Valerie gave her a thoughtful look. ‘He’s been good for you. I’ve seen the change, Lily. Your clothes, your hair, that little touch of make-up. You look good.’
If only I felt good.
‘Thanks.’ Lily gave her a brief smile.
‘Well, I’m off home.’ Valerie gave a tired yawn. ‘Thank God it’s Friday. It’s been a long week.’
It’s been a lifetime.
* * *
Lily walked home even though the first chill of autumn had sharpened the air. It was another way to pass the time. It was an hour each way but she didn’t mind the exercise. It was soothing to put one foot in front of the other and let her mind drift. She thought of Raoul even though she always made a promise to herself when she set off that she wouldn’t. It was like a default setting inside her head. Her thoughts kept going back to him no matter how many distractions she put in the way.
She had even started imagining she saw him. Only two days ago she had seen a dark-haired man in a wheelchair at Piccadilly Circus. She’d blinked, her heart slamming against her ribcage, but when she had got closer she’d realised it was someone else.
Was that how her life was going to be now? Always wishing, hoping he would magically appear?
‘Lily.’
Now she was hearing his voice. Maybe she really was nuts. Crazy.
Crazy in love.
‘Lily. Wait.’
She spun around to see Raoul coming towards her. Her heart gave a lurch. She blinked. No, it was him. She wasn’t dreaming. He was in his chair but he had a pair of crutches balanced along one side.
‘Raoul...’ Her voice was little more than a breath of sound.
He looked gorgeous, tired but gorgeous. He’d had his hair cut for the wedding but right now it looked like he hadn’t combed it with anything but his fingers.
‘I guess I should be on a white horse or something.’ He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘That’s how it always happens in the fairytales, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve read any with a guy showing up in a wheelchair, have you?’
Lily felt a bubble of hope swell in her chest. ‘No, but that’s not to say it couldn’t happen. It’s a fairytale, after all. Anything could happen.’
His gaze drank her in. There was a sudden brightness in his eyes and she almost forgot to breathe. ‘Will you forgive me for telling you to leave the way I did?’
‘You’re apologising?’
His mouth tilted. ‘I guess I am. How about that?’
‘I forgive you.’
He let out a breath as if he’d been holding it in for ever. ‘I was so wrong to react like that. It’s a bad habit I have. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. Pushing people away, hurting people before I get hurt. It’s pathetic. It has to stop.’
‘I’ve done it, too,’ Lily said softly.
‘I panicked at the wedding. I saw all those people staring at us. At me. I overheard two women earlier talking about us. It was awful. I couldn’t get it out of my head. I couldn’t bear the thought of people thinking you were with me out of pity.’ He let out another breath. ‘When I saw you holding that bouquet I shut down. It was like a reflex.’
‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ she said. ‘I was trying to avoid it but it practically hit me in the face.’
Raoul smiled. ‘Like love, oui? I have it on good authority that it can either sneak up on you or smack you in the face. I think it’s been a bit of both.’
That bubble of hope in Lily’s chest was growing by the second. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I’ve never said that to anyone other than my parents.’
She felt her own eyes fill with tears. She dropped to her knees in front of him and, wrapping her arms around him, buried her head against his chest. ‘I love you, too.’
Raoul stroked her silky head as it lay pressed against his heart. ‘I’m the one who is supposed to be kneeling in front of you. We’re really murdering this fairytale thing, aren’t we?’
Lily lifted her head to look at him. ‘I can’t believe you’re here. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and discover it’s all been a dream.’
He stroked a finger down her cheek. ‘You are my dream, ma petite. My dream come true. I know I’m not ideal husband material. I’m not going to be great at putting the garbage out or changing light bulbs. But, what the hell, I can pay people to do that. So will you marry me?’
Lily smiled through her tears. ‘Yes.’ She threw her arms around him again and hugged him tightly. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’
Raoul lifted her chin up so he could see her face, her beautiful, loving face. ‘You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I’ve hated every minute of being in this chair but if I hadn’t been in it I would never have met you. I can’t even imagine how awful my life would have been without you in it. I was physically able but emotionally crippled. You’ve made me see how important it is to be whole emotionally.’ He wiped at his eyes with the back of one of his hands. ‘Look, I’m even able to cry now.’
Lily tenderly blotted the pathway of his tears with a series of kisses. ‘I love you. I love you. I love you.’
He captured her face in his hands and looked deep into her shining eyes. ‘I can’t carry you over the threshold, but do you think you could perch on my lap instead?’
Lily got up from the footpath and sat on his lap, winding her arms around his neck. ‘Are we going to ride off into the sunset now?’
‘You bet we are.’ He grinned at her. ‘Hold on, ma chérie. You’re in for one hell of a ride.’
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from AN ENTICING DEBT TO PAY by Annie West.
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CHAPTER ONE
‘I’M AFRAID THE latest audit has thrown up an...irregularity.’
Jonas looked across his wide, polished desk and frowned as his Head of Finance shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
What sort of irregularity could make Charles Barker palpably nervous? He was the best. Jonas made it a policy only to employ the best. He didn’t have patience for underperformers. Barker ran his part of Jonas’ business enterprise like a well-oiled machine.
‘A significant irregularity?’
Barker shook his head. ‘Not in overall financial terms.’
Since the company’s total assets figured in the billions, Jonas supposed he should be relieved, but watching Barker loosen his tie, Jonas felt a prickle of foreboding.
‘Spit it out, Charles.’
The other man smiled, but it turned into a grimace as he passed his laptop across the desk.
‘There. The top two lines.’
Jonas noted the first entry—a transfer of several thousand pounds. Below it another, much larger entry. No details were provided for either.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘Withdrawals against your original investment account.’
Jonas’ frown became a scowl. He used that account now only to transfer personal funds between investments.
‘Someone acce
ssed my account?’ But the answer was obvious. Jonas hadn’t made these withdrawals. He managed day-to-day expenses elsewhere and, though large by normal standards, the withdrawals weren’t significant enough to match his usual personal investments.
‘We’ve traced them.’ Of course, Barker would make it his business to have an answer before he fronted Jonas with the problem.
‘And?’ Curiosity rose.
‘You’ll remember the account was originally set up as part of a family enterprise.’
How could Jonas forget? His father had given him chapter and verse on how to run a business, pretending he, as head of the family, was the senior partner in the enterprise. But they’d both known it was Jonas’ talent for spotting a sound investment, and his ruthless hunger for success, that had turned the floundering investment company around. Piers had simply been along for the ride, revelling in the novelty of success. Until father and son had parted ways.
‘I remember.’ Memory was a sour tang on his tongue.
Barker shifted again. ‘The withdrawals were made using an old cheque book—one that had supposedly been destroyed.’ Jonas looked up, catching a faint flush on the other man’s cheeks. ‘The records show they were accounted for but this one of your father’s...’
‘It’s okay, I get the picture.’ Jonas let his gaze drift across the unrivalled view of the City of London.
His father. Jonas hadn’t called him that since childhood when he’d discovered what sort of man Piers Deveson was. Despite his bluster about honour and the family name, Piers had been no model of virtue. It shouldn’t surprise Jonas to learn the old man had found a way to access his son’s assets illegally. The wonder was he hadn’t used it earlier.
‘So Piers—’
‘No!’ Barker sat straighter as Jonas turned back to him. ‘I’m sorry, but we’ve reason to believe it wasn’t your father. Here.’ He passed some photocopied pages across.
Jonas scanned them. Two cheques with his father’s familiar flourishing signature.
Except they weren’t Piers Deveson’s signature. They were close enough to fool a stranger but he was familiar enough with that scrawl to spot the differences.
‘Look at the dates.’
Jonas did and to his surprise felt a punch to the gut that winded him.
Bad enough to think the old man had pilfered funds. But this was—
Jonas shook his head, his lungs cramping as unexpected emotion filled him.
‘The second one is dated a day after your father died.’
Silently Jonas nodded, his heart slowing to a ponderous beat. He knew the date, and not just because it was recent.
For years his father had been a thorn in his side, a blot on the family—living in gaudy luxury with his scheming mistress. They’d flaunted themselves among the rich and notorious, uncaring of any hurt they’d caused. When Piers died Jonas had felt nothing—neither regret nor an easing of the tension that had gripped him since Piers’ defection had taken its ultimate toll. He’d expected to feel something. For weeks there’d been nothing, just an emptiness where emotion should have been. Yet now—
‘Not my father then.’ His voice was calm, belying the raw emotions churning in his gut. Beneath the desk his hands clenched.
‘No. We’ve traced the perpetrator. And she’s not too clever, given the obvious anomaly with the date.’ Barker spoke quickly, obviously eager to get this over. ‘It was a Ms Ruggiero. Living at this address in Paris.’
Barker handed over another paper. It bore the address of the exclusive apartment Piers Deveson had shared for the last six years with his mistress, Silvia Ruggiero.
Jonas paused before reaching out to take the paper. His fingers tingled as if it burned him.
‘So.’ Jonas sat back. ‘My father’s whore thinks she can continue to milk his family even after his death.’ His voice was devoid of emotion, but he felt it deep inside like the burn of ice on bruised flesh.
How could the woman think she’d get away with this after all she’d done to the Devesons? Surely she wasn’t stupid enough to expect mercy?
His pulse thudded as he thought of the woman who’d destroyed so much.
He remembered Silvia Ruggiero as clearly as if he’d seen her yesterday, her voluptuous figure, flashing eyes and froth of dark hair. Sex on legs, one of his friends had said the first time he’d seen Silvia, who was then the Devesons’ housekeeper. And he’d been right. Not even a drab uniform had doused the woman’s vibrant sexuality.
That had been mere weeks before Jonas’ father had turned his back on family and responsibility, let alone respectability, by running off with his housekeeper to set her up in a luxury Paris apartment.
Four months later Jonas’ mother was found dead. An accidental overdose, the coroner had said. But Jonas knew the truth. After years spurned by the man she’d loved, his public repudiation had finally been too much. His mother had taken her own life.
Jonas breathed deep, pulling oxygen into cramped lungs. Now the woman responsible for his mother’s death had struck again. She had the nerve to think she could continue to steal from him!
The paper in his hand crackled as his fist tightened slowly, inexorably. Fury surged, tensing every sinew. His jaw ached as he clenched his teeth against a rising tide of useless invective.
Jonas never wasted energy on words when actions were so much more effective.
For six years he’d spurned the idea of revenge. He’d risen above that temptation, burying himself in work and refusing any contact with Piers or his gold-digging mistress.
But now this—the straw that broke the camel’s back.
The blood raced hot and sharp in his veins as for the first time Jonas allowed himself to contemplate fully the pleasures of retribution.
‘Leave this to me, Charles.’ Jonas smiled slowly, his facial muscles pulling tight. ‘There’s no need to report the fraud. I’ll sort it out personally.’
* * *
Ravenna surveyed the apartment in despair. Most of the furnishings she knew now were fake, from the gilded Louis Quinze chairs to the china masquerading as period Limoges and Sèvres.
Mamma had always been adept at making ends meet, even through the toughest times.
A reluctant smile tugged Ravenna’s lips. Life in a swanky apartment in the Place des Vosges, one of Paris’s premier addresses, hardly counted as tough, not like the early days of Ravenna’s childhood when food had been scarce and the winters cold without enough blankets or warm clothes. But those early experiences had stood her mother in good stead. When the money began to run out she’d methodically turned to replacing the priceless antiques with copies.
Silvia Ruggiero had always made do, even if her version of ‘making do’ lately had been on a preposterously luxurious scale. But it was what Piers had wanted and in Silvia’s eyes that was all that mattered.
Ravenna tugged in a shaky breath. Her mother was far better off in Italy staying with a friend, instead of here, coping with the aftermath of Piers’ death. If only she’d told Ravenna straight away about his heart attack. Ravenna would have been here the same day. Even now she could barely believe her mother had kept that to herself, worrying instead about disturbing Ravenna with more trouble!
Mothers! Did they ever believe their children grew up?
Silvia had been barely recognisable when Ravenna had arrived in Paris from Switzerland. For the first time her gorgeous mother had looked older than her age, worn by grief. Ravenna was concerned for her. Piers might not have been Ravenna’s favourite but her mother had loved him.
No, Mamma was better off out of this. Packing up here was the least Ravenna could do, especially after Piers’ generosity when she most needed it. So what if it meant facing creditors and selling what little her mother had left?
She returned to her inventory, glad she’d org
anised for an expert to visit and separate any valuable items from the fakes. To Ravenna they all looked obscenely expensive and rather ostentatious. But since her home was a sparsely furnished bedsit in a nondescript London suburb, she was no judge.
* * *
Jonas pressed the security buzzer a second time, wondering if she was out and his spur of the moment trip to Paris had been an impetuous waste of time.
He didn’t do impetuous. He was methodical, measured and logical. But he also had a razor-sharp instinct for weakness, for the optimum time to strike. And surely now, mere weeks after Piers’ death, his father’s mistress would be feeling the pinch as creditors started to circle.
Static buzzed and a husky, feminine voice spoke in his ear. ‘Hello?’
Yes! His instinct had been right.
‘I’m here to see Madam Ruggiero.’
‘Monsieur Giscard? I was expecting you. Please come up.’
Jonas pushed open the security door into a marble foyer. He ignored the lift and strode up the couple of floors to what had been his father’s love nest. Suppressing a shiver of revulsion, he rapped on the door of the apartment.
It swung open almost immediately and he stepped past a slim young woman into a lavishly furnished foyer. Through an open door he glimpsed an overfull salon but no sign of the woman he’d come to see. He moved towards the inner room.
‘You’re not Monsieur Giscard.’ The accusation halted him.
He swung round to find eyes the colour of rich sherry fixed on him.
‘No. I’m not.’
For the first time he paused to survey the woman properly and something—surprise?—rushed through him.
Slim to the point of fragility, she nevertheless had curves in all the right places, even if they were obscured by ill-fitting dark clothes. But it was her face that arrested him. Wide lush mouth, strong nose, angled cheekbones that gave her a fey air, lavish dark lashes and rather straight brows framing eyes so luminous they seemed to glow. Each feature in her heart-shaped face was so definite that together they should have jarred. Instead they melded perfectly.
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