by Pia Tremayne
“He has money. He’s rich. Ask him to give it to you.”
“Shh!” She put a warning finger to her lips. “Someone might hear you.”
“I don’t care,” he repeated. “I’m not afraid of him.”
Recalling that miserable day, Anthony shook his head, an unconscious attempt to dislodge all those unhappy memories that Nicola’s reappearance in his life had resurrected. But now, some twenty years later, with the advantage of hindsight, he understood that as a young boy he had blamed his unhappiness on two people—his father and Nicola Edgerton. As far as Anthony was concerned, to him his father was as good as dead and he had zero interest in rewriting history or in seeking redress. But Nicola Edgerton was another matter. Clearly he had never really forgotten her, although he would probably never have sought her out either. It was she who had come into his life voluntarily and had lobbed the ball squarely in his court.
He realized that somewhere deep inside, he had always wanted to meet her again but as an equal. Now the moment was at hand, and this time, he would be on his own turf, calling the shots and exorcising those painful childhood memories once and for all.
Turning away from the window, he went to the desk and sent an email to Henrietta Colefax. Candidate number four was invited to his Hampshire manor tomorrow—for an indefinite stay.
Chapter Four
Shortly after lunch on Saturday, Nicola set out for Hampshire in her rented car. Despite the highlighted road map the car rental agency had provided, she was a little bit antsy about getting lost. The map would be useless if she ran into any accidents or construction that might necessitate a detour. Some people had a knack for finding their way even if they were forced off the beaten path, but she didn’t possess that particular skill. She could only pray that in the event of a detour, the alternate route would be clearly shown with signage, or else she’d be going around in circles. Fortunately, there were no surprises, and ninety minutes later, as the agency clerk had predicted, she saw the sign for the turn off to Aston.
She drove through the village main street, enjoying the quaint-looking buildings—shops, inviting tearooms and pubs, churches, and cobbled streets with narrow pavements that had probably been laid down centuries ago. Astonville Manor was located some distance from the village itself and out of sight of it, but as Henrietta had said, the entrance was impossible to miss, guarded as it was by a magnificent pair of stone lions lounging atop pillars on either side.
She swerved into the entrance and followed the private paved road that changed to gravel as it wound through lush parkland in a gradual uphill slope. A few minutes later she rounded a bend and eased up on the gas pedal as the manor came into view at the far end of a long oak-lined driveway. The driveway gave onto a large gravel courtyard and she drove in, rolling to a stop next to a paved walkway leading to a solid oak door, evidently the main entrance. Shutting off the motor, she gazed up at the imposing stone structure set down majestically in its own park on the highest point of the surrounding landscape, its multitude of windows like so many watchful eyes calmly asserting undisputed ownership of the rolling acres extending for miles in every direction.
All at once, the nervous excitement that had gripped her all morning began to metamorphose into something else, something irrational. She had the oddest feeling that once she walked through that door she would mysteriously vanish and nobody would even notice she was missing. The only person who knew her whereabouts was Henrietta Colefax, who might not think it strange if she didn’t hear from Nicola for weeks, even months, concluding perhaps that she and her purchaser were simply busy having a marvelous time. And meanwhile, she would be walled up in this stone fortress with a man who had paid a small fortune for the right to do to her whatever he pleased.
The idea was unnerving enough to bring on second thoughts. Desperation had made her jump at this chance, but surely there had to be some other way out. It was a fleeting thought, not even worth considering, because she knew there wasn’t. And what was she thinking anyway! She couldn’t back out now. This was her one chance, her only chance to do what she had to do. Make money, a lot of it, and fast, because if she didn’t, she and her older sister Emma would lose their land and their inheritance, and she would never become a Blue Mountain Coffee grower.
Joining that select group, growing coffee suitable for the coveted Jamaica Blue Mountain certification, had been her English father’s dream. And now it was up to her to fulfill the dream. Opportunity was staring her in the face, so why on earth was she sitting in the car, procrastinating?
What was there to think about? The man had seen her video, liked what he had seen, and wanted to get to know her better, which was exactly what happened with any dating service. He hadn’t paid all that money to not have a good time for heaven’s sake! Wealthy people could afford to do things differently. That was all. They could afford unconventional amusements. And wasn’t it likely he would turn out to be exactly the kind of person she had hoped to meet, someone with enough money who might eventually want to invest in her, in her dream, if she played her cards right? This was what she wanted, had volunteered herself for. To whinge out now, without even trying, would be pathetic.
Having given herself a stern talking to, Nicola took a deep breath and got out of the car, walked up the walkway, and rapped the heavy brass knocker on the massive oak door. It opened almost immediately, and she released an unobtrusive sigh of relief at the sight of the kind-looking middle-aged man standing in the doorway. He looked perfectly civilized.
“Good afternoon, miss. I see you found your way all right. Please come in,” he said, ushering her into a large foyer. “I am Hodgett, miss, Sir Anthony’s butler.”
Sir Anthony? Henrietta must have forgotten to mention he possessed a title.
“If you’ll come with me I’ll show you to your room,” he continued. Without waiting for her to reply, he picked up her suitcase, which she had set down on the floor, and began to walk across the hall toward an imposing staircase that led up to the first floor. She followed him, looking around her curiously. The foyer itself was magnificent, with inlaid marble flooring illuminated by the glittering lighted chandelier suspended from the center of the double-height domed ceiling. Across the foyer the warm plaster wall was delineated by a graceful columned arch, beyond which was a transverse corridor whose delicate scroll work and gleaming dark wood floors were reminiscent of another age.
He led her up the sweeping staircase and along the first-floor corridor, which was lined with antique chairs and benches and was illuminated by wall sconces placed at intervals in columned alcoves along its entire length. Halfway along the corridor he stopped and opened a door.
“This is your room, miss,” he said. He allowed her to precede him into the room and placed her suitcase on the carpeted floor at the foot of the huge four-poster bed. “If you will give me the key to your vehicle, I will put in the garage for you.”
She handed him the key.
“I’ll be right back with a pot of tea. I’m sure you could use it after such a long drive,” he said before going out the door.
“Thank you. That would be lovely,” she told him with a smile.
By the time he returned, she had unpacked and hung up her clothes and put out her toiletries in the bathroom. Later, she’d have a bath and then she would finally meet the man who now owned her.
“Dinner is at seven. I can bring it up to you on a tray, or if you prefer, you are welcome to have it in the dining room. Sir Anthony regrets that he will not be joining you for dinner tonight. He has asked me to escort you to his suite at nine.”
“I’ll have it in my room, if it’s not too much trouble,” Nicola said faintly.
“As you wish, miss.” Hodgett bowed slightly and went out.
Her heart racing, Nicola sat in one of the two overstuffed chairs that flanked the fireplace in her room, hearing the words over and over in her mind. Sir Anthony wanted to see her in his private suite, tonight. That could only mean one th
ing. She might be a virgin—albeit by choice—but she wasn’t naïve. When a man paid that much for a woman and then requested she come to his room at night, friendship wasn’t what he had in mind.
She had hoped they would get to know each other first, maybe get to like each other. Then whatever happened after that would feel more natural. And in the end, both of them would have gotten what they wanted. But maybe she was just jumping to conclusions and all he did want to do was meet her. She had to calm down. She had made a choice to play for high stakes. All she had to do was keep her head and everything would be fine. She simply had to keep telling herself that.
Chapter Five
At nine o’clock she was dressed and ready. It had taken ages to decide what to wear. While she was packing, it occurred to her that if everything went well, it was a given he’d want to show her off, so most of what went into her suitcase leaned heavily toward trendy West London nightlife.
In the end she settled on her latest must-have, the white pleated chiffon with spaghetti straps and a silver Greek-key motif at the neckline and the fitted waist. It had cost an arm and a leg, but it was one of those dresses the minute her eyes fell on it, out came the plastic because she just knew that dress was going home with her!
The following night she wore it to go clubbing with friends. The club was new, ritzy, and very selective, and they crossed their fingers they’d make the cut. The doorman had taken one look at them and—boom!—they were in. Her flatmates Erica and Lacey swore her dress had done the trick. As Mum was fond of saying, you only get one chance to make a good first impression. For her interview with Anthony Astonville tonight—because she might as well face it, what she had signed on for was a job, sort of—the dress would be perfect.
She sat at the foot of the bed, waiting to be summoned. When the knock sounded at the door, she jumped even though she was expecting it. Stepping into her high-heeled silver sandals, she took one last look at herself in the mirror, went to the door, and opened it.
“Good evening, miss,” Hodgett said. “I am to escort you to the west wing.”
Clamping down on a sudden attack of nerves, she summoned up a smile and followed Hodgett down the hall. They descended the stairs to the ground floor and proceeded along the corridor past the foyer and into the west wing. Hodgett stopped at the last door at the end of the corridor and knocked on it smartly.
“Come,” someone on the other side called out.
Hodgett opened the door and stood aside deferentially. Nicola stepped into the room and stopped short at the sight of the man lounging against the edge of a desk next to the window in the far wall. Their eyes locked, and her mind raced on ahead, automatically processing little details about him. Most likely he was in his late twenties and obviously took care of himself. He had the tanned, athletic look of someone who regularly visits a spa and spends time in the gym. His dark hair was fashionably untamed, longish with a bit of a curl. His eyebrows were well groomed and classically spaced. The tip of his nose was marginally elongated, denoting sensuality that was borne out by the firm but generous-looking mouth with its slightly fuller bottom lip.
Despite his casual pose, she detected an odd gleam in his brown eyes that made her wary. It said he was used to getting what he wanted although, from the way his eyes assessed her, she couldn’t tell whether he was thinking she was it, or not it. So it might not be a done deal after all. Her heart began to pound with intuitive awareness that no matter which way he went, she was in trouble. If he changed his mind and didn’t want her, she would be right back to square one. But if he decided she was it, she could tell just by the way he was staring at her that she would be in over her head—way over her head. And for some reason, the alternative now seemed more nerve-racking than the prospect of losing everything. She had to make a decision now before she turned into a bundle of nerves. Could she handle it or not? Was this really what she wanted? Had signed on for?
A host of butterflies swarmed in her stomach, their wings fluttering energetically as if to say, “Go! Now!” Her first instinct was to do just that. It wasn’t too late. She could still save herself. Bolt out of the room, drive back to London and tell Henrietta she couldn’t go through with it. She must have been off her head to think she could!
It wasn’t that she was afraid of losing her virginity or thought of it as a prize, as she once explained to Lacey and Erica, who, over several beers in the pub, had solemnly informed her that at twenty-one she was probably the oldest virgin in Cambridge and that it really was a ridiculous state of affairs. Nicola was sensuous to the bone and couldn’t agree more. The only problem was that there just didn’t seem to be anybody worth doing it with.
Now, two years later she was still holding out, still wanting her first time to be unforgettable, with someone who would bring her erotic fantasies to life and make her fall wildly in love with him. Not some run-of the-mill bloke who thought that inquiring—after he had rolled off her and just before he fell asleep—whether it had been good for her, too, proved he hadn’t just been focused on his own climax. Even a vibrator would be better than that. At least she wouldn’t have to wake it up and ask it to go home.
“When I find what I want I’ll know it. ’Til then I’ll make do with my fantasies,” she told them, laughing.
But this was no fantasy. This was real life, her real life. The man facing her would expect to get his money’s worth. And if she wanted the money, which she desperately did, she had to pull herself together and deliver. He looked unpredictable—in a Wuthering Heights Heathcliff sort of way—but not sadistic, and besides, Henrietta had said that usually both parties got along quite well. So maybe if they started out on the right foot, it just might work out. Mum used to say you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. She could at least try.
Taking quick shallow breaths to calm herself, she managed to find her voice. “I’m Nicola Edgerton,” she volunteered and was immediately chagrined at how inane that must sound to him. He had been expecting her, had set the time, and had sent his butler to escort her to his suite. Who else could she be? The cable guy?
“I know,” he replied shortly. He pushed away from the desk and walked over to where she was standing. He was fairly tall, probably close to six feet. Even though her three-inch heels had elevated her to a respectable five-foot seven, she’d still have to crane her neck to look him in the face. Somehow, having to look up at people always made her feel disadvantaged.
“Come in. Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the living room couch. He reached behind her to shut the door, avoiding touching her. She walked into the living room and sat down on one end of the couch to leave plenty of room for him in case he wanted to sit next to her. Instead, he crossed the room and resumed his position at the desk, directly across from the couch. He was impeccably dressed—gray trousers, obviously tailor-made, black shirt, and black loafers. She knew enough about clothes to spot that his didn’t come off the rack.
They regarded each other in silence, taking stock.
“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” he asked, just in time to prevent the silence from segueing into awkward.
“Not really. The rental agency provided a map and directions.”
“I assume that means you don’t own a car.”
“I find I don’t need one. I rarely have any reason to leave the city, except for getting to and from Heathrow. I take cabs to get around.”
He deduced that meant she now made her home in London and her mention of the airport could well mean she went back to Jamaica occasionally. He stifled his curiosity as to how often. Embarking on a conversation in which the topic of Jamaica might possibly come up wasn’t a good idea. He might inadvertently say something that would make her realize he was familiar with the island, and a trip down memory lane wasn’t top of the list on tonight’s agenda. What he wanted from her would come first. “So, get on with it then,” said his inner voice impatiently.
“So, here you are,” he said abruptly. “Ha
ve you given any thought to how best we should proceed?”
His abruptness took her by surprise. Exchanging the initial ice-breaking pleasantries had made her relax somewhat, and his sudden sea change was an unpleasant dose of reality. If his intention was to remind her that this was simply business, he had succeeded. The agreement of purchase and sale had been concluded, and there was no further necessity for the niceties of small talk. All that remained was for her to fulfill her side of the bargain.
“I…my understanding is that it’s up to you,” she replied. She felt, well, disappointed. It wasn’t that she ever imagined he would go overboard and roll out the welcome wagon, but surely someone in his tax bracket would have learned by now to handle situations like this with a bit of sophistication!
“Usually, it is. But tonight I feel like doing things differently. I’ve decided to leave it up to you to choose something entertaining for us to do. Do you think you can manage that?”
“How can I when I don’t know you? I have no idea what you like or dislike,” she answered, finding his cavalier tone off-putting. Henrietta had indicated that the arrangement usually turned out to be fun for both parties. This sure didn’t feel like fun. Was this how it was going to be? How he was going to be?
“Oh come now, Nicola,” he said. “You don’t have to know me. That’s part of the fun of the game. You put yourself up for auction. Surely you must have given the matter some thought? Six months can be a very long time. Did you not think you might at some point be expected to show some initiative, assume some responsibility for finding ways to keep our liaison from becoming dull?”
His unconcealed sarcasm was grating. “Too bad you couldn’t ask for my resume,” she retorted, now fully resentful at being put on the spot. “Then you would have known what not to expect from me!”
He remained silent, studying her. What she said was true. When the two parties got together, it was normal for the purchaser to set the pace initially and take it from there, without the benefit of a resume. Henrietta only ever provided a bidder with the name of the woman for whom he had placed the highest bid. It was up to the woman to decide what personal information about herself she would share with him.