Inherited by Ferranti

by Kate Hewitt

ARABELLA ‘REBEL’ DANIELS stood at the back of one of the many lifts that served the giant glass and steel masterpiece that was the Angel Building, and waited for the group of four to board. Swallowing down the lingering taste of the second double-shot macchiato she’d given in to this morning, she took a deep breath to calm herself. Although she’d needed the boost very badly at the time, the effect on her nerves now prompted a bout of regret.

  Caffeine and panic did not mix well, and, after two long weeks of subsisting on both, she was more than ready to ditch them.

  Her heart pounded with trepidation, but, thankfully, she couldn’t hear it above the loud music playing in her ears.

  Grappling with what would greet her once the lift journey ended was consuming enough, although there was also the real and present albatross of having lost her biggest sponsor three weeks ago and the resulting media frenzy, to deal with. Of course, far from the wild speculation that she was using booze and drugs to cope with her problems, the media would’ve been shocked and sorely disappointed to know the strongest substance she’d touched was coffee.

  She stared unseeing before her, the words of the letter that had been burning a hole in her bag for the last two weeks emblazoned in her mind.

  Arabella,

  First of all, happy twenty-fifth birthday for Wednesday. If you’re surprised at this out-of-the-blue communication, don’t be. You’re still my daughter and I have a duty of care to you. There’s no judgement on my part for the way you’ve chosen to live your life. Nor are there any strings attached to the enclosed funds. You need it, so put pride aside and use it. It’s what your mother would’ve wanted.

  Your father.

  Steeling her heart against the lance of hurt at the stark words, Rebel shifted her mind to the banker’s receipt that had accompanied the letter.

  The five hundred thousand pounds deposited into her bank account was a little less than what her sponsors would’ve donated had she still been on their books, but it was enough to get her to the Verbier Ski Championships.

  This time she couldn’t stop her insides from twisting with guilt and a touch of shame.

  She should’ve tried harder to return the money.

  Too much had been said between her father and her that couldn’t be unsaid. Even after all these years, the pain and guilt were too vivid to be dismissed. And nothing in her father’s letter had given her cause to think his views weren’t as definitive as they’d been the last time she’d seen him.

  He still laid the death of his wife, her mother, firmly at Rebel’s feet.

  Suppressing her pain, she tried to ignore the pointed looks from the lift’s occupants. At any other time she would’ve turned the music down, but today was different. Today, she would be seeing her father again for the first time in five years. She needed a full suit of armour in place but the music was all she had.

  When another suited businessman sent her a scathing look, she mustered a smile. His eyes widened a touch, his ire rapidly morphing to something else. Rebel looked away before her attempt to excuse her music’s loudness turned into anything else. Keeping her eyes on the digital counter, she exhaled as the lift reached the fortieth floor. According to what she’d been able to glean from their very brief, very stilted conversations over the last week, her accountant father worked for Angel International Group as their CFO. He hadn’t volunteered any more information when she’d asked. In fact, any further attempt to pave a reconnecting road with her father had been firmly blocked. Just as he’d firmly blocked her initial attempts to give back the money he’d given her.

  The deeply wounding knowledge that her father was only doing his duty to the wife he’d loved and lost so cruelly should’ve driven Rebel’s actions, not her manager’s insistence that the money was the answer to all their prayers.

  But it was her father’s insistence that the money was hers no matter what that had led her to finally confessing the money’s existence to Contessa Stanley. Her manager had had no qualms about Rebel using the funds. Especially since Rebel had recently lost yet another big sponsor due to the continued domino effect created by the sensational reports splashed all over the media. Even her retreat from the spotlight had been looked upon negatively, with wild speculation as to whether she was finally in rehab or nursing a broken heart.

  With her chances of finding new sponsorship dwindling by the day, and the championship deadlines racing ever closer, Rebel had finally given in to Contessa’s arguments.

  Which left her not just in a state of confusion about why her father was now avoiding her after reaching out, at last, with his letter, but also having serious qualms about using money she hadn’t wanted to touch in the first place.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Rebel started as the man closest to her touched her arm. Plucking out one earbud, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you not want this floor?’ he enquired, interest flaring in his eyes as he held the lift doors open and avidly conducted a study of her body.

  Groaning inwardly, Rebel wished she hadn’t let impulse drive her here until after she’d gone back home to change from her yoga pants and vest top after her morning training session. Muttering her thanks, she slid through the throng.

  Hitching her yoga mat and gym bag firmly onto her shoulder, she turned the music volume down as she stepped out of the lift. Plush grey carpet, broken only by a set of massive glass doors, stretched as far as the eye could see, with complementing grey walls interspersed with wild bursts of colour in the form of huge flower arrangements. On the walls along a wide hallway, high-definition images of some of the world’s most gifted athletes played on recessed screens.

  The whole placed smelled and looked hallowed and expensive.

  Rebel frowned, wondering whether she’d walked into the wrong place.

  For as long as she’d been aware her father had worked as an accountant for a stationery company, not a slick outfit whose employees flitted past in expensive suits and wore futuristic-looking earpieces. Unable to accept that the father who’d vociferously voiced his hatred of her chosen sporting career would have anything to do with a place like this, Rebel moved towards the set of glass doors and pushed.

  Nothing happened. Pushing firmer, she huffed when the door refused to budge.

  ‘Uh, you need one of these to enter,’ a voice said from behind her. ‘Or a visitor’s pass and an escort from downstairs.’

  Turning, Rebel saw the man from the lift. His smile stretched wider as he waved a matte black card. The unwillingness to prolong the stomach-churning meeting with her father dragged another smile from her reluctant cheeks. ‘Damn, I guess I was a little too impatient to get up here. I’m here to see Nathan Daniels. You couldn’t help me out and let me in, could you? I’m Rebel, his daughter. We had an appointment and I’m running late...’

  She stopped babbling and gritted her teeth as he took his time looking her up and down again. Fingering the sleeves of the sweater tied around her waist, Rebel waited for his gaze to meet hers again. ‘Of course. Anything for Nate’s daughter. Awesome name, by the way.’

  Pinning the smile on her face, she waited for him to pass the card over the reader and murmured, ‘Thank you,’ as he held the door open for her.

  ‘My pleasure. I’m Stan. Come with me, I’ll show you to Nate’s office. I haven’t seen him today...’ he frowned ‘...or this week, come to think of it. But I’m sure he’s around somewhere.’

  Rebel couldn’t stop her heart from sinking further at Stan’s news. Although now she was here, she realised she’d only assumed her father would be at work today. The hurt she’d tried for so long to keep at bay threatened to overtake the small amount of optimism she’d secretly harboured these past two weeks.

  Pushing it back, she followed Stan along a series of hallways until they reached the first of two brushed-metal doors in a long, quieter cor
ridor. ‘Here we are.’

  Stan knocked and entered. The outer office was empty, as was the inner office once Rebel followed him in. Frown deepening, he turned to her. ‘Looks like he’s not here, and neither is his PA...’

  Sensing what was coming, she pre-empted him. ‘I’m happy to wait. I’m sure he won’t be long. If he’s not back soon, I’ll give him a call.’

  Stan looked uncertain for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Sure.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’d love to take you out for a drink some time, Rebel.’

  Rebel barely stopped herself from grimacing. ‘Thanks, but I can’t. My social calendar is booked up for the foreseeable future.’ She had no intention of dating anyone any time soon, either casually or otherwise. At this time of year, she had her hands full dealing with her harrowing guilt and grief.

  The press liked to speculate why Rebel Daniels loved to party hard in the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day. She’d deliberately tried to keep that façade of wild child in place. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to dig beneath the surface, find out the truth about what had happened in Chamonix eight years ago. Besides protecting her beloved mother’s memory, the guilt she had to live with was monumental enough without having it exposed to prying eyes.

  Now that her dreaded birthday was out of the way, her sole focus was the upcoming championship.

  Smiling to take the sting out of the refusal, she breathed a sigh of relief when Stan gave a regretful shrug and left.

  Rebel slowly turned and stared around the glass-walled office that belonged to her father. Exhaling, she allowed herself to scrutinise the expensive polished-leather chair and mahogany desk, upon which items had been laid out in the meticulous way her father employed. Insides shaking, she approached his desk, her eyes on the single personal item that stood to the right side of it.

  The picture, set in a childish pink and green frame, was exactly as she remembered it when she’d given it to her father on his birthday twelve years ago. At thirteen years old, laughing as she rode a tandem bike with her mother in the picture, Rebel had had no idea her family was about to be ripped apart a few short years later. Or that the decimating of her family would be her fault.

  She’d had no cares in the world, secure in the love from a father who’d adored his wife and daughter, and a mother who had encouraged Rebel to pursue her dreams, regardless of any obstacles that stood in her way.

  It was that relentless pursuit of her dream that had shattered her family. She knew that. And yet, she’d never been able to walk away from her dreams of pursuing a ski-jump championship. Deep in her heart, Rebel knew walking away would be betraying her vivacious and hugely talented mother, who’d never been quite able to achieve a championship win of her own.

  Her heart ached as she passed her hand over the picture. Her father had never understood her need to keep chasing her dream. He’d been harsh and critical to the point where they hadn’t been able to stay under the same roof without endless vicious rows. But even then, Rebel had never imagined walking away would mean losing her father for this long. She’d never thought his condemnation and lack of forgiveness would be set in stone.

  She dropped her hand. She was here now. She was about to undertake the most important challenge of her career. Before that happened, she needed to know whether there was a way to reconcile with her father.

  Forcing the nerves down, she looked around, seeking clues as to his whereabouts. His computer was turned off, but his desk calendar was still set at a date two weeks ago. Unease spiked as she recalled Stan’s words. Deciding not to read too much into it, she walked to the far side of the vast office, and set her yoga mat and gym bag down. Another half an hour of pacing, and her nerves were screaming that something wasn’t quite right. After leaving yet another message on her father’s voicemail stating that she wasn’t leaving his office until he called her back, she put her phone on the coffee table along with her sweater, and rolled out the yoga mat.

  The situation with her father, a bandaged but far from healed wound, had been ripped open by his letter, bringing fresh anguish. That anguish was affecting her concentration, something she could ill afford. Greg, her trainer, had commented on the fact today, hence the addition of yoga to her exercise regime.

  She’d made it through the trials to secure herself a position on the championship-seeking team. She couldn’t afford to take her eye off the ball now, no matter how unresolved her issues were with her father.

  Dropping onto the mat, she plugged her earphones back in, stretched and closed her eyes. Legs crossed in front of her, she took several breaths to centre herself, then began to move through her positions.

  The first few tingles she attributed to her body dropping into a state of relaxation. One she welcomed after the turmoil of the past few weeks. But when they persisted, growing with each breath, Rebel rolled her shoulders, mildly irritated and more than a little anxious that she would truly find no avenue of relief until she spoke to her father.

  Then the scent hit her nostrils: dark, hypnotic, with traces of citrus and more than a hint of savagery. At first she believed she was dreaming its complexity. But with each breath, the scent wrapped tighter around her senses, pulling her into a vortex of sensation that increased the tingling along her spine.

  Slowly lowering herself from downward dog, she lay flat on her stomach and extended her left leg behind her, hoping the taut muscle stretch would dissipate the strange feeling zinging through her body. She repeated the exercise with her right leg, welcoming the burn.

  But the distraction wasn’t sufficient. Her concentration slipped further.

  Gritting her teeth, she sat up and stretched her legs wide, perpendicular to her body. She aligned her torso to one leg, then the other, then leaned forward on her elbows and slowly raised her pelvis off the floor.

  The curse was thick and sharp enough to pierce the cocoon of her music.

  Rebel’s eyes flew open.

  Sensation hit her like a charging bull. The air knocked clean from her lungs, Rebel gaped at the imposing man who sat with one leg hitched over the other and his arms crossed over a wide, firm chest.

  Steely grey eyes pinned her in position. Not that she would’ve been able to move had her life depended on it. Frozen on the floor, she could only stare as the most arresting man she’d ever seen uncoiled himself from his sitting position and stood to a towering, dominating height. His navy three-piece suit was sharp and stylish, and drew attention to broad shoulders, a trim waist and strong thighs, but even without those visual aids, his sheer beauty was potent enough to command her attention.

  Her muscles strained, lactic acid building in a body that screamed for relief, but Rebel couldn’t heed it.

  The man advanced, bringing the scent that had so thoroughly shattered her concentration even closer until it fully encompassed her. There was a vague familiarity about him, like a stranger she’d caught a glimpse of a lifetime ago. But the sensation passed as he drew closer.

  Her chest tightened, her lungs struggling to work as he crouched down in front of her and jerked the earbuds from her ears. Flinging the wires to the floor, he leaned forward until every inch of her vision was crowded with him.

  ‘You have exactly three seconds to tell me who the hell you are, and why I shouldn’t call Security and have you thrown in jail for lewd conduct and trespassing.’

  Copyright © 2016 by Maya Blake

  ISBN: 978-1-474-04366-3

  INHERITED BY FERRANTI

  © 2016 Kate Hewitt

  Published in Great Britain 2016

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

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