In the Millionaire's Possession

by Sara Craven

  “I—I don’t know how you can pretend like this,” Helen said haltingly.

  Marc’s faint smile was crooked. “But I am not pretending, chérie,” he told her quietly. “I want you. I have made no secret of it.”

  She stared down at the tablecloth. “Then you’re due for a serious disappointment, Monsieur Delaroche. Even if I was in the market for an affair—which I’m not—you’d be the last person on earth I’d choose.”

  “Then at least we agree on something,” Marc drawled. “Because I do not want an affair either. Au contraire, I wish you to become my wife….”

  SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon, England, and grew up surrounded by books in a house by the sea. After leaving school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, before embarking on a long and successful career writing for Harlequin Presents®. Apart from writing, Sara’s passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in the county of Somerset.

  Sara Craven

  IN THE MILLIONAIRE’S POSSESSION

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  HELEN had never been so nervous in her life.

  The starkness of her surroundings did not help, of course.

  This was, after all, the London headquarters of Restauration International—an organisation supposedly devoted to historical conservation projects.

  She’d expected panelled walls hung with works of art, antique furniture, and possibly a Persian carpet. Something with the grace and charm of the past.

  Instead she’d been greeted by a receptionist with attitude, and dumped in this glass and chrome box with only a water cooler for company as the long, slow nerve-racking minutes passed.

  And although she had to admit that the arrangement of canvas slats that formed her chair was surprisingly comfortable, it couldn’t make her feel at ease mentally.

  But then, in this life or death situation, what could?

  Her hands tightened on the handle of her briefcase as she ran a silent check on the points she needed to make once she came face to face with the directors of Restauration International.

  They’re my last hope now, she thought. Every other source has dried up. So I need to get it right.

  Suddenly restless, she walked across to the cooler and filled a paper cup. As she moved, she saw the security camera become activated, and repressed a grimace at the idea that unseen eyes at some control point might be watching her.

  ‘Look businesslike,’ her friend Lottie had advised her. ‘Get out of those eternal jeans and put on a skirt. Remember you’re making a presentation, not mucking out the ruins. You’ve had a lot of help over this,’ she added with mock sternness. ‘So don’t blow it.’

  And Lottie was quite right, Helen thought soberly. So many people had rallied round with quite amazing kindness. Checking the draft of her written report and making suggestions. Providing quick facelifts to the outside buildings and grounds with painting and weeding parties, in case the committee came to see the place for themselves. And even offering films of various events held at Monteagle over the past couple of years to use in the video, itself the result of a favour that had been called in by Lottie.

  But now, at last, it was all down to her. She’d taken her friend’s advice and put on her one good grey skirt, teaming it with a demure white cotton blouse and her elderly black blazer. Hopefully they wouldn’t look too closely and see the shabbiness of her attire, she thought.

  Her light brown hair—which badly needed cutting and shaping, when she had the time and the money—had been drawn back severely from her face and confined at the nape of her neck by a black ribbon bow, and there were small silver studs in the lobes of her ears.

  Not much there for the hidden spectator to criticise, she thought, resisting the impulse to raise her cup in salute.

  She made the trip back to her chair look deliberately casual, as if she didn’t have a care in the world and there was nothing much riding on the coming interview.

  Only my entire life, she thought, as her taut throat accepted the cool water. Only everything I care most about in the world now at the mercy of strangers.

  Apart from Nigel, of course, she amended hastily.

  Somehow I have to convince them that Monteagle is worth saving. That I’m not going to give up the struggle like my father and Grandpa and watch the place slide into total oblivion. Or, worse still, into the hands of Trevor Newson.

  She shuddered at the memory of the fleshy, complacent face awaiting with a smile the victory that he thought was inevitable. Counting the days until he could turn Monteagle into the gross medieval theme park he’d set his heart on.

  It had been those plans, as outlined to her, that had sent her on this last desperate quest to find the money for the house’s urgently needed repairs.

  All the other organisations that she’d doggedly approached had rejected her pleas for a grant on the grounds that Monteagle was too small, too unimportant, and too far off the normal tourist trails.

  ‘Which is why it needs me,’ Trevor Newson had told her. ‘Jousting on the lawns, pig roasts, banqueting in the great hall…’ His eyes glistened. ‘That’ll put it on the map, all right. The coach parties will flock here, and so will foreign tourists once I get it on the internet. And don’t keep me waiting too long for your answer,’ he added. ‘Or the price I’m offering will start to go down.’

  ‘You need not wait at all,’ Helen said with icy civility. ‘The answer is no, Mr Newson.’

  ‘And now you’re being hasty,’ he chided in the patronising tone she so resented. ‘After all, what choice have you got? The place is falling down around you, and it’s common knowledge your father and grandfather left little but debts when they died.’

  He ticked off on his fingers. ‘You’ve got the rent from the grazing land and a bit of income from the handful of visitors who come when you open the place up each summer, and that won’t get you far. In fact, it’s a wonder you’ve hung on as long as you have.’

  He gave a pitying shake of the head. ‘You need to sell, my dear. And if you really can’t bear to leave and move away I might even be able to offer you some work. These tournaments used to have a Queen of Love and Beauty presiding over them, apparently, and you’re a good-looking girl.’ He leered at her. ‘I can just see you, properly made-up, in some low-cut medieval dress.’

  ‘It’s a tempting offer,’ Helen said, controlling her temper by a whisker. ‘But I’m afraid the answer’s still no.’

  ‘Ghastly old lech,’ Lottie had commented. ‘Better not tell Nigel, or he might deck him.’ She’d paused. ‘Is he going with you to confront this committee?’

  ‘No.’ Helen had resolutely concealed her disappointment. ‘He’s incredibly busy at work right now. Anyway,’ she’d added, ‘I’m a grown up girl. I can cope.’

  As Nigel himself had said, she recalled with a pang. And maybe she’d simply taken too much for granted in counting on his support today. But they’d been seeing each other for a long time now, and everyone in the area presumed that he’d be fighting at her side in the battle to save Monteagle.

  In fact, as Helen admitted to no one but herself, Nigel had been pretty lukewarm about her struggles to retain her home. He wasn’t a poor man by any means—he worked in a merchant bank, and had inherited money from his grandmother as wel
l—but he’d never offered any practical form of help.

  It was something they would really need to discuss—once she got the grant. Because she was determined to be self-sufficient, and, while she drew the line at Mr Newson’s theme park, she had several other schemes in mind to boost the house’s earning power.

  Although lately they hadn’t had the opportunity to talk about very much at all, she realised with a faint frown. But that was probably her fault in the main. Nigel’s work had kept him confined to London recently, but she’d been so totally engrossed in preparing her case for the committee that she’d barely missed him.

  What a thing to admit about the man you were going to marry!

  But all that was going to change, she vowed remorsefully. Once today was over, win or lose, it was going to be permanent commitment from now on. Everything he’d ever asked from her. Including that.

  She knew she was probably being an old-fashioned idiot, and most of her contemporaries would laugh if they knew, but she’d always veered away from the idea of sex before marriage.

  Not that she was scared of surrender, she thought defensively, or unsure of her own feelings for Nigel. It was just that when she stood with him in the village church to make her vows she wanted him to know that she was his alone, and that her white dress meant something.

  On a more practical level, it had never seemed to be quite the right moment, either.

  Never the time, the place, and the loved one altogether, she thought, grimacing inwardly. But she couldn’t expect Nigel to be patient for ever, not when they belonged together. So why hold back any longer?

  She was startled out of her reverie by the sudden opening of the door. Helen got hurriedly to her feet, to be confronted by a blonde girl, tall and slim, with endless legs, and wearing a smart black suit. She gave Helen a swift formal smile while her eyes swept her with faint disparagement.

  ‘Miss Frayne? Will you come with me, please? The committee is waiting for you.’

  ‘And I’ve been waiting for the committee,’ Helen told her coolly.

  She was led down a long narrow corridor, with walls plastered in a Greek key pattern. It made her feel slightly giddy, and she wondered if this was a deliberate ploy.

  Her companion flung open the door at the far end. ‘Miss Frayne,’ she announced, and stood back to allow Helen to precede her into the room.

  More concrete, thought Helen, taking a swift look around. More metal, more glass. And seven men standing at an oblong table, acknowledging her presence with polite inclinations of their heads.

  ‘Please, Miss Frayne, sit. Be comfortable.’ The speaker, clearly the chairman, was opposite her. He was a bearded man with grey hair and glasses, who looked Scandinavian.

  Helen sank down on to a high-backed affair of leather and steel, clutching her briefcase on her lap while they all took their places.

  They looked like clones of each other, she thought, in their neat dark suits and discreetly patterned ties, sitting bolt upright round the table. Except for one, she realised. The man casually lounging in the seat to the right of the chairman.

  He was younger than his colleagues—early to mid-thirties, Helen judged—with an untidy mane of black hair and a swarthy face that no one would ever describe as handsome. He had a beak of a nose, and a thin-lipped, insolent mouth, while eyes, dark and impenetrable as the night, studied her from under heavy lids.

  Unlike the rest of the buttoned-up committee members, he looked as if he’d just crawled out of bed and thrown on the clothing that was nearest to hand. Moreover, his tie had been pulled loose and the top of his shirt left undone.

  He had the appearance of someone who’d strayed in off the street by mistake, she thought critically.

  And saw his mouth twist into a faint grin, as if he’d divined what she was thinking and found it amusing.

  Helen felt a kind of embarrassed resentment at being so transparent. This was not how she’d planned to begin at all. She gave him a cold look, and saw his smile widen in sensuous, delighted appreciation.

  Making her realise, for the first time in her life, that a man did not have to be conventionally handsome to blaze charm and a lethal brand of sexual attraction.

  Helen felt as if she’d been suddenly subjected to a force field of male charisma, and she resented it. And the fact that he had beautiful teeth did nothing to endear him to her either.

  ‘Be comfortable,’ the chairman had said.

  My God, she thought. What a hope. Because she’d never felt more awkward in her life. Or so scared.

  She took a deep breath and transferred her attention deliberately to the chairman, trying to concentrate as he congratulated her on the depth and lucidity of her original application for a grant, and on the additional material she’d supplied to back up her claim.

  They all had their folders open, she saw, except one. And no prizes for guessing which of them it was, she thought indignantly. But at least she wasn’t the object of his attention any longer. Instead, her swift sideways glance told her, he seemed to be staring abstractedly into space, as if he was miles away.

  If only, thought Helen, steadying her flurried breathing. And, anyway, why serve on the committee if he wasn’t prepared to contribute to its work?

  He didn’t even react when she produced the videotape. ‘I hope this will give you some idea of the use Monteagle has been put to in the recent past,’ she said. ‘I intend to widen the scope of activities in future—even have the house licensed for weddings.’

  There were murmurs of polite interest and approval, and she began to relax a little—only to realise that he was staring at her once again, his eyes travelling slowly over her face and down, she realised furiously, to the swell of her breasts against the thin blouse. She tried to behave as if she was unconscious of his scrutiny, but felt the betrayal of warm blood invading her face. Finally, to her relief, the dark gaze descended to her small bare hands, clasped tensely on the table in front of her.

  ‘You plan to marry there yourself, perhaps, mademoiselle?’ He had a low, resonant voice which was not unattractive, she admitted unwillingly, still smarting from the overt sensuality of his regard. And his English was excellent, in spite of his French accent.

  She wondered how he’d taken the section of her report which stated that the fortified part of Monteagle had been built at the time of the Hundred Years War, and that the Black Prince, France’s most feared enemy, had often stayed there.

  Now she lifted her chin and met his enquiring gaze with a flash of her long-lashed hazel eyes, wishing at the same time that she and Nigel were officially engaged and she had a ring to wear.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, I do, monsieur. I thought I might even be the first one,’ she added with a flash of inspiration.

  Of course she hadn’t discussed this with Nigel, she reminded herself guiltily, but she didn’t see what objection he could have. And it would make the most wonderful setting—besides providing useful publicity at the same time.

  ‘But how romantic,’ he murmured, and relapsed into his reverie again.

  After that questions from the other committee members came thick and fast, asking her to explain or expand further on some of the points she’d made in her application. Clearly they’d all read the file, she thought hopefully, and seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.

  The door opened to admit the tall blonde, bringing coffee on a trolley, and Helen was glad to see there was mineral water as well. This interview was proving just as much of an ordeal as she’d expected, and her mouth was dry again.

  When the blonde withdrew, the Frenchman reached for his folder and extracted a sheet of paper.

  ‘This is not your first application for financial assistance towards the repair and renovation of Monteagle House, mademoiselle. Is this an accurate list of the organisations you have previously approached?’

  Helen bit her lip as she scanned down the column of names. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘But none of
your efforts were successful?’ The low voice pressed her.

  ‘No,’ she admitted stonily, aware that her creamy skin had warmed.

  ‘So how did you become aware of us?’

  ‘A friend of mine found you on the internet. She said you seemed to be interested in smaller projects. So—I thought I would try.’

  ‘Because you were becoming desperate.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Yes.’ Helen looked at him defiantly. Her consciousness of her surroundings seemed to have contracted—intensified. There might just have been the two of them in the room, locked in confrontation. ‘By this stage I will explore any avenue that presents itself. I will not allow Monteagle to become derelict, and I’ll do whatever it takes to save it.’

  There was a silence, then he produced another sheet of paper. ‘The surveyor’s report that you have included in your submission is twenty years old.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I felt that the recommendations made then still apply. Although the costs have obviously risen.’

  ‘Twenty years is a long time, mademoiselle. Having commissioned such a report, why did your family not carry out the necessary works at that time?’

  Helen’s flush deepened. ‘My grandfather had every intention of doing so, but he was overtaken by events.’

  ‘Can you explain further?’ the smooth voice probed.

  She took a breath, hating the admission she was being forced to make. ‘There was a crisis in the insurance industry. My grandfather was a Lloyds’ name in those days, and the calls that were made on him brought us all to the edge of ruin. He even thought Monteagle might have to be sold.’

  ‘That is still a possibility, of course,’ her adversary said gently, and paused. ‘Is it not true that you have received a most generous offer for the entire estate from a Monsieur Trevor Newson? An offer that would halt the disintegration of the house, mademoiselle, and in addition restore your own finances? Would that not be better than having to beg your way round every committee and trust? And deal with constant rejection?’