Rich as Sin

by Anne Mather

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said now, sliding down off the wall, and showing every indication of leaving. ‘I didn’t realise I was intruding.’

  ‘You are not.’ The old man frowned. ‘Please.’ He pointed to another chair, set at right angles to his own. ‘Join me.’

  Samantha hesitated. ‘It’s very kind of you, but—really—I was just going in.’

  ‘Were you?’ He sounded disconcertingly like Matthew. ‘You looked quite at home before I spoke to you. A little sad, perhaps, but in no particular hurry to seek the isolation of your apartments.’

  Samantha allowed a breath to escape her. ‘I—don’t think we have anything to say to one another, Mr Apollonius,’ she said quietly. ‘And—I have packing to do. I’m leaving in the morning.’

  ‘Yes. So Caroline tells me.’ He paused. ‘This is your decision?’

  ‘Yes.’ Samantha nodded.

  ‘Does my grandson know?’

  Samantha suppressed the retort that sprang to her lips. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, smoothing her hands over her skirt. ‘It doesn’t really matter. He’s not here any more, and I should never have come.’

  ‘So why did you?’

  Matthew’s grandfather raised his cigar to his lips, and regarded her intently. It was not an unexpected question, and yet Samantha was unprepared for it. It was reasonable enough that he should want to know. But she had the feeling he already knew the answer.

  ‘Because—because Matt—Matthew—invited me,’ she replied, glancing over her shoulder, towards the lights of the villa. ‘I’m sorry if you think it was an imposition. But—I didn’t know anything about—about your grandson, until I saw this place.’

  The old man’s eyes narrowed, but whether it was with scepticism, or simply the effects of the cigar smoke, Samantha couldn’t be sure. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘What did you not know?’

  ‘Oh, really—–’ Samantha didn’t want to get into this, particularly as she was fairly sure he wouldn’t believe her. ‘I made a mistake, that’s all,’ she offered, shrugging. ‘And, contrary to your suggestion, I love the view.’

  Aristotle’s mouth compressed. ‘You did not know Matthew was my grandson?’ he persisted, and Samantha sighed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You knew his name?’

  ‘Putnam. Yes, I knew his name.’

  ‘And the company he owns?’

  ‘I didn’t know he owned it, but yes. I knew about J.P. Software!’

  The old man studied her taut face. ‘That was said with some feeling. Do I take it you have had some dealings with J.P. Software? Is that how you met my grandson?’

  ‘No.’ Samantha shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Then tell me.’ The old man gestured to the chair again. ‘And sit down.’

  Samantha’s fists clenched, but, short of defying him, there was little she could do. So, with obvious misgivings, she came and took the chair beside him, moving it a few inches away from his, before subsiding on to the cushioned seat.

  ‘Good.’ Aristotle regarded her submission with evident satisfaction. ‘Now I do not have to keep tilting my head to look at you. And, at my age, it is very pleasant to have the company of a beautiful woman.’

  Samantha’s features felt stiff. He didn’t have to do this, she thought. He didn’t have to say these things to get her to tell him how Matthew brought her here. It wasn’t a secret, after all. Caroline probably knew all about it.

  ‘So,’ he prompted. ‘Tell me how you met my grandson.’

  Samantha bent her head. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘We have all night.’

  Samantha gave him a half-rueful look. ‘I’m sure you know already.’

  ‘No. No, I do not. He told me you ran a small café, that is all. I am curious to hear how he introduced himself.’

  That again! Samantha’s mouth flattened. What he really wanted to hear was how she could pretend not to know who he was, when his grandfather was so famous. Perhaps he thought Matthew would have told her. If he did, he knew his grandson as little as she did.

  ‘There was a party,’ she said slowly. ‘I did the catering, and—Matt was there. End of story.’

  ‘Beginning of story,’ Aristotle corrected her, puffing on his cigar. ‘I assume my grandson asked to see you again.’

  ‘Not then, no.’ Samantha took a wary breath. ‘Look, I was—I am—engaged to someone else. I told Matt I couldn’t see him. But—he wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘That sounds like my grandson,’ remarked the old man drily. ‘And ultimately, it seems, he had his way.’

  In more ways than one, thought Samantha, though she didn’t voice it. ‘You could say that,’ she agreed, pleating her skirt with trembling fingers. ‘He got—someone else—to offer me a catering assignment at J.P. Software. Then, when I got there, I found out it was him.’

  Aristotle frowned. ‘Someone else? Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Samantha lifted her shoulders. ‘Someone called—Burgess! If that was his real name.’

  ‘Ah. Victor.’

  ‘You know him?’ Samantha couldn’t hide her curiosity.

  ‘Yes.’ The old man inclined his head. ‘Victor Burgess is my grandson’s valet, for want of a better word. He refused to have a bodyguard, so Victor was installed.’

  ‘A bodyguard!’ Samantha stared at him. ‘Why does Matt need a bodyguard?’

  ‘He is my grandson,’ said Aristotle simply. ‘I regret that there are too many unscrupulous men around who would stop at nothing to get their hands on my family.’

  ‘Kidnapping?’ Samantha was appalled.

  ‘Kidnapping; extortion; murder! The list is endless, Miss Maxwell. And Matthew is so independent. That is why he formed his own company. To prove he doesn’t need me or my money.’

  Samantha caught her breath. ‘Oh, I’m sure that isn’t true …’

  ‘Are you?’ The old man’s lips twisted. ‘But how well do you know my grandson?’ He paused. ‘Not very well, I’m afraid. Dhen pirazi, one day he will have to take my place.’

  Samantha watched as he crushed the remains of his cigar in a crystal ashtray. For a moment she actually felt sorry for him. In spite of everything, she was sure he loved his grandson. There was a certain wistfulness in his words that betrayed it.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she murmured, shifting to the edge of her chair, but his outstretched hand detained her.

  ‘You said you were—betrothed,’ he ventured, the old-fashioned word sounding almost musical on his lips. ‘So, why did you come away with Matthew?’

  ‘Because I was a fool,’ replied Samantha, shaking off his hand and getting to her feet. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Apollonius. I shan’t be seeing your grandson again.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘WHERE is she?’

  Matthew strode angrily across his mother’s bedroom and came to loom over her, his hands gripping the vanity unit on either side of her shrinking figure. She could feel the aggression pulsing from him, and his reflected image in the mirror in front of her was dark and threatening. She found it hard to keep his face in focus, and for the first time in her life Caroline felt intimidated.

  ‘Where do you think?’ she exclaimed now, making a brave effort to continue with her make-up. But the hand holding the mascara brush slipped, and a streak of charcoal smeared her cheek. ‘Damn!’ she muttered. ‘Matthew, will you get away from me?’

  ‘When you tell me what you said to her,’ retorted her son grimly, as she dabbed ineffectually at the mascara with a tissue. ‘You knew I was coming back. I said I’d be here for Apollo’s party, and I am. So what the hell did you say to send her back to England? I told you to explain.’ He straightened. ‘God! I should have known better than to trust you! I should have spoken to her myself.’

  Caroline quivered as he moved away from her. ‘I understood you’d tried to speak to her yourself,’ she retorted, flinching when his savage gaze impaled her once again. ‘Well—you said she wouldn’t open the door,’ she
protested.

  ‘I said the door was locked,’ Matthew declared inflexibly. ‘I did not say she wouldn’t open it. She must have been in the bathroom or something, and couldn’t hear me.’ His eyes darkened. ‘And you were so eager for me to go.’

  ‘I was worried about Melissa,’ replied his mother defensively. ‘And you must have been, too, or you wouldn’t have gone rushing off like that.’

  ‘Yes—well, we both know what a fiasco that was, don’t we?’ he stated scornfully. ‘Just tell me, did you have anything to do with it, by any chance?’

  ‘Matthew!’

  She gazed at him indignantly, but Matthew gazed back without remorse. ‘It’s not beyond your capabilities,’ he retorted, pushing his hands back into the pockets of his dark trousers, and pacing nerve-rackingly about the room. ‘You’re the one who’s always agitating for me to get married and settle down. Did you really think Melissa’s pathetic attempt to get attention would succeed, when all her other efforts didn’t?’

  His mother winced. ‘That’s a cruel and heartless thing to say, Matthew!’

  ‘But true, nevertheless,’ he essayed coldly. ‘Half a dozen paracetamol tablets hardly warrants the time and trouble the doctors and nurses took over her. And let’s get it in perspective, shall we? Ivanov had found out she’d been sleeping with someone else. Not me,’ he added hastily, before Caroline could even consider it. ‘Melissa’s a hot little body. She always was. And apparently Ivanov doesn’t keep her—happy—in that area.’ His lips twisted. ‘Her words were rather less polite, but suffice it to say she thinks certain parts of his anatomy are as frozen as the steppes he comes from.’

  ‘I don’t wish to hear that.’ Caroline reached for a jar of moisturiser, and unscrewed the cap with slightly unsteady fingers. ‘I can’t believe Melissa could be so foolish!’

  ‘No.’ Matthew conceded the point without rancour. ‘But then, we all do foolish things when our emotions are involved.’

  His mother’s head jerked up. ‘You mean you regret not marrying her when you had the chance?’

  ‘No.’ Matthew was adamant, and his expression had darkened again. ‘I mean you did a foolish thing when you sent Sam back to England. Did you really think it would make any difference? Out of sight, out of mind—is that what you thought?’

  Caroline’s nostrils flared. ‘You mean you intend seeing that young woman again?’

  ‘Yes.’ Matthew paused behind her again, and his eyes were disturbingly intent. ‘And don’t call her “that young woman”. Her name’s Sam—Samantha. I suggest you get used to it.’

  His mother’s cheeks gained a little colour, but this time she didn’t back down. ‘Well, I can’t stop you, of course,’ she said tersely, smoothing cream over the offending smear of mascara. ‘But you might be interested to hear I didn’t send Miss Maxwell back to England. She left of her own accord. It was all her idea.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Her son’s response was almost instantaneous, but for the first time since he had stormed into her room Caroline sensed a faint hesitation. Dear God, she thought, her hands stilling automatically as the amazing idea occurred to her. Matthew wasn’t sure of her. He actually had some doubts.

  She blinked, and wiped her fingers on a cotton-wool ball. Of all the scenarios she had entertained during the past twenty-four hours, the idea that that ordinary young woman might not be besotted with her son had never even occurred to her. Oh, it was true she had offered to leave without much prompting. But Caroline knew she had been instrumental in promoting that decision. She hadn’t given her a whole lot of choice. But she wondered now if she could have been mistaken. What if the girl hadn’t been as upset as she’d thought? She had made a show of not caring, but Caroline had discounted that. She had assumed it was just an act, put on to protect her sensibilities. But what if it hadn’t been? What if her son was besotted by that girl?

  It didn’t bear thinking about. He was just on the rebound, she told herself. Matthew was still infatuated with Melissa.

  But if that was so, and Melissa’s engagement to Prince Georgio had foundered, why was he here? Melissa still wanted him; that was obvious. It was why she had asked for him as she was being whisked away to the hospital to have her stomach pumped, or something equally ghastly. And it had seemed such an opportune coincidence: that Matthew should have been with that girl, when Melissa’s attempted suicide was reported. Caroline couldn’t have asked for anything more guaranteed to cause a rift between them. And, just when everything seemed to be going right, it was turning out all wrong.

  She sighed. She might not always have approved of Melissa—and she had certainly resented the disastrous effect the break-up of their relationship had had on her son—but Melissa was good-looking, and personable, and she would make Matthew a tolerable wife. If only her son had ever wanted to get married. But he hadn’t.

  She supposed she couldn’t entirely blame him. Her own ambivalent attitude towards the married state, and his uncle’s vicissitudes aside, Matthew was not exactly surrounded by examples of nuptial bliss. His best friend had been married and divorced twice, and his Greek relations tended to use marriage to perpetuate a dynasty. Even her father had not been above taking a mistress when, after Caroline was born, her own mother had proved so disappointingly unproductive. Her son had grown up seeing a succession of other women pass through his grandfather’s house, and she could hardly complain if he rebelled against their hypocrisy. Besides, he knew that getting married would mean an end to his individual lifestyle. If he had a wife, he wouldn’t be able to deny his identity any longer.

  Caroline passed a rather bemused hand across her cheek. It couldn’t be true. She was over-reacting. Just because Matthew had shown her a side of his personality she had hitherto not encountered, she was anticipating problems that didn’t exist. He was annoyed because she had upset his plans for the weekend, that was all. Well, for heaven’s sake, he could do without a woman for one night!

  ‘I said I don’t believe you,’ he grated now, and she became aware that he was still standing, glowering at her in the mirror. She hoped he couldn’t read her mind. The thoughts she had been having were not for publication.

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ she replied, after a moment, not finding it particularly easy to pick up the threads of their conversation. ‘She insisted on leaving first thing this morning.’ She crossed her fingers, and then continued firmly, ‘I think she’d have left last night, if I hadn’t persuaded her otherwise.’

  Matthew’s mouth compressed. ‘Shit!’ he muttered succinctly, and in spite of her aversion to his language Caroline’s most immediate reaction was one of alarm.

  ‘Really, Matt!’ she exclaimed, in a desperate attempt to salvage something from this situation. She adopted a determinedly amused tone. ‘You’d think you were in love with the girl!’

  Samantha’s father came to the café on Monday lunchtime. It wasn’t unusual to see him there, but it was unusual for him to leave his table vacant. Instead of sitting down, Mr Maxwell smiled at Debbie, and then walked around behind the display cases to where his daughter was busy preparing sandwiches.

  ‘Sam,’ he said, distracting her attention from the chutney she was spooning from a jar. ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘Dad!’ Samantha didn’t know whether to be anxious or relieved. It was so unexpected of him to make the café a place for them to talk in, and although she thought she could guess what he wanted she wished she’d had more notice of his intention.

  ‘Can we talk?’ he repeated, and Samantha glanced around at Debbie, who was hovering by the till.

  ‘I—suppose so,’ she said, the look she cast her assistant indicative of her feelings. ‘We’ll go into the office,’ she added, wiping her hands on a tissue. ‘Take over, will you, Deb? I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  Debbie nodded, clearly intrigued by Mr Maxwell’s visit, and Samantha led the way into the tiny office, not without some misgivings. It was obvious Debbie would want to know
what was going on. Mr Maxwell had never interfered with the running of the café before. She was bound to think it was something serious.

  ‘Your mother asked me to talk to you,’ declared Samantha’s father, without preamble, as soon as the door was wedged closed behind them. ‘She’s worried sick over this business with Paul. You can’t seriously intend breaking your engagement. Why, you and he have been inseparable since you were in your teens.’

  Samantha sighed. ‘The engagement’s broken, Dad. I spoke to Paul last night. And as for us being inseparable: perhaps that’s what was wrong with our relationship. We’ve been so close to each other, we’ve never had the chance to see anyone else.’

  Mr Maxwell breathed out heavily. ‘Sam—–’ He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Sam, you can’t do this. Not just on a whim.’

  ‘It’s not a whim, Dad. I mean what I say. It’s not fair to Paul to carry on. I don’t love him. I don’t think I ever did. Not in the proper way, anyway.’

  ‘The proper way!’ her father mimicked impatiently. ‘What is the “proper” way? I doubt if you know. I know I don’t. It’s mixing with these well-to-do people, isn’t it? They’ve unsettled you. Given you ideas about making money and getting rich quick!’

  ‘That’s not true!’ Samantha was indignant. ‘I’ve got no plans, beyond continuing to run the café as I’ve always done. I’ve told you I’m not going to accept any more commissions. What more can I say?’

  Mr Maxwell grimaced. ‘Then what’s wrong with Paul all of a sudden? You told your mother there was no one else. Is that true?’

  Samantha caught her breath. ‘Yes. Yes, it’s true,’ she declared forcefully. ‘I just don’t want to get married. Is there anything wrong with that?’

  ‘Yes, there is.’ Her father regarded her frustratedly. ‘You know your mother’s been looking forward to organising the wedding. Why, she’s even made a provisional guest list, and talked about what she and I could get you. We thought a couple of thousand pounds towards your mortgage wouldn’t come amiss. And what with Paul being an estate agent and all, he’s bound to have an insight into what kind of property you should buy.’