Mistresses: Blackmailed With Diamonds / Shackled With Rubies
Page 16
‘As soon as you’re ready.’
He was like a big kid, keeping a secret. I might guess the secret, but he was only going to tell in his own good time—although I could tell he was bursting with it.
The sun had started to come up when we left the house, and Jack headed the car north, towards the nearby canal.
‘So who’s Nick?’ Grandad demanded from the back seat.
‘He was my grandpa,’ Jack told him. ‘You’re so like him that it’s eerie.’
Grandad considered. ‘You mean he was an old fool too?’
Jack laughed. ‘Something like that. But he was my old fool and I was nuts about him.’
We parked near a bridge and went to look down into the water.
‘There,’ Jack said. ‘Do you see her? She’s called The Bluebell.’
She was the loveliest barge I’d ever seen—a real, traditional canal boat, painted in bright colours. It spoke of long, lazy summer days drifting along dreamy waterways.
‘A hobo of the canals,’ I said. ‘What about the dogs? Three of them, you said.’
‘We’ll have them too. Great, daft creatures, lolling around, wanting to be petted all the time.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ I said happily.
‘I should have done this years ago. But it never became really important until now.’
‘Is she yours?’
‘Not yet. Not until you’ve approved her. But I’ve got the key.’
We went below and looked around. She was more spacious than she looked from the outside, but she was also cosy.
‘This can be Grandad’s room,’ Jack said, indicating a door.
‘Then he’s coming with us?’ I asked eagerly.
‘I know better than to try to part you two. You wouldn’t leave him behind, and if you did you’d never have a moment’s peace, wondering what trouble he was getting himself into.’
I flung my arms around him.
‘Can it really come true?’ I asked.
‘It’s going to come true. We’re going to make it—if it’s what you really want?’
‘It’s what I want more than anything. But won’t you miss your work?’
‘Maybe in a few years,’ he said. ‘But not for ages. I have another life to live first—our life together. A different world, well away from the other one. I don’t want to have to think of anything but you.’
‘No Bully Jack?’
‘Bully Jack only ever existed for a few moments, when he needed to do a bit of manipulating for you. Now he’s gone for ever. All that’s left is the man who loves you—’
‘And whom I love.’
‘It is true that you love me?’ he asked with sudden urgency. ‘I need to believe in that, because it’s who I am. I have this strange feeling that if you don’t love me I don’t really exist.’
There were no words that would have convinced him, so I laid my lips on his and we stayed there for a long time.
‘You have to exist,’ I said. ‘Because if you don’t, neither do I. And without you I never will. Just as before you there was nothing.’
‘For me too,’ he said softly. ‘Nothing at all. But now, for the rest of our lives, we’ll have everything.’
Blackmailed by Diamonds, Bound By Marriage
Sarah Morgan
Sarah Morgan trained as a nurse and has since worked in a variety of health-related jobs. Married to a gorgeous businessman, who still makes her knees knock, she spends most of her time trying to keep up with their two little boys, but manages to sneak off occasionally to indulge her passion for writing romance. Sarah loves outdoor life and is an enthusiastic skier and walker. Whatever she is doing, her head is full of new characters and she is addicted to happy endings.
Look for
Bought: Destitute yet Defiant
Sarah Morgan’s latest thrilling romance!
Chapter One
THE UNMISTAKABLE SOUND of footsteps echoed around the ancient stone stairs that led to the basement of the museum.
Angie Littlewood glanced up from the notes she was making, distracted by the unexpected disturbance. Upstairs the museum was heaving with visitors but down here in the bowels of the old listed building there was an almost reverential silence, a silence created by thick stone walls and the academic purpose of the researchers and scientists who worked behind the scenes.
Angie felt a flicker of surprise as she saw Helen Knightly appear in the doorway. As Museum Curator, Helen was usually fully occupied upstairs with the public at this time of day and Angie’s surprise turned to consternation as she saw the distressed expression on her colleague’s face.
‘Are you all right, Helen? Is something the matter?’
‘I don’t know how to tell you this, dear.’ Helen’s face was slightly paler than usual and Angie’s heart took an uncomfortable dive as her mind raced ahead, anticipating the problem.
Obviously it was something to do with her mother. Gaynor Littlewood had been so traumatized by the events of the last six months that Angie was sometimes afraid to leave her alone in the house.
‘What’s happened?’
‘There’s someone upstairs asking to see you.’
With an inward sigh, Angie carefully replaced the piece of ancient pottery she’d been examining and rose to her feet, still holding her pen. ‘If it’s my mother again, then I apologise,’ she said huskily, adjusting her glasses and her white coat as she walked towards the curator. ‘She’s found the last six months very hard and I do keep explaining that she can’t just turn up here unannounced—’
‘It’s not your mother.’ The curator gave a nervous cough, a gesture that did nothing to ease Angie’s growing feeling of unease.
If it wasn’t her mother then it had to be a funding issue. Research posts were always precarious and money was always in short supply. She felt a sudden stab of panic. How would they manage without the money from her job? Angie opened her mouth to prompt the other woman but the heavy tread of male footsteps on the stairs distracted her.
She glanced towards the door as a man strolled into the room without waiting for either invitation or introduction.
For a brief moment Angie stared at him, her attention caught by the strength and perfection of his coldly handsome face. He resembled one of the legendary Greek gods, she thought, her mind wandering as she studied the perfect bone structure, the masculine jaw and the hard, athletic physique. All the Greek myths she’d ever read rushed through her head and for an extremely unsettling moment she imagined him stripped to the waist, bronzed muscles glistening with the sweat of physical exertion as he did battle with the Minotaur or some other threatening creature while some hapless female lay in chains on the floor waiting to be rescued.
‘Dr Littlewood? Angie!’ Helen’s tone was sharp enough to disturb Angie’s vision and she gave herself a mental shake, reminding herself that sponsors didn’t expect archaeologists to be dreamy. And this man was obviously someone extremely important. He had an unmistakable air of command and authority and her eyes slid to the two men who had planted themselves in the doorway behind him. Their manner was respectful and watchful, and added to her feeling that the man was hugely influential; he was probably considering making an extremely large donation to the museum. Although she would rather be left in peace to do her research, she was only too aware that posts such as hers existed only because certain organisations or individuals were financially generous. Clearly Helen Knightly was expecting her to fly the flag and make a good impression so she pushed down her natural shyness, ignored her deep-rooted belief that men as glamorous and sophisticated as this one never looked twice at women like her, and stepped forward.
It didn’t matter that she wasn’t beautiful or elegant, she told herself firmly. She’d graduated top of her year from Oxford University. She spoke five languages fluently, including Latin and Greek, and her academic record was excellent. If he was interested in funding a position at the museum, then those were the qualities that would interest him.
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‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’ Still holding the pen, Angie stretched out a hand and heard Helen make a distressed sound.
‘Angie, this isn’t—I mean, I should probably introduce you,’ she began, but the man stepped forward and took the hand that Angie had extended.
‘You are Miss Littlewood?’ The voice was strong and faintly accented. The grip of his strong bronzed fingers matched the power of his physique. Which god did he most closely resemble? Apollo? Ares? Angie felt her mind drift again until she heard Helen’s voice in the background.
‘This is Nikos Kyriacou, Angie, the President of Kyriacou Investments.’
A Greek name? Given the comparisons she’d been making, Angie almost smiled and then Helen’s words and the urgent emphasis of her tone finally registered.
Nikos Kyriacou.
The name hung in the air like a deep, dark threat and then reality exploded in Angie’s head and she snatched her hand away from his and took an involuntary step backwards, the shock so great that the pen she was holding clattered to the floor.
She’d never heard of Kyriacou Investments but she’d heard of Nikos Kyriacou. For the last six months his name had been on her mother’s lips as she’d sobbed herself to sleep each night.
Clearly aware of the sudden escalation of tension in the room, Helen cleared her throat again and gestured towards the door. ‘Perhaps we should all—’
‘Leave us.’ His dark, brooding gaze fixed on Angie. Nikos Kyriacou issued the command without a flicker of hesitation or the faintest concession towards manners or protocol. ‘I want to talk to Miss Littlewood alone.’
‘But—’
‘It’s fine, Helen.’ Angie spoke the words with difficulty. It was far from fine. Already she could feel her knees shaking. She didn’t want to be left on her own with this man. The fact that he was rude came as no surprise. She’d already deduced that he was a man devoid of human decency—a man with no morals or ethics. Now she knew which Greek god he most closely resembled. Ares, she thought to herself. The god of war. Cold and handsome but bringing death and destruction.
Her slim shoulders straightened as she braced herself for conflict. This wasn’t the time to be pathetic. She owed it to her family to stand up to him. The problem was, she hated conflict. Hadn’t her sister continually mocked her because Angie always chose the peaceful route? The only argument that interested her was an academic one. All she really wanted was to be left in peace with her research.
But that wasn’t an option.
Staring at him now, she decided that he was every bit as cold and intimidating as his reputation suggested and suddenly all she wanted to do was run. But then she remembered her sister as a child, so blonde and perfect, always smiling. And she remembered her mother’s limp, sobbing form—remembered all the things she’d resolved to say to Nikos Kyriacou if she ever met him face to face.
Why should she be afraid of being alone with him? What could he do to her family that he hadn’t already done?
His dark, disturbing gaze remained fixed on her face as he waited for the echo of Helen’s footsteps to recede.
He had nerve, she had to give him that. To be able to look her in the eye and not appear to feel even the slightest shred of remorse.
Only when he was sure that Helen Knightly had moved out of earshot did he speak. ‘First, I wish to offer my condolences on the death of your sister.’
His directness shocked her almost as much as the hypocrisy of his statement. The words might have meant more had they been spoken with the slightest softening of the voice but his tone was hard. The coldness injected into that statement somehow turned sympathy to insult.
She inhaled sharply and pain lanced through her body. ‘Your condolences?’ Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak the words. ‘Next time you’re offering your condolences, at least try and look as though you mean it. In the circumstances, your sympathy is rather out of place, don’t you think? In fact, I think you have a complete nerve coming here and offering “condolences” after what you did!’ It was the first time she’d ever spoken to anyone in such a way and she reached out a hand and held on to the table, needing the support.
A frown touched his proud, handsome face, as if he were unaccustomed to being questioned or criticised. ‘Your sister’s death at my villa was extremely unfortunate, but—’
‘Extremely unfortunate?’ She, who never raised her voice, who always preferred logic and reasoned argument to mindless aggression, raised it now. A vision of her sister flew into her mind. The sister she’d never be able to hug and laugh with again. ‘Unfortunate? Is that how you justify it to yourself, Mr Kyriacou? Is that how you appease your conscience? How you manage to sleep at night…’
Something dangerous flared in those dark eyes. ‘I have no trouble sleeping at night.’
She was suddenly aware of her pounding heartbeat and the dampness of her palms. An instinctive urge of violent aggression swarmed through her and she must have betrayed that urge in some way because the two men in the doorway suddenly stepped forward, ready to intervene.
Angie realised that she’d actually forgotten their presence. ‘Who are they?’
‘My security team.’ Nikos Kyriacou dismissed them with an impatient gesture and they melted into the background, leaving Angie alone with the one man in the world she would have preferred never to meet in person.
‘I can understand why a man like you would need a security team if you treat everyone the way you treated my sister! Clearly you have no conscience!’ She placed both hands on her desk. It was that or punch him hard. ‘My sister died in a fall from your balcony and you’re standing there telling me that your conscience is clear?’
Fine lines of tension appeared around his hard, sculpted mouth. ‘There was a full police investigation and a post mortem. The verdict was accidental death.’ His flat, factual statement held not a trace of emotion and her anger rose to dangerous levels. She’d had no idea that she was capable of feeling such undiluted fury. It was because she hadn’t been given the chance to express her feelings, she told herself. She’d been so busy caring for her mother. It was only at night when she was given the chance to stop and think and then her head was crowded with thoughts of her sister. Her little sister. The person she’d loved most in the world.
Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away. ‘Accidental death. Of course. What else?’ She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. ‘You’re a very important person, are you not, Mr Kyriacou?’
His powerful body stilled. ‘I’m not sure what you’re implying, Miss Littlewood, but I should warn you to be careful.’
There was something in his tone that made her shiver although she didn’t understand exactly what because he still hadn’t raised his voice or displayed anything other than the utmost control.
She remembered reading a business article that had described Nikos Kyriacou as cold, ruthless and intimidating and suddenly she could understand why a journalist might have come to that conclusion. His unsmiling, icy calm was in direct contrast to her boiling emotions.
Normally she would also have described herself as calm but she was fast discovering that grief did funny things to a person. She was discovering parts of her personality that she hadn’t been aware existed—basic urges that had never before revealed themselves—like the desire to wipe that superior expression from his indecently handsome face.
‘It’s Dr Littlewood.’ She lifted her chin and corrected him in the tone she reserved for the most arrogant students that she lectured at the university. ‘And you don’t frighten me.’
‘Doctor, of course. Dr Angelina Littlewood. And the purpose of my visit is not to scare you.’ He gave a faint smile that implied that if he’d wanted to frighten her it would have been an easy task. She curled her fingers into her palms.
‘I don’t use the name Angelina.’ In her opinion it was a ridiculous name. A name suited to an entirely different sort of woman—a beautiful, glamorous woman, not a s
tudious, plain archaeologist. ‘I prefer to be called Angie, as you would be aware if you knew the first thing about me.’
His hard gaze didn’t shift from her face. ‘I know a great deal about you. You have a diploma in classical archaeology, a PhD in Mediterranean archaeology and you specialise in the art and pottery of the classical Greeks. Quite an impressive academic record for someone as young as you. Tell me, Dr Littlewood—’ his gentle emphasis on her title was impossible to ignore ‘—do you often find it necessary to hide behind your qualifications?’
Still recovering from the shock of discovering that he knew so much about her, Angie tightened her grip on the desk. ‘Only when I believe I’m being patronised.’
‘Is that what you think?’ He studied her closely, his eyes sweeping the white coat, the glasses and the fiery hair tortured into a neat coil at the back of her head. ‘You’re nothing like your sister, are you?’
Intentionally or not, he had used the weapon designed to create the most serious wound.
She turned away then, unwilling to reveal the agony that his words caused. She knew she was nothing like Tiffany—had long ago accepted that they were entirely different in virtually every way. But those differences hadn’t affected the bond they’d shared. Even as Tiffany had moved from caring child to wayward, moody teenager, Angie had still loved her deeply. Knowing that they had little in common had done nothing to ease the pain of her sister’s death. If anything it made it slightly worse because Angie felt a continuous gnawing guilt that she hadn’t tried harder to influence her younger sister. To persuade her to modify her behaviour. And that guilt wasn’t helped by her mother’s constant obsession with ‘what if’s. What if Angie hadn’t been so disapproving of Tiffany’s desire for fun? What if Angie hadn’t been so boring and obsessed with work? What if she’d flown out to Greece and kept Tiffany company? What if she’d been with her sister the night of the accident?
Tortured by those recurring thoughts, Angie raised a hand and rubbed at her brow, trying to relieve the ache. She was almost beginning to believe that she’d played a part in Tiffany’s death—by allowing her sister to continue down the path of self-destruction. By not trying to keep her away from men like Nikos Kyriacou.