Abruptly she turned and stepped into the bath, slowly lowering herself into the warm water. She turned off the taps, and lay back. She was over-reacting, she told herself. So what if Luc had met Margot Mey last weekend? That was the past. It was possible for a man to meet a woman and be immediately attracted. God knew, Parisa thought solemnly, it had happened to her. Three days in Luc's company and she loved him, so why couldn't it be the same for Luc? He had told her he wanted her and his body had certainly reinforced his statement... She rubbed her palms over her wet, aching breasts, remembering his touch, his mouth... She could not bear to believe he had lied. She would not... But what of the rest? Blackmail!
Parisa picked up a bottle of scented rose oil from an array of toiletries that lined one side of the bath, and sprinkled it in the water. Finding a bar of soap, she gently lathered herself all over. She ached in places and muscles she had not realised she possessed until last night. Eventually she stood up, dried herself off with a large, fluffy mint-green towel, and returned to the bedroom.
Quickly she pulled on clean underwear and stepped back into her trousers and shirt. She applied a minimum of make-up to her smooth complexion: a light moisturizer and a touch of lip-gloss. She would wait for Luc's call; she would not prejudge him. She was clutching at straws, she knew. But possibly, just possibly, Moya was the only person he had tried to blackmail. Maybe Luc had some valid explanation for his criminal exploits. Who was she kidding? No one but herself. She had fallen in love with a villain. It was ironic, given her background, that the one man she could love above all others was a hundred times more reckless than any of her ancestors. At least her family had been reasonably honest, but Luc...
She refused to think about it. Methodically she withdrew her clothes from the wardrobe and packed her suitcase, and, picking it up, along with her top coat, she had one last look around the room. She smiled. The ring was lying where she had dropped it on the dressing table. Luc had told her to wear it, and sliding it back on her finger gave her confidence a boost.
Her confidence took a nosedive an hour later. A buffet breakfast was laid out in the huge formal dining-room. Parisa was standing by the table deciding what to eat, when Tina walked into the room.
'Parisa, you dark horse, why didn't you tell me on Friday that you and Luc were engaged? It's so romantic. Of course, I always suspected he fancied you like mad. He was so furious after that trick we played on him at school, swearing vengeance when usually he would laugh something like that off without a second thought. I'm so pleased for you both.'
She had hardly spoken to Tina last night. The opportunity had never arisen, and this morning she did not feel like listening to the other girl's exuberance over what was, after all, a fake engagement.
'Thank you,' she murmured.
Tina grinned. 'I promised to take some food to Gino; he's waiting in bed.' And with an audacious wink she filled a plate with food and left.
Parisa picked up a plate and placed a croissant on it, and was in the process of pouring out a cup of coffee when Anna, the glamorous brunette, walked in.
'I hear you. You know Luc a long time...' Anna spoke up in fractured English, moving to stand in front of Parisa. 'He give you the ring. He marry you, for his mother.' Her dark eyes, hard as ice, looked spitefully at Parisa. 'His mother. She is pleased. An English Lady.
Luc has given her—how you say?—the status she wanted.' Parisa turned pale at the other woman's vitriolic comment.
'Be happy now. Luc is not the faithful man. Soon you get the bracelet, like the rest of us...' The bitterness in her tone was frightening, and, holding out her arm, she asked, 'This he gave me. Nice, no...?'
Before Parisa had made sense of the words enough to form a response, Signora Di Maggi appeared and said something that made the other woman turn scarlet and leave the room.
Parisa spent the rest of the morning trying to understand Signora Di Maggi's chattering in a mixture of English and Italian, without much success. She heaved a sigh of relief when the car arrived to take her to the airport and she could finally say goodbye.
'So did you get them? What happened?' Moya demanded.
Parisa dropped her case to the floor.
'You could let me get inside the door before you start with the twenty questions,' she drawled, but the lines of worry etched in Moya's face brought home to her with savage clarity that it was Luc's behaviour that had done this to her friend. How could she love such a man? It went against everything she believed in, and yet in his arms she had forgotten ail her scruples in her desperate need for him.
'Your troubles are over, Moya, dear.' She stamped down her own wayward thoughts. 'The photos are burned; I threw them on the fire myself. Now, if you will make me a cup of coffee and then sit down I shall reveal all.'
Ten minutes later she told Moya an abbreviated version of what had occurred, leaving out the more intimate details. The ring she had removed on the plane and it was safely in its box, in her handbag.
'Parisa, I can't begin to tell you how much it means to me. I've been living under the threat of Simon finding out about the photographs for so long, I was beginning to think it would never end. To be honest, when you went off to Italy with the filthy swine I didn't have much hope that the man would finally act honorably. Thank you, Parisa.'
Parisa's lips thinned and she had to bite back an angry retort at Moya's remarks about Luc. Her lovely eyes clouded as she realised Moya's opinion of Luc was probably correct. So why had she, Parisa, made such a fool of herself over him? She had no answer...
The rest of the evening they gossiped about the forthcoming wedding. At least, Moya did. She was leaving her job at the end of the week, and Simon was coming on Sunday to take her to Norfolk to stay with her father until the wedding. But Parisa wasn't really listening. She was waiting for the phone to ring! Finally she arranged to stay with Moya until the weekend, supposedly to go shopping for a bridesmaid's dress. But secretly Parisa hoped Luc would call—or arrive—long before Sunday.
By the time Parisa crawled into bed it was two in the morning, and Luc had still not rung. She lay in the small bed and relived in her mind every word and gesture they had exchanged over the last few days. She could still taste his kisses on her mouth, imagine the wondrous feel of his body, hard against hers. She flushed with remembered heat at the intimacy they had shared, and with a groan of frustration turned over on to her stomach and buried her face in the pillow.
Luc would ring... he must. Perhaps the accident had been more serious than was first thought, she told herself, and he hadn't time to telephone. She suddenly realised she did not even know what kind of factory he owned. What if it were drugs? The questions tormented her. Oh, God! There was no way she could have a relationship with a drug dealer. What was she thinking? Was one crime any worse than another?
She turned restlessly, a thousand different thoughts screaming around her tired mind. A week ago she would have laughed at the idea of herself falling in love, and with a criminal... She had never understood the blind devotion some women gave to their partners, even when they were proven criminals of the worst kind, seeing it as a weakness of character. Now she was beginning to understand the incredible power of love. In Luc's company she saw nothing, felt and wanted only him. Was she falling into the age-old misconception of women through the ages—that the love of a good woman could change a man?
She thought of all the reckless adventures in her own family history, some also outside the law, and the dire warnings from her grandmother about controlling the more extrovert side of her nature. She'd thought she had succeeded until now. Was she being an even bigger fool, waiting for Luc? Finally she fell asleep, still making pathetic excuses for his silence.
By Sunday Parisa had run out of excuses. She had played her part for the past few days, smiling in front of Moya, while crying inside, but now she had to face the fact that Luc was not going to appear or even call. She had to return to Hardcourt Manor and try to put the whole disastrous episode behi
nd her. She had her work, her home, and David. Luc was a villain and he had used her. End of story... But nothing could assuage the ache in her heart and the dreadful sense of loss.
Parisa sat morosely at the breakfast table, sipping a cup of coffee. Her bag was packed.
'Parisa, look at this,' Moya exclaimed, shoving the Sunday paper in front of her on the table. 'The slime- ball has been caught.'
She glanced at where Moya was pointing, and ail the colour drained from Parisa's face. Luc arrested! There was a picture of Luc, but her friend's finger was firmly placed on the picture next to it of another man. Heart racing, she began to read.
She couldn't believe it... It was too incredible... Luca Di Maggi, one of the wealthiest entrepreneurs in Europe, had last week acquired, as part of a large property company he had taken over, the ownership of a London casino. His first act as the new owner had been to fire the casino manager and report his fraud to the police- on Thursday Luigi Reno had been arrested on fraud charges amounting to thousands of pounds.
'Is that the man who--- ?' Parisa asked Moya unsteadily, pointing to the ferret-faced man next to Luc's picture.
'You know it is, Parisa. The police must have picked him up as soon as he came back to England.'
Parisa started to laugh hysterically; she couldn't help it. She had gone to Italy with the wrong man...
Simon arrived, and before Parisa had time to think about the enormity of her discovery she was hustled out of the flat and into the car. Simon was in a hurry to drop her off at the railway station and carry on to Norfolk with Moya.
An hour later she was alone on the train. Her bright facade crumbled and moisture filled her large eyes as she read the newspaper article once more. There was quite a write-up about Luc. Apparently he had started life as the son of a small village baker, and on the death of his father had expanded this business into a string of bakeries and then a chain of pizza houses that flourished on four continents. Not content with that, he had diversified into shipping and property, and was now the sole owner of a world-wide company.
Parisa's relief at discovering Luc was not a crook was quickly followed by despair. When she had thought he was a small-time crook, she might just have got over him; her distaste for his occupation would eventually have killed her love for him. But knowing he was a multimillionaire who had quite deliberately seduced her hurt more than she could bear.
What a fool she had been, imagining for one minute that a mature sophisticated man like Luc could possibly fall in love with her. She was as naive as the fourteen- year-old she had been when she first met him, she realised sadly. It was the only explanation for her stupidity. His villa, the jet, his glamorous friends... all screamed wealth. She should have guessed ... But life so far had not prepared her for mixing in the jet-set world that Luc obviously inhabited.
She had all the social graces: her parents, then boarding-school had taught her well. But her late teens had been spent training for the Olympics with no time for the boyfriends most girls of her age enjoyed. When her rowing career ended she had gone straight into teaching sport at a private school. Her home life, living in the manor house with an elderly couple, suited her: she was and always would be a country girl at heart. No match for the sophisticated Luca Di Maggi.
She had fallen like a ripe plum into his arms, giving him everything, and all the time it had been a game to him. First he had tricked her into going to Italy. In fact he had blackmailed her! The photographs might have been taken by another man. But it had been Luc who had used them to blackmail Parisa. He must have thought it was a huge joke. All the time in Italy, while she had been worried sick for her friend, he had been laughing up his sleeve.
Margot Mey had named him well—a master of passion, once Parisa was in his home, with his elderly parent delighted by her presence. She had succumbed to his overpowering masculine charm with a naive simplicity he must have thought hilarious. It was her own fault: she had agreed to stay in Italy and deceive everyone at the birthday party. But Luc had carried the deception further. He had made love to her without restraint, knowing full well he had no intention of ever seeing her again. Five days she had stayed in London with Moya, and if she was honest she had spent every minute of every day hoping he would call or arrive. He had never had any intention of calling, she realised now. He had probably taken her to bed to get back at her for the trick she had played on him in the boat-house, nothing more...
Suddenly his behaviour when he had found Parisa in the apartment made sense. She remembered thinking he had seemed puzzled and he had said, 'You think I am blackmailing this girl,' and she had accused him of playing games... In a way she had been right. It hadn't taken the man a second to realise what had happened and turn it to his own advantage. He had got a fake fiancée with impeccable pedigree to please his mother as well as getting his revenge on Parisa for embarrassing him years earlier. Tina, his own cousin, had mentioned that Luc had vowed vengeance at the time.
The hurt was like a knife in her stomach. She felt nauseous at the thought of her own wanton response to his lovemaking, while he had been fully in control. She had been flattered to think he had protected her against pregnancy, but now she realised it was himself he had been protecting. She had even asked him if it was all right for him... What a joke! No wonder he had made no objection when she'd said she had to return to England. He probably couldn't get her flight booked fast enough.
A hollow laugh escaped her. 'Wear my ring', he had said. A fake jewel for a fake love-affair was somehow very appropriate. No, not a love-affair, she told herself with bitter honesty. A one-night stand... That was all she had ever been to him.
She rubbed a tired hand across her damp eyes. In one week Luc Di Maggi had turned her into the impulsive person she had vowed never to be. Had he told her the truth about anything? she wondered. It was quite possible, in fact, probable, that there never was an accident in Naples. The phone call could have been about anything. Parisa didn't speak Italian. Luc could lie to her with no fear of being found out.
By the time Parisa finally entered the front door of Hardcourt Manor her grief was slowly turning to icy anger. So she had been a fool. But no more. Tomorrow she was back at school and she was going to get straight on to her solicitor to see what could be done about the financial state of the manor. She was back to reality and the rigors of everyday living and never again would she allow her emotions to overrule her common sense.
Parisa drove the old beaten-up Beetle with exaggerated care through Brighton's lunch-hour traffic and out on to the open road. She barely noticed as she spun through Hailsham and the small village of Magum Down. In the two months since her return from Italy she felt as though she had aged ten years. But today she felt good. Walking into the bank and depositing a cheque for sixty thousand pounds would do it every time, she thought happily.
At last something seemed to be going right in her life. God knew she could do with a change of luck, after the agony of the past weeks. She had forced herself to carry on as normal and had even accepted a couple of dates with David, but she had known she wasn't being fair to him and had finally told him they could only ever be friends.
She had returned to work the day after returning from London, a sadder and wiser woman. She had been forced to accept the unpleasant truth that Luc had no intention of ever seeing her again. All his fine words had been no more than that: just words. She had behaved like the impulsive woman Luc had called her, and that alone had almost destroyed her self-confidence.
The only good thing in those early weeks was that Mr Jarvis had finally found a way for her to make money. It was quite simple. Parisa could not sell the manor house, and the existing covenant stated it could not be converted to an inn or such like. But Mr Jarvis had discovered she could sell the title 'Lord of the Manor of Hardcourt'. Seemingly a law had been passed in 1922 that allowed the title to be divorced from the property, and Parisa could legally sell the lordship of the manor without actually selling the house. Mr Jarvis had
contacted Sotheby's and they had given him the name of a London-based estate agent and valuer who were quite happy to handle the sale.
Four weeks later Parisa had gone up to Norfolk for the wedding. She had pinned a smile on her face and acted the happy bridesmaid. Oddly enough, from then on she had begun to recover. Perhaps it was seeing Moya so happy. It had made her realise life went on. She had made one ghastly mistake. She was not the first girl to be fooled by a charming rogue of a man, and she certainly wouldn't be the last, but wallowing in self-pity was self-destructive. Pious, when she returned home, Mr Jarvis had called her with the news that a buyer had been found for the title.
Parisa smiled slightly as she maneuvered the car round a tight bend. Didi had hated the idea, and advised strongly against it, but Parisa had done it anyway. She was still quite bemused at how easy it had been. Seemingly some foreigners would pay quite fantastic sums for the title 'Lord of the Manor'. Thank God! she said silently. Her troubles were almost over; at least now she could make a start on the more vital repairs to the house, and hopefully provide Didi and Joe with some kind of security in their old age.
Didi she would have to handle delicately; the old lady had never stopped nagging her since the prospect was first mentioned. Well, it was done now, and Didi would have to lump it... School had ended last Friday for the Easter break and today, Monday, Parisa had met her solicitor to conclude the transaction. Her heart felt lighter; at last she was beginning to get her life in order again...
A car horn broke into her musing, and, grasping the wheel firmly, she brought her full attention to the road ahead until she arrived at Hardcourt Manor.
With a smile tilting her full lips, Parisa dashed into the house. 'Didi, good news!' she cried, shrugging out of her short car coat and dropping it and her bag on a convenient chair.
The housekeeper walked slowly from the sitting-room. 'Yes, later, Miss Parisa, but first- '
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