Passionate Revenge

by Sally Wentworth

  Sally Wentworth - Passionate Revenge

  More than anything she wanted to hurt him back

  At eighteen, Zara Layston fell hopelessly in love with Heath Masterson. When he left for America without so much as a call, she was devastated.

  Seven years later, Zara, owner of a multimillion-dollar- clothing business, had achieved success. But Heath's betrayal had left her a legacy of bitterness.

  Now Heath was back, directing his own advertising company and bidding on a contract with Zara's firm. Now she could have what she wanted from him. And that, she told herself ignoring her heart, was revenge.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The bells in the church across the park rang out joyfully, the sound carrying clearly on the cold night air. The noise disturbed Zara's concentration and she lifted her head from the papers she had been working on to listen and then glance at the slim gold watch on her wrist. But she hardly needed its corroboration to know that it was midnight. Midnight on New Year's Eve. She looked back at her desk, but her attention had gone and she angrily threw down her pen and walked over to the window, pulling back the curtain to look out.

  The night was cold and frosty, the stars twinkling like iridescent diamonds in the clear black velvet sky. Millions of jewels, stretching into infinity, making her feel small and insignificant in comparison. 'Damn!' Zara swore aloud. Why did she always have to feel so low and depressed every New Year's Eve? She had given up celebrating them now, given up even the pretence of doing so. Too many memories always came flooding back, to make her feel bitter when she should be happy and make her want to cry when she should be laughing. But not cry with sadness—no, she had never felt that. But to cry out with rage and hatred and hurt.

  Lifting her clenched fist, Zara hit it hard against the window frame, but she was angry with herself now, for not being able to forget. It had been so long ago— exactly seven years ago tonight. And yet the hurt of rejection was still there, raw and bleeding. Seven years was a long time and so much had happened during those years. Zara looked out across the tree-lined square to the houses on the other side. There were lights showing in most of them, either because there were parties going on, or to give would-be burglars the impression that the owners were at home. She herself had had invitations to a dozen different parties but had turned them all down—she wasn't good company on New Year's Eve. Although she ought to have forgotten by now, or at least not feel the hurt so much.

  I'm successful now, she told herself urgently, with enough money for almost anything I want. As if to prove it to herself, Zara looked round her study, at the beautiful antique desk at which she had been working and at the original paintings on the walls, every item carefully and lovingly selected to enhance the already rich but tasteful decor. Just to look round the room gave her comfort, but she opened the door and walked round the rest of the flat, through the large, high-ceilinged drawing-room decorated in green and gold, and on to the dining-room with its beautiful Regency table and ten matching chairs. These two rooms she used for entertaining, to give either intimate dinner parties or larger cocktail parties for friends or to further her company's interests. Although most of her friends, she realised, came from her business world; there were few that she had kept in touch with from her home town and none from the short time of her disastrous marriage.

  Beyond the dining-room was the kitchen, a gleaming showpiece of white and chrome with every latest labour saving machine, most of which she hardly ever used; her daily cleaner-cum-housekeeper, Mrs Nye, very efficiently taking care of all that side of things. But Zara had designed the layout of the kitchen herself, with the usual care and attention to detail that had made her such a success in business. Although the only gadget that she ever really used was the coffee- maker—that was in almost constant use when she was at home.

  There were only two other rooms in the flat; her bedroom and the sumptuous bathroom opening off it. Zara had gone to town on the bathroom—if you couldn't have sybaritic luxury while you were having a bath, where could you have it? So she had had a sunken jacuzzi bath fitted and a shower that jetted first hot and then cold water, stinging her already slender body into healthy perfection. The main feature of the bedroom was a big four-poster bed that Zara had picked up in pieces at a country auction sale. One of her own craftsmen had restored it and she had designed the material for the hangings, curtains and bedspread and had it made up in the factory; an exclusive design used only for this room.

  Yes, Zara thought with satisfaction, she had done well, everything was the best she could afford and pleasing to the eye. Some critics might say that she had veered towards the aesthetic rather than comfort, but she worked too hard to have much time for comfort anyway.

  Feeling better, she went back into the study and was just drawing the curtain when the phone rang. She gave a small smile, knowing who it would be, and picked up the receiver, 'Hallo, Richard.'

  He gave a warm laugh. 'Am I so predictable?'

  'No, just reliable.'

  'Hm, I wonder if that's good or bad. But anyway; happy New Year, darling.'

  'And to you. Is it a good party?'

  'It would be if you were here. Without you it's boring. Why don't you stop working for a couple of hours and come over? I'll send the car for you.'

  'You know I can't do that, the end of the year is a busy time for me.'

  'All work and no play, you know,' he wheedled.

  'Are you saying that you find me dull, Richard?' Zara asked provocatively.

  His voice changed, became thick. 'No, I find you damned exciting,' he admitted.

  'Thank you. I may work hard, but I play hard too.'

  'And hard to get,' he commented with irony. 'Why don't you make a New Year's resolution, Zara my darling—to agree to marry me, or at least for us to become lovers?'

  It was Zara's turn to laugh. 'I always thought New Year resolutions made you abstain from excesses, not indulge in them!'

  'And do you think we would indulge in excesses if we became lovers?' he asked meaningfully.

  'Stop flirting, Richard—I have to get back to work. Enjoy the rest of your party.'

  'I could come round there,' he offered with little hope.

  'No, you couldn't.'

  'Why not?'

  There was a slight but unmistakable edge to Zara's voice. 'Because you haven't been invited. Goodnight, Richard. Thanks for phoning.' And she firmly put down the receiver over his protests.

  Sitting down at her desk again, Zara picked up the silver pen that had been a present from Richard on her last birthday. Some time soon she was going to have to make her mind up about him. He was really becoming very persistent. Marriage of course was out of the question; she had sworn never to make that mistake again, but an affair…? She toyed with the idea, wondering what he would be like in bed, but was suddenly disgusted with herself, knowing that she would never sleep with him. There was no excitement in the relationship, no need or desire—not on her part anyway, although she knew Richard felt exactly the opposite. He wanted her very badly and made no secret of it, had even proposed to her within three months of meeting her. He was successful, and good- looking in a moderate kind of way, the kind of man who made an ideal escort when she needed one, but it wasn't fair to keep him dangling like this. And she decided she liked him too much to attempt to have an unsuccessful affair with him, because Zara knew from experience that she would immediately start making comparisons and feel bitter because Richard, she knew instinctively, wouldn't come up to standard. But then her standards, she was beginning to believe, were impossibly high. And all because of one man, a man she had met on New Year's Eve, seven years ago tonight.

  * * *

  'You can't possibly stay at home by yourself on New Year's
Eve!' Zara could hear her sister's voice now, echoing down the years. 'Just because Christopher is ill you don't have to stay home, too.' Denise had been into Women's Lib that year and she had been quite indignant, almost angry. 'Why don't you go to the disco on your own?'

  'Oh no, I couldn't do that,' Zara had answered. 'Christopher wouldn't like it.' She could imagine his reaction if she told him—or if any of their friends told him. He would sulk for days if she went without him.

  Denise glared at her. 'Honestly, Zara, I don't know why you bother with Christopher any more. Why don't you find yourself a new boy-friend?'

  But that was easier said than put into practice. Zara had been going around with Christopher since she was thirteen, over five years, and neither of them had ever been out with anyone else. Childhood sweethearts, as Christopher's mother was fond of putting it.

  'Never mind,' her own mother said placatingly. 'Christopher's nice enough. But Zara will probably meet lots of new people when she goes to university.'

  'If I pass my exams,' Zara pointed out, crossing her fingers for luck. Not that it was necessary; they all knew she was the brightest pupil in her year and destined for a good university.

  'Well, if you won't go to your teenage party why don't you come to the one I'm going to?' Denise persisted.

  'But I won't know anyone,' Zara objected.

  'I thought that was the whole idea. There won't be anyone who can sneak on you to Christopher. Come on, Zara,' cajoled Denise. 'You'll enjoy it. It's going to be a really good party. And I don't know that many people either, so I'll be glad of your company. Tell you what—I'll even let you choose something of mine to wear.'

  Torn, Zara looked at her mother and sister, greatly tempted; she hated the idea of spending the evening alone. Even her mother and father were going out, so she wouldn't have their company either. Her mother added her voice to Denise's, so that in the end Zara gave way to her own inclinations and went upstairs to Denise's room to choose a dress. She tried on several but settled for a deep green velvet sheath dress that was much more sophisticated than she usually wore. But then Denise was six years older and worked in London, so she wore far more adult and fashionable clothes. Both girls had green eyes and red hair, but Denise's was bright, gingery red while Zara's was a darker, deep copper shade. Usually she wore it in a ponytail, but Denise insisted on washing and blow-drying it into a loose but very becoming style that came down to her shoulders and flicked back off her face.

  'I might as well do your make-up for you, too,' Denise decided, enjoying herself. 'And your nails. Don't you ever paint them?'

  'We're not allowed to at school. The teachers always make us go along to the first aid room and have it cleaned off.'

  The two girls spent a very pleasant couple of hours getting themselves ready, and it wasn't until Denise had driven them over to the party, in a big house about twenty miles away, that Zara began to feel nervous.

  'Are you sure it will be all right?' she asked worriedly. 'After all, I haven't been invited.'

  'Of course it is. The Howards always hold open house on New Year's Eve. Everyone from the tennis club will be there. Tony Howard is the president, you know, and his wife is the secretary. And everyone's been told to bring a friend, so there'll be lots of people there they don't actually know. Come on, let's go in.'

  Denise rang the bell and the door was opened by a middle-aged man who was dressed in clothes that were too young for him. 'Hallo, Denise darling. Come on in.' He gave Denise an eager kiss. 'And who's this?'

  'My sister Zara. You did say to bring someone.'

  'Of course—delighted. Hallo, Zara. Welcome to the Howard madhouse. Always pleased to have another beautiful girl along.'

  He sounded fulsome to Zara, but when they went up to a bedroom to take off their coats and she looked at their reflections side by side in the mirror she changed her mind. Denise had made her up so skilfully that the two girls looked almost the same age. And she did look beautiful, Zara realised with a kind of wonder. Christopher's mother didn't approve of make-up, which meant that Christopher didn't either, so Zara never wore more than a touch of powder and pale pink lipstick, but Denise had done her work so well that her green eyes glowed and you could see the fine bone structure of her face, hidden before beneath freckles and a layer of puppy-fat that she hadn't bothered to try and get rid of. If anyone asks me how old I am, she decided, I'll tell them I'm twenty. She looked at herself again and saw the way the velvet clung to her figure.

  No, maybe I'll make it twenty-two.

  Downstairs the party was in full swing, although the doorbell kept ringing for the next hour or so as more guests arrived. Denise was greeted by several people from the tennis club, although she had only joined it at the end of the summer when she had found out that a doctor from the local hospital that she fancied belonged to it. He was on duty tonight and so couldn't be at the party, but Denise had got to know him and they had been out together a few times, although she hadn't yet got as far as bringing him home to meet her family.

  There were some young people at the party, but they were mostly in a higher age group than Zara's. The Howards, Tony and Janet, hadn't any children and so they chose their friends among other couples at the tennis, squash or golf clubs. Plus a few neighbours in a similar income bracket. That most of the people here were upwardly mobile was evident from the elegant way the women were dressed. And quite a few of the men were wearing evening suits or else velvet suits and jackets of different colours with frilly dress shirts underneath.

  Denise introduced her to everyone she knew and twice they were asked if they were twins, which definitely made Zara feel adult. And because she was treated as a sophisticated good-looking girl, she behaved like one, parrying flirtatious remarks instead of going into fits of embarrassed giggles as she would probably have done if she had been with her own girl friends. Someone brought her a drink and she was soon dancing in the Howards' big drawing-room, the lights turned low and the music up high.

  Zara wasn't sure when she first became aware of someone watching her. She had been at the party a couple of hours and was getting hot in the velvet dress. Already she had had several drinks to try to cool off, but she just seemed to get hotter than ever. Ever since she had arrived she seemed to have been dancing nonstop, and she was dancing a fast beat number with a friend of Denise when she felt a prickly sensation at the back of her neck and turned to see a man standing over by the french windows, a glass in his hand, his eyes apparently fixed on her.

  The movement of the dance made her turn away, but she soon sneaked another glance as she whirled round. The man was dressed in a well cut black evening suit and was very tall and broad-shouldered. About twenty-eight, a man, not a boy. Zara danced on and gained an impression of him in a series of fast- moving covert glances that built into a picture like the pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. She saw the hard, clean-cut lines of his face; a long capable hand holding his drink; his slim, athletic waist; thick dark hair cut rather long; an expensive gold watch on his wrist, a strong mouth above the square jaw; and dark, long-lashed eyes that slowly smiled as if he knew exactly what she was doing.

  Her heart beating, not only from the energetic jiving, Zara rejoined the group she was with and carefully refrained from looking towards the french windows again, although all her senses were alive to the man standing there. Another round of drinks was brought over and Zara drank hers thirstily, although it tasted very dry.

  'Only another ten minutes to midnight,' one girl said eagerly. 'What resolutions shall we make?'

  'I know one I'd like to make,' a young man answered, looking meaningfully at Denise.

  But her sister was more than a match for him. 'Resolutions are only for people who have no self- control—like you. That's why they're always broken.'

  Everyone laughed, and Zara took the opportunity to walk over to a small table and put down her empty glass, turning so that she was facing the room and could see the french window again. The man was still there—but
he had a girl with him. A short and pretty brunette who had her hands on his waist and was looking up at him provocatively, almost pleadingly. The man had a small, rather sardonic smile playing on his lips, as if it amused him to take the passive role and let the girl do the chasing. A flash of emotion she didn't even recognise as jealousy tore through Zara's slim body as she watched the unknown girl.

  'Zara.' She turned quickly as someone thrust a squeaker and some streamers into her hands. For a moment she felt quite giddy, but then recovered as Tony Howard came round with a large tray loaded with glasses of champagne.

  'Here you are—have to see the New Year in properly,' he told them, his voice slurring over the last word.

  The record player was turned off and the radio tuned in to the commentator speaking from the celebrations in Trafalgar Square. Everyone crowded round as the commentator said, 'Only one minute to midnight now. Fifty seconds. Twenty. Ten, nine…'

  They all began to chant with him. 'Eight, seven, six, five, four…'

  Zara felt oppressed by the crush and turned to fight her way out, waves of dizziness making her head swim. 'Three, two.'

  Somebody took her arm and pushed people out of the way until she was clear of the crowd. 'ONE!' everyone roared. 'Happy New Year!'

  Zara took a deep breath of air and found herself looking up into the eyes of the man who had so attracted her attention. He was still holding her arm, but now he lifted his free hand with the glass of champagne in it and said in a low insinuating voice, 'Hallo. Happy New Year.'

  For a moment Zara gazed at him, then, as if mesmerised, she lifted her own glass and clinked it against his. 'Happy New Year,' she said huskily, and they both drank, their eyes holding in a much deeper toast. The man smiled, then slid his arm round Zara's waist, drew her to him and kissed her. He kissed her gently at first, his lips exploring the sweet softness of hers. Zara gave a low sigh of pleasure and opened her mouth under his. She felt him give a small quiver of awareness, then his arm tightened, his kiss growing deeper and more insistent. Around them everyone was blowing squeakers, throwing streamers, kissing their friends and generally greeting the New Year as noisily and merrily as they could, but Zara and the man stood in a close circle of oblivion, unaware of the coloured streamers that landed on their heads and shoulders, deaf to the noise and the people. It was only when everyone joined into a big circle to sing Auld Lang Syne that he released her, smiling down into her wide- eyed face for a moment before taking her glass from her so that they too could join in the circle.