Breaking the Rules (Harte Family Saga Book 7)

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “No, it’s not, but the words just came out of my mouth! So, you want to talk about M, don’t you, old chap, and the yacht trip? That’s one of the reasons for this visit, isn’t it?”

  “It is, yes, Jack.”

  Jack sighed and sat back in the chair, looked off into the distance. “I guess I’ll agree to it. But only if James Cardigan is onboard, as well as the two security men he has looking after M and Larry. And you. I want you to be there.”

  “I will be, Jack. I’ve tried to analyze this whole thing, and I do believe we’ll be safe if we stick to the harbors.”

  “You’d bloody well better stick to them! Or I’ll have everybody’s guts for garters!”

  “Will you come, too?”

  “It all depends on what’s happening. I hate to be away from the store; on the other hand, Ainsley’s not going to hit the store again. He’s been there, done that. I believe that’s the way he looks at things. But a yacht’s an easy target, as you know, Simon.” Jack’s voice trailed off; he cleared his throat, then said, “However, not even Ainsley would be dumb enough to try to blow up a yacht in a harbor as filled with police as they are these days. Not to mention the yachts of his friends and colleagues in the world of high finance.”

  Simon said, “M wants you to know she’ll stick to the harbor in Istanbul and skip the Greek Islands, because she knows that the yacht could be vulnerable at sea. So, what’s the verdict?”

  “I’ll give M a ring first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll let them do their yacht trip . . . and, in fact, I’ll join you for several days.”

  Simon gave him a big smile. “M will be ecstatic.”

  Jonathan Ainsley knew that the best thing he had ever done for himself was build this yacht. This beautiful and most elegant yacht: safe, secure, streamlined, swift, and a sailing palace to boot.

  Now, standing on the upper deck, staring out at St. Petersburg from the vantage point of the Neva River, he thought about the big party he was going to give toward the end of May. He had been planning it for a long time, just as he had planned the design of his yacht for a long time, and he couldn’t wait to welcome his friends onboard. It would be a party to show off his yacht to the world he inhabited these days . . . a world of high society, show business, politics, and billionaires. He himself was a billionaire, and he was at the pinnacle of his career. Of his life. He had become the man he had always wanted to be: successful, rich, and powerful. Untouchable.

  He leaned against the rail of the yacht, continuing to stare at Hare Island, upon which St. Petersburg had been built by the will of Peter the Great, who founded it on May twenty-seventh in 1703. And what a city of beauty it was, filled with palaces and other buildings so magnificent they boggled the mind.

  Now, as the sun set and the lights of the city came on, it looked like the most magical of places, and so it was for him. When he wasn’t working at his desk, he enjoyed visiting those palaces, to admire the architecture and the unique art. Most especially he loved the European paintings bought, collected, and transported to Russia by Catherine the Great, and housed in the Hermitage, that gallery of incomparable beauty, which she had had built for this purpose.

  It was there that he would happily spend some of his leisure hours, staring at the paintings by some of the world’s most talented painters, filled with admiration for their genius.

  To Jonathan Ainsley, St. Petersburg was an extraordinary city, and it offered him many other pleasures, as well as its art and architecture. In particular, women of unusual beauty, who generously catered to his many whims. Just as important, it was the perfect place to meet with his Russian partner, Grisha Lebedev, who rarely traveled and who also enjoyed the luxury of this yacht.

  So Jonathan frequently brought the yacht here to do his business with Lebedev, but he was anchored most of the year in Istanbul. That was his favorite city of the two, and even though his yacht was both a home and an office, the center of his working life, he had recently bought one of the loveliest yalis on the Bosporus. This had been expertly renovated and remodeled by the best artisans, under the direction of Angharad, who had turned it into a unique and most luxurious villa.

  Angharad Hughes. Although at times she could truly aggravate him, he was glad he had married her. After all, she had brought him back to life by taking him to the clinic in Zurich. And when the time came, she had made sure he had the very best of plastic surgeons. All of them had done a brilliant job in reconstructing his face. If he wasn’t the old Jonathan Ainsley, he was still a very handsome man whom women found alluring. All the scars on his face and body had healed perfectly. She was to be commended for this.

  Only one thing troubled him, and that was Angharad’s inability to give him another child . . . the son and heir he longed for. He did not bother too much with his daughter, Elizabeth. The four-year-old was a poor substitute for the son he needed to inherit the empire he had built single-handedly. Besides, she had red hair and green eyes. His only child, Elizabeth Ainsley, was a daily reminder of Emma Harte, the grandmother he hated with virulence.

  The Harte women would soon be destroyed. He would make sure of it. So far his people had managed to bungle things, but his next attack would be successful. Sam had assured him of that, and Sam would keep his promise. Otherwise he would be a goner just like Bart, another failure. Yes, Paula and her hateful brood would soon be dead.

  Moving away from the rail, he turned and went down the stairs, holding on to the banister. Jonathan Ainsley was heading for the lounge and bar, admiring everything as he moved slowly through the rooms, pleased when he realized he was barely limping tonight. He had named the yacht the Janus, after the Roman god who, in mythology, was the god of portals and beginnings and endings. He had thought it appropriate since this three-hundred-and-eighty-foot yacht was a portal for him, a door to the world, and surely his reinvented life was a new beginning.

  Jonathan took immense pride in this yacht, built to his own specifications by Blohm & Voss in Germany. He smiled to himself. The Russian oligarch and billionaire Roman Abramovich, owned the three-hundred-and-seventy-seven-foot yacht Pelorus, which had been known as one of the largest privately owned yachts in the world. But Jonathan’s Janus was larger, and this pleased him.

  Angharad looked around as Jonathan walked into the bar. She couldn’t help thinking how fantastic he looked tonight. He was her own creation, in a sense, since she had put him back together. Or rather directed everyone to do that. She had given him back his health, his good looks, his very life. And she had presented him with a child. But a girl wasn’t good enough for him. Especially a girl with red hair and green eyes, who looked like a miniature replica of Linnet O’Neill, and Emma Harte, and was therefore not very beguiling to him. Quite the opposite. Angharad knew she would give him a son eventually. She had to. There was no alternative.

  Even though he messed around with other women the entire time, he still wanted her in his bed every night. And yet she did not get pregnant. She was forever disappointed. And so was he. But she managed to hold him captive sexually, and she made him happy in other ways.

  Jonathan interrupted Angharad’s thoughts when he came to a standstill and said, “You look ravishing, Mrs. Ainsley. Are you available tonight? Much later, of course, after our guests have left?”

  She gave him the benefit of a seductive smile and said, “I am indeed. And I have a few new presents for you, my darling. They will amuse you, I have no doubt.”

  Sliding off the stool, Angharad walked around to the other side of the bar and swiftly mixed him a dry vodka martini, which only she could get exactly right. “Here you are, my sweet,” she murmured as she slid it toward him across the black marble top.

  He thanked her and took hold of her as she came back to the bar-stool, pulled her close, kissed her on the mouth, and held her away from him. “You look like a long strand of beautiful pure silver in this dress. Divine, Angharad. Is it new?”

  “Yes. It’s from Chanel. I’m happy you like it.”

>   “I love it on you, it’s extremely sexy. Better order another one. I’m literally going to rip it off you later.” He brought his face to hers and whispered something in her ear, but so quietly she could hardly hear him. Knowing him as well as she did, she knew what he had said. It was vulgar, but it pleased her. He was obviously hot. There’d be a chance tonight to make a baby.

  Lifting his martini glass, Jonathan now said, “Here’s to you, my darling. And death to the Hartes.”

  Angharad burst into laughter. “Death to the Hartes! That’s a new one, and a nasty one even for you. Toasting their deaths. Good God!”

  “Please don’t laugh, Angharad. It will happen. I promise you. But if it doesn’t, and if I should die before them, you must promise to pick up my sword. You must destroy them.”

  She gaped at him, then smiled lovingly. “You know I’ll do anything you want, Jonathan. Anything.”

  “I do know. That’s what I’ve always loved about you, your willingness to please me. That’s why I married you. The reason I stay married to you. I know you’ll even commit murder for me.”

  Angharad cringed inside at these words, knowing he was verging on the psychotic again. She forced a smile, picked up her glass of champagne, touched it to his. “Here’s to our rendezvous later. And to the joy of making babies.”

  He laughed. Then he swiftly turned around at the sound of voices, recognizing the growl of Grisha Lebedev. And as he set eyes on one of the stewards bringing his partner and a woman across the lounge to him, he caught his breath.

  Hanging on Grisha’s arm was probably the most wondrous-looking woman he had ever seen. She appeared to be eighteen or nineteen, and she was a willowy, gorgeous blonde with an hourglass figure, voluptuous breasts, and endlessly long legs. He had to have her. No matter what the cost. He had to have this woman.

  Grisha was kissing Angharad on her cheek, then giving him a bear hug, and all Jonathan could think of was this girl. All he wanted to do was feast his eyes on her.

  Suddenly, he was holding her hand, leaning forward, inclining his head. And wanting her. Vaguely he heard her saying hello, heard Grisha exclaiming, “This is Galina. My fiancée.”

  Angharad, who rarely had her eyes off Jonathan and missed nothing, had witnessed his reaction to the Russian girl, and she was furious. Skillful, as always, she hid her feelings behind a smile and said, “Let’s go to the bar, Galina, and you, too, Grisha. We must celebrate your engagement.”

  Since marrying Jonathan Ainsley, Angharad Hughes had become a clever and charming hostess, and she managed to make the evening work for everyone. Throughout dinner she kept Grisha engaged in conversation and left her husband to monopolize Galina. But she was concerned. Not about the girl and his obvious lust for her; after all, she herself would reap the benefit of that later, in their marital bed. Jonathan would fantasize that he was making love to the Russian beauty and be at his best sexually, and she prayed that she would conceive. What concerned her was his mood.

  Angharad knew he was entering one of his psychotic phases, and this genuinely troubled her. Also, he was talking about a party he was giving in Istanbul next weekend, and she had never heard a word about it. What was going on in his head? she wondered. Surreptitiously, she watched him, distracted him constantly, and so prevented him from making a fool of himself in front of Grisha, a valuable business partner. One they could not afford to lose. And he was a proud man who could turn vindictive if aggravated enough; he could easily become a ruthless enemy.

  Forty-four

  That was a splendid dinner, Tessa, everything I like,” Lorne said, his voice full of affection, his eyes loving as he looked across the table at his twin. “And I especially enjoyed the fraises des bois, which are so difficult to find. Anywhere.”

  Tessa looked back at him. Her expression was as warm as his when she said, “I really had to hunt them down, those elusive little wood strawberries. God knows why they’ve become so rare. And I’m glad you enjoyed dinner.”

  “And being with you, my darling, and talking to you. It’s not often we get to be alone these days, is it?”

  “No, we don’t. And I’m so glad you decided to stay for a few days. I always seem to have so much to tell you. Or ask you. Which reminds me, I want to ask you about Simon Baron. How involved is he with Linny?”

  “Very. And I for one am awfully happy about it, Tess. She’s been so lonely, and you know how stubborn and independent she is. Whenever I’ve asked her out she’s either been going away on business or going to Pennistone Royal, or working. Usually it’s working.”

  Tessa began to laugh, and she shook her head wonderingly. “And just think, I used to be like that. The workaholic woman, always at the store, my head bent over a desk, or my feet running along corridors or running through the floors, checking different departments. I must have been quite . . . awful.”

  “Not awful,” Lorne said, “just frightfully ambitious and determined to be the Dauphine, the heir apparent. And you were bossy, stern at times, and very tough. Tough as a bloody old boot, actually.”

  “Was I that bad?” she asked, rolling her eyes at the ceiling.

  “Yes. And thank God I introduced you to my dear friend Jean-Claude Deléon. He took you by surprise, didn’t he?”

  She smiled beatifically. “He did. He took my heart in one minute in front of the whole of Paris, at his book signing, and he still has it. He will always have it, Lorne. He’s the love of my life.”

  “I’m so happy for you. You’ve got the best marriage in the world. I don’t seem to have much luck these days, with women, I mean.”

  “You’d better hurry up, my lad, otherwise you might well turn into a crusty old bachelor.”

  “Me?” he exclaimed, giving her a look of mock horror, and then he chuckled. “I’m not yet forty, so I won’t be crusty for a long time yet. I think I’ve got a bit of time left to find the right woman. Actually, do you have any girlfriends you could introduce me to?”

  “I wish I did. But we digressed, Lorne. What about Linny and Simon?”

  “They’re good. As good as gold, and I think he’s the best thing that’s happened to her. She’s mourned Julian for too long, and in Simon she’s found a kindred spirit. I’ve always liked him myself, and he’s a good guy. To borrow one of Linny’s favorite phrases, he’s true blue.”

  “And good-looking in a blond, Greek god sort of way. Quite a hunk, I’d say.”

  “That’s true, but he’s extremely intelligent, and tough as nails. I mean tough in the sense of strong and masculine, and I think he’s tough mentally. If push came to shove, he’d be terrific. Our little sister is going to be in good hands. And let’s not forget, Jack helped to raise him.”

  “How’s everybody reacting?”

  “I don’t think they are, not really. It’s almost like it’s a given. Jack’s taking it in his stride, full of geniality about them, and so are Mum and Dad. I might even detect a sense of relief floating around, especially at Pennistone Royal.”

  “That’s marvelous. I’m happy for her, she deserves a life of her own away from the store. That all-demanding store.”

  “Spoken like a happy woman, a Dauphine no more.” Lorne chortled and pushed back his chair, went over and kissed his sister. “Come on, let’s have coffee in the library.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll bring it to you,” Tessa said, getting up. She waved him out of the dining room, adding, “I think I might have a cognac with my coffee, Lorne. Please do the honors, darling.”

  “I will,” he answered, wandering through the circular entrance hall and into the library. He had always loved Clos-Fleuri, Jean-Claude’s charming eighteenth-century house set in a little private park on the edge of the Forest of Fontainebleau. He had visited Jean-Claude here long before he had introduced his twin to the well-known writer, and it was here in the country that he and the Frenchman had developed an enduring friendship.

  Walking across to the French doors, Lorne looked out at the gardens, thinking what a tru
ly beautiful night it was: a black velvet sky, filled with sparkling stars and a brilliant full moon. A romantic night, if one had someone to be romantic with. Lorne Fairley had been feeling lonely lately, and he envied his sisters and their newfound beaus. Well, Larry Vaughan was no longer a beau; he was a husband, and he obviously adored M.

  Portia Vaughan suddenly crept into his mind. She was a beautiful woman, and she’d always knocked his socks off with her looks and talent, but she’d never shown any real interest in him. Until now. Was it really interest? All she had apparently said to her mother was that she would go to the dinner for M and Larry if he came, too. Well, perhaps it was a start. He did fancy her, always had.

  Tessa glided in carrying a tray, and he went to take it from her, then set it down on the iron-and-wood coffee table near the fireplace.

  Tessa said, “Do you want a fire? It just needs a match, you know. I think I ought to have started one earlier, the house gets so cold in the evenings, even in summer, and it’s still only spring.” She shivered. “Of course, who wears chiffony things like this dress on a cool night? Only me, naturally. Well, let’s see if the coffee warms me up.”

  She poured, added cream and a sweetener, and took a cup to her brother. “How about that cognac, sweetie?” she asked, flashing a smile at him.

  “Coming right up, Beautiful One. What time is Jean-Claude getting here?” Lorne asked as he went over to an old wooden garden cart used for drinks, picked up a bottle of Napoleon, and poured cognac into two balloons.

  “It’ll be about eleven-thirty or midnight, I think,” Tessa replied. “There was a reception at the Élysées Palace and then a dinner, and it’s hard to get away from those sorts of evenings. But Hakim will drive him, and he’ll be able to relax on the way out here. Anyway, there’s less traffic at this hour.” She glanced at her watch. “Goodness, it’s already eleven, Lorne. How time flies when you’re with your one and only twin.”