscape, and Flavia could not help but feel its soothing influence over her jangled nerves.
‘Better than London?’
Leon’s enquiry made her turn her head. He had shut down his laptop and was slipping it into its case.
‘Oh, yes …’
There was a warmth in her voice that was obvious by its previous absence. As the magnificent Palladian frontage of Mereden came into view, bathed in sunlight and lapped by manicured gardens, he knew with satisfaction that he had made a good decision in bringing Flavia here. She was no city girl, craving bright lights and crowds. This country house hotel, set in rural parkland, was far more her style!
They drew up in front of the grand entrance and a uniformed doorman stepped forward to open the passenger door. Flavia climbed out and looked around her. She had heard of Mereden, but had never been here before. Once a stately home, now it was a lavish private hotel, set in the exclusive wealthy catchment area of the Thames Valley.
‘Shall we go in?’
Leon ushered her forward and she stepped through the imposing double doorway into a high-ceilinged hall beyond.
They were clearly expected, and were conducted out on to a wide terrace overlooking the gardens and the River Thames beyond. Guests were enjoying pre-dinner drinks, watching the sunset. Flavia caught her breath, gazing out over the panoramic vista.
‘Worth the drive out?’
She turned impulsively to Leon. ‘Oh, yes! It’s absolutely breathtaking!’
His expression stilled. Slowly he replied, ‘I’m glad you like it.’
‘Who couldn’t?’ she answered, and turned back to gaze over the stone balustrade at the verdant lawns, drenched in golden evening sunlight, reaching down towards the river’s edge.
Even without consciously realising it, she could feel some of the tension racking through her ebb a little. It was so good to be out of London, away from the built-up streets, in such a glorious place as this, with such a vista in front of her. It was impossible not to respond to it. The warm, balmy air, clean and fresh after the fumes and pollution of London, was like a blessing, as was the blessed quietness all around her. No traffic noise was audible, only the murmuring of the other guests, and the evening birdsong from the trees set around the wide lawns.
‘Madam?’ A waiter was standing beside her, champagne glasses on a tray.
‘Thank you,’ she found herself saying with a smile, and took a narrow flute filled with gently fizzing liquid.
Leon did likewise. A sense of achievement glowed in him. He’d definitely done the right thing in bringing her here. He could feel relief easing through him, and hoped it was not premature. But, for all his wariness, at least her reaction so far was proving encouraging.
‘To a pleasant evening,’ he said.
With only the barest hesitation Flavia clinked her flute to his, then, as if to give herself some cover, turned back to gaze out over the vista, sipping at the champagne. It tasted cold and delicious.
‘I don’t know how anyone can live in London,’ she heard herself musing, her eyes resting on the peaceful scenery before her.
Leon moved slightly and came to stand beside her, taking care not to invade her body space lest she take fright. He rested a hand on the sun-warmed stone of the balustrade.
‘Many don’t have another choice,’ he pointed out mildly. What he didn’t point out, though, was that her comment was the first completely unprompted one she’d made to him. He wanted to do absolutely nothing to make her aware of that. If that meant treading on eggshells, so be it.
Her eyes flickered to him, then swiftly away out over the view again. ‘Yes. I feel so sorry for them. But some people like the city. My father and Anita, for example.’ Her voice was flat.
‘I hated London when I first came,’ Leon said, choosing not to take up her remark about her father and his girlfriend. ‘It was freezing cold, and it rained all the time.’
‘A lot of foreigners think that,’ she said wryly. ‘Quite a few Brits, too—it’s why they head south to the sun. But somehow winter is worse in the city, I think.’
‘I wouldn’t disagree with you there,’ said Leon dryly. He paused. ‘So, whereabouts in the country do you live?’
Immediately he saw her stiffen. Inwardly he cursed himself. Up till now, ever since they’d arrived here, she’d seemed to thaw discernibly—as if the beautiful, rural surroundings had calmed her. Now the tension was back in the set of her shoulders.
‘Oh, in the West Country,’ she said, offhandedly. ‘Look, isn’t that a heron?’
Her voice was animated because she wanted to change the subject fast. It was the second time Leon had asked her where she lived, and it was the last thing she wanted him to know. Disquiet swirled rancidly within her at the reminder of just why she was here—and at whose bidding. For a brief moment there seemed to be a shadow over the sunlit view she was gazing over.
Thankfully, he accepted her change of tack. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said. ‘Natural history isn’t my thing at all.’
‘I think it is a heron,’ she said, eyes fixed on it.
‘What are those smaller birds darting around over the river?’ If she wanted to talk about wildlife, then he could only be grateful. Anything to keep her mood as it was. The stiffening in her shoulders as he’d asked about where she lived had gone again, and he was thankful. He didn’t want to talk about anything at all that might make her tense up again. This visible thawing, slight though it was, was far too precious for that.
‘Swallows and swifts, probably,’ she replied. ‘They like to catch the insects that are attracted to the water.’ She took another sip from her champagne flute. It helped to let her speak more naturally, with less awkward stiffness. And besides, sipping chilled champagne, here on the terrace, looking out over so beautiful a vista, seemed an appropriate thing to do in such a setting.
With such a man beside her … A man who set every nerve-ending in her body aflame …
No—she mustn’t think of that! Mustn’t let herself. She was coping with this whole situation in the only way she could—by taking it minute by minute and keeping that composed, unemotional mask over her face, her mind …
Leon smiled. ‘Ah, yes—I’ve seen them at my villa on Santera, skimming over the swimming pool in the evenings.’
Flavia glanced at him. ‘Santera?’
‘One of the many smalle
r islands of the Balearics,’ he said.
‘I’ve not heard of it.’ She shook her head slightly.
‘Most people haven’t,’ he answered. ‘They know about the main islands of the Balearics—notably Majorca—but the archipelago has a host of other tiny islands and islets. Many are uninhabited, kept as nature reserves or just places to sail to and around. A few have villas and resorts on them, like Santera.’
Flavia looked away again. It was safer to look at the view down to the river, to study the birds darting over the water, than to stand looking at Leon. He was talking again, and she was grateful. More about this island near Majorca. She made herself pay attention. Nature, geography, foreign travel—all were safe, innocuous subjects.
‘Santera is very flat,’ he was saying, ‘and the land almost seems to meld with the sea. It’s dry and sandy, but to my mind very lovely. The beaches are wonderful, and there is only one metalled road, leading from the small harbour where supplies are brought in. There are only a few other villas there besides mine, so each is very secluded.’
‘It sounds beautiful,’ she said slowly. There had been a warmth in his voice she had not heard before, and it made her turn her head to glance at him. Just for a moment—the briefest second—their gazes mingled.
Then she pulled hers away and looked out towards the River Thames again, rotating the stem of her champagne glass. Her blood seemed to be swirling in her veins suddenly.
‘It is,’ he said. An idea was forming in his mind, though he was not sure of it yet. ‘But it is not by any means luxurious.’
She gave a small, dismissive shrug of her shoulders. ‘Luxury isn’t important,’ she said.
His eyes narrowed, studying her as she gazed out over the balustrade. She was a child of luxury—born to it—with a wealthy father to lavish her with designer clothes like the elegant outfit she was wearing now.
‘Easy to say when you have always had it at your disposal,’ he could not stop himself saying.
She turned at that. Her expression was stricken, and Leon immediately felt bad that he’d made such a remark.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘that was crass of me.’ There was a sincerity in her voice that was not there just for politeness.
He would have responded, but one of the hotel staff was approaching, enquiring if they would care to take their table yet.
Their table was by the French windows and gave a full view of the setting sun, its rays gilding the ornate room and glinting on the polished silverware. Menus were presented, their flutes refilled, and whether it was the champagne or the air of the countryside, Flavia suddenly felt hungry. When she gave her order, Leon looked mildly surprised at her choices. They were definitely more hearty than they had been the night before.
‘It all sounds so appetising,’ she said by way of explanation.
When the food arrived, superbly presented and even more superbly prepared, she found she was eating with real enjoyment.
Something was changing, she knew. It wasn’t just the champagne, or even the exquisite food, or the beautiful room they were dining in—all painted Adam ceiling and gilded pillars, opening out on to the terrace and the view beyond. It was more than that.
Her gaze went to Leon.
For a long, long moment her eyes rested on him, taking him in, drinking him in. She felt an aching longing welling inside her. And knew she must answer a question she could no longer avoid, no longer hide from.
If I were free—totally free, without any consideration for anyone but myself—where would I be?
She had fled from Leon once, overwhelmed by him, by the feelings he could arouse in her, seeing only the impossibility of it all, scared and overcome by it. She had fled back home to her responsibilities, to the grandmother who depended on her. Leon Maranz was not for her—he could not be. The inescapable circumstances of her life made it impossible.
But now she had been forced to go to him. Forced to do her father’s foul bidding. She resented and hated it. Yet for all that the question came again, refusing to be silenced.
If I were totally free—if I could choose for myself—where would I be?
And the answer came clear, with no possibility of denial.
I would be here. Here with Leon.
Because there has never been anyone like him before in my life and being with him is all I want!
It was a truth she could no longer deny. Yet even as she accepted it she felt the cry come from deep within her.
If only … If only I were here with him without anything to do with my father! Without the hideous pressure he is putting on me! If only I were here with Leon and the threat to Harford, to my grandmother, never existed! If only my father had not tainted and befouled what I want so much! This time with Leon … this precious time!
Because if that were so … If that were so, she knew, with deep, absolute certainty, that she would be here willingly, joyously. With absolute conviction in what she was doing. Giving in to the overpowering need to succumb to what he had lit within her like a flame.
There has never been anyone like him—never been anything like the response he evokes in me! Never before—and never again …
Why it had happened she could not tell. Why this man she did not know. She knew only that it was so—that it had happened—and she could no more deny it or defy it than cease to breathe. The truth of it was as radiant as the sun setting in liquid fire, its last rays streaming all around her, turning the world to gold.
Anguish clutched at her. That what she felt for Leon, this extraordinary flame of burning desire, should be so sullied by what her father was doing to her was unbearable—unbearable that her father should be soiling it with his foul demands and threats! Making something shameful of what should have been so wonderful!
And then, as she gazed at him, her anguish in her face, his eyes met hers. Blazed with sudden desire impossible to veil. And in that moment, as she met the full charge, she felt something shift and change and resolve in her.
So what if her father was trying to exploit her for his own ends? Trying to manipulate her, threatening and blackmailing her, making her feel soiled and ashamed? She was doing what he wanted for her grandmother’s sake—and the knowledge seared within her that it was what she wanted, too! What she wanted with all her being.
Words formed in her head. Strong—resolute. From the inner core of her.
What is happening is happening. I will not let what my father is doing poison and destroy it. I will not let it taint and sully it.
She would put everything aside but her own feelings for Leon. Nothing her father could do could poison them! She would not allow it—would not permit it! She would put aside everything her father had said, and threatened, and insinuated, and manipulated. Because one shining truth was blazing within her, as golden and glorious as the setting sun bathing the world in beauty: she was here, now, because she wanted to be, because she would of her own free choice be nowhere else but here, with Leon. Going forward with him to wherever he would take her, on a journey she had never taken before—on a journey into the heart of desire and its burning, incandescent fulfilment.
She would give herself to him and let nothing taint this time—nothing!
Like light and warmth, the resolution streamed through her, blazed from her eyes. Her gaze hung on Leon’s, and in his dark, beautiful eyes she saw suddenly, like a fire kindling, an answering blaze. For one endless moment it was there—a moment of intensity she had never known before. Then, as if it was overwhelming her, like breathing pure oxygen or gazing into the heart of the too-bright sun, she dropped her gaze, breathless with sudden, extraordinary happiness.
Across the table Leon felt his senses reeling. Triumph—more than triumph!—coursed through him. For the first time he had seen in Flavia what he had so long ached to see: the fire of her response to him acknowledged, admitted—accepted. Relief filled him, deep and profound. The knowledge that finally he had broken through that endless guard she’d held up to him,
keeping him at bay, holding him off. Gratitude welled within him, and resolve—resolve that her new-found trust in him would never be betrayed. He would take her only where she herself wanted to go, on the journey that awaited them into the heart of desire—desire fulfilled …
Emotion moved within him, making him pause. A sense of wonder filled him—a sense of gratitude that this beautiful, beautiful woman, as wary as a doe, had been granted to him.
I will not hurt her or let her down. I will be worthy of her. I will not betray her trust in me, so valued because it was so hard-won …
But he must still proceed slowly, carefully, he knew. She must not be rushed or overhwhelmed lest she take fright again, hide once more behind that frigid wall surrounding her. He cast about for something easy to talk about—some unpressured, uncontentious topic that would help to draw her out, set her yet more at her ease, build on the fragile trust that had put forth its precious green shoots this evening.
Ironically, he knew that what he wanted was to find out much more about her. There was so little he knew—even where she lived. Well, it was no matter. Gradually, as they got to know each other fully, they would talk more about themselves, have no secrets from each other. Already, the previous evening, he had found himself telling her about his work to help others living as he once had himself—a subject he did not usually dwell on in company. There were those in the world he moved in now who found the thought of such dire poverty uncomfortable, unsettling.
Flavia hadn’t seemed to, though—and it had been the sincerity of her sympathy, briefly expressed as it had been, that had shown him she was not the shallow, venal, pampered princess he’d feared she might be, given her wealthy background and given, he thought, with an inward frown, her father’s utter lack of sensibility about the plight of others in the world! But Flavia was clearly cut from a different cloth from her father—he trusted that instinctively.
As if catching his thoughts, she spoke, pre-empting his mental search for a safe, neutral topic to converse on with her.