Читать книгу: «The Final Seduction»

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Acknowledgement

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

AS SOON as she heard him call her name she knew that something was wrong.

Very wrong.

‘Shelley?’

Shelley frowned at the intercom. ‘Yes, Marco?’

‘Are you busy?’ He spoke every word as if it were poetry. Sexy, deep, strong, lyrical. The kind of voice that drove women crazy. Shelley had seen it for herself, time after time.

Waitresses would go ga-ga for that voice. Female bank employees would flutter their eyelashes—even women who were old enough to know better started coming on to him like small-town hookers. Actually, they were the worst. Rich, confident, bored middle-aged women who fancied the idea of an Italian lover in their bed. And out of it!

Shelley wondered if he was being hounded by one of the more persistent females. It happened. Maybe that was why he wanted to speak to her—to ask her to let his pursuer know in the nicest possible way that he was definitely not available!

‘No, I’m not especially busy.’ She glanced down at the glossy catalogue she had been studying on his behalf. Marco was currently the hottest art dealer on the international circuit, and Shelley made sure he kept his crown by oiling the wheels of his life—so that it ran as smoothly as possible. ‘What’s up?’

‘We need to talk.’

‘I’m all yours, Marco.’ She closed the catalogue and pushed it to the front of her desk.

‘Good.’ Seconds later he appeared at her door, almost as if he had been lingering outside in the corridor, like a person waiting to be interviewed.

Shelley stared at him. Something was different. ‘Is everything okay?’

He hesitated, thick black lashes shading the ebony glitter of his eyes. ‘I’m not quite sure how to answer that.’

She watched while he came into the dazzling light-filled room which she was lucky enough to call her office. Watched his air of distraction as he walked over to the window to gaze out at the lake beyond. The morning sun made the waters glitter and throw back the intense golden light—as if someone had scattered the surface with sequins.

He turned back to face her and, as always, Shelley derived intense pleasure just from looking at him. It was like looking at a beautiful painting or a perfect sky. She knew how lucky she was and how many people envied her—with her perfect job and her perfect boss.

‘Shall I make us some coffee?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Thanks.’

For the first time, she noticed the unfamiliar shadows beneath his eyes and deep in her subconscious little warning bells began ringing sounds of danger. Marco always slept like a baby. ‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’ she said.

He sat down opposite her and spread his hands expansively, in a very Italian way. ‘Not wrong—just different. Something has changed.’

‘Don’t speak in riddles, Marco,’ she implored. ‘You know I can’t stand suspense! I’m the kind of person who reads the reviews of films before I go to see them, just so I can find out the ending!’

‘There is no easy way to say this, Shelley—’

And then she guessed. ‘You’ve met someone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve fallen in love.’

‘Yes, again.’

‘It’s obviously serious.’

‘It… Yes,’ he admitted, and for a moment his face looked almost severe. ‘Yes, it’s serious. Very serious.’

‘Serious in that you’ve already shared breakfast in bed?’

‘Shelley!’ he protested, but he was smiling. ‘How can you ask me such a question?’

‘Because I’m a woman, and because I’m curious! Or did you imagine I’d find it painful?’

‘I guess I did. Well, not painful exactly. Difficult.’

‘Because I’ve lived with you for three years and every woman in Italy would like to scratch my eyes out because of that?’

‘Shelley!’ He hesitated. ‘You know—if I could change things I would.’

‘Fall out of love again, you mean?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Rewrite history.’

‘Well, you can’t,’ she said flatly. ‘No one can.’

‘But I took you away,’ he said slowly, painfully. ‘I took you from Drew.’

Drew.

His name washed over her like the morning tide.

She had seen him in her dreams so often—especially at the beginning, when everything was still so raw, and so painful. But it was a long time since either she or Marco had spoken that name aloud and, oddly, it hurt more than it should have done. Even after all this time.

Shelley shook her head, mainly to rid herself of the face which had swum into her memory with pin-point clarity. Sapphire eyes and honey-tipped hair. The body of a labourer, with the face of an angel.

‘Please don’t say that you “took” me, Marco!’ she protested softly. ‘It makes me sound like a piece of merchandise to be picked up at the supermarket—a can of beans!’

‘But I did!’ he gritted. ‘You know I did!’

‘And you certainly didn’t take me from Drew!’ she contradicted. ‘That would imply that he owned me. And he didn’t—even if he thought that he did. No one can own another human being, however much they try.’

‘But you were engaged to him,’ he pointed out gently. ‘Weren’t you?’

‘I wore a cheap little ring on my finger!’ she cried. ‘A mark of possession—that’s all engagement rings ever are! A metal circle which said “Keep off—she’s mine! And I can do what I like with her because she wears my ring!”’

She blinked back the sudden and mysterious tears which had made her eyes go all blurry. She hadn’t thought about that ring for a long time, but now she had more important things to think about. Like doing the decent thing and leaving as quickly as possible. Not standing in Marco’s way. The way they’d always agreed. ‘Can you arrange an early flight for me, Marco?’

‘Of course. But where will you go?’ he questioned quietly.

‘Why, back to Milmouth, of course.’ She gave him a gentle smile. ‘Where else would I go?’

‘It will be—painful?’

‘Very probably,’ she agreed. ‘And difficult too, I expect. But Milmouth is my home. It’s where I grew up. More importantly, I have a house there—and I’ll need somewhere to live while I make up my mind what I want to do next.’

‘You’ll go and live there?’ he breathed in surprise.

‘You find that so strange to imagine?’ she asked. ‘Why—because it’s a tiny little place compared to the near-palaces I’ve lived in with you?’

‘I think you’ll find that you’ve outgrown what you had there.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘But more than that—aren’t you forgetting the one big difficulty of going back there?’

She met his eyes, knowing what he meant, but needing to hear him say it. ‘Like what?’

‘Why, Drew of course. Drew still lives there, doesn’t he?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what Drew does. I don’t know anything about his life. Which is hardly surprising really, is it, Marco? I cut my ties with Milmouth a long time ago. And since my mother died there’s been no one there to keep me up to date with what’s happening. I’m too much of the bad girl and the black sheep for anyone to want to bother with me.’

He hesitated. ‘I’ll give you a breathing space. A month or so—before I make any kind of announcement.’

Her face showed her surprise as she rose to her feet, smoothing her sleek cream dress down over her narrow hips. ‘You’re going to make a statement?’

‘Yes, I am.’ His face was calm and serious. He looked happier than she had seen him look for a long time, but she was aware of the burden which hovered over his shoulders. ‘I no longer intend living a lie.’

‘Good.’ She nodded. ‘Me, neither.’

‘Shelley?’ The voice was lower now. Honey and stone. Soft yet forceful. Rich and deep. Once she had been unable to resist that voice, but she had been weaker then. And foolish. Now she was a woman, and she had grown. She had.

‘Mmm?’

‘I’m going to miss you.’

She gave him a smile which was more wistful than sad. ‘I’m going to miss you, too,’ she said, and turned and walked out of the door, realising as she did so that it was the only time she had spoken in English during the entire conversation.

CHAPTER TWO

THE sleek grey car bumped over the dip in the road and Shelley craned her neck.

Just here. Here. If you looked really closely, you would catch your very first glimpse of the sea. Every time she had ever travelled this road it had been there to greet her, like an old friend.

She screwed her eyes up, making out the deep sapphire slash which contrasted against the paler blue of the sky. Beautiful. Why did the sea always look so blue from a distance even when up close it seemed murky and dull? She put her foot down on the accelerator and drove on.

The car was new and unfamiliar, just as the roads seemed unfamiliar—even though she knew them like the back of her hand. But it seemed strange to be driving on the other side of the road after Italy, towards a place which she had once called home. She hadn’t been back since her mother’s funeral, and that had been almost two years ago.

Two years. And things would have changed. She knew that. She was prepared for that.

The signpost for Milmouth pointed to the right but Shelley was headed straight on, where her mother’s old house lay just beyond the cute part of the village. Just one of a small cluster of houses—simple, rather stark houses—whose main function had been to provide homes for the poorly paid workers of Milmouth.

She slowed the car down. It made more sense to go home first. She badly needed to freshen up and let some air into a house she knew would be dusty with neglect. But instead she found herself indicating right, curious to see the small seaside town she had grown up in. The house could wait, but Shelley couldn’t. It had been too long, and she needed to see the sea again and breathe in the salty tang of the air which always made you feel so alive.

Nearly three years away in all, and in that time she had changed out of all recognition. Had the town changed alongside her? Old buildings torn down and replaced with shiny new ones? New families come to replace the ones she’d grown up with?

The sun splashed golden patches over the green, giving the place a curiously restful feel, and she eased the car into a vacant parking spot just behind the war memorial. There was scarcely a soul in sight. Still, it was Sunday afternoon and not much happened anywhere on a Sunday afternoon. Let alone Milmouth.

She got out of the car and locked it, thinking that it seemed like a long time since Marco had turned her untroubled world upside down with his news, but the reality was two days. Two days of cars and planes, delays and a few major readjustments along the way.

Shelley stretched her arms and began to walk towards the sea, passing a small boy clutching a football beneath his arm, his father at his side. With big eyes, the boy stared up at her as they walked past and she smiled back at him.

‘Who’s that woman?’ she overheard him asking his father.

‘Shh. I don’t know. Don’t stare, Michael. It’s rude.’

Did she look that remarkable, then? She supposed that maybe she did, in her linen suit and long leather boots—more suited to the high-fashion city of Milan than to this tiny backwater of a place.

It was a brilliantly cold autumn day and the wind tugged at her short hair as she walked past the tidy houses with their immaculate gardens and shamelessly corny name-plates. Sea-View. Island-View. Ocean-View.

And then the wind became stronger—the light shining and brilliant in the vast sky—and Shelley drew in a long breath as she reached the pebbly beach and got her first real glimpse of the sea.

The platinum-blue waters were topped with palest, purest gold and in the distance a scarlet-sailed boat bobbed up and down on the metallic waters, looking like an illustration in a children’s book. Directly ahead, the Isle of Wight lay crouched low in the water, like a sleeping cat. Although the island was four miles away, perspective tricked you into thinking it was closer and Shelley had spent many hours on the beach as a child, fruitlessly skimming stones towards it. Trying to hit the wretched thing!

Years later there had been moonlit parties on this same beach and later still, whipped by wind against the sea wall, Drew had first taken her into his arms and kissed her…

With only the mournful call of the gulls puncturing the rhythm of the waves, she stood staring at the water for ages, until a movement caught her eye and she slowly turned her head to look up towards the western shore.

The only activity was the dark shape of a man walking towards her, the pale blur of a dog frolicking beside him. Idly, she screwed up her eyes and watched them for a moment.

The dog kept running into the bubbling foam on the shoreline and then barking back to the man again, clearly trying to catch his attention. But the man remained oblivious, his head bent, deep in thought.

There was something terribly compelling about the duo and then Shelley found herself frowning with disbelieving recognition as they grew closer, her heart jerking painfully in her chest as suspicion became certainty.

Drew!

She shook her head. It was fantasy. She had magicked him up with her thoughts. She swallowed and looked away, then back again. He was almost upon her now and unmistakable, his long-legged stride effortlessly covering the distance, his head still bent as he crunched his way over the pebbles.

He still hadn’t noticed her but the dog had, and Shelley felt her mouth drop open in disbelief. ‘Fletcher!’ she breathed, and whistled to him before she could stop herself.

The dog pricked its ears up and then came charging at her full-pelt. Shelley shrieked as a flurry of pale gold fur and scrabbling eager paws almost knocked her off her feet. ‘Fletcher!’ she protested weakly.

And then she did go down, slap-bang hard as her bottom hit the stones. Her breath was jolted out of her as the dog attempted to lash its rough tongue over her cheeks. ‘Ow!’ she yelped. ‘Get off!’

‘Duke! Down!’ came a deep, furious command and the dog fell away immediately, dipping his head low and dropping his tail as the man approached. ‘Get off her, Duke!’ he yelled, and the dog, clearly unused to such a violent command, whimpered and slunk off to cower behind the wind-break.

Shelley blinked in confusion as she tried to catch her breath. Duke? She was winded, her legs sprawled out in front of her, the linen skirt riding high up her thighs as she gazed up into a pair of disbelieving blue eyes.

‘Shelley Turner,’ he stated flatly.

‘The very same,’ she whispered back, and braced herself for his reaction, unprepared for the soft venom which dripped from his voice.

‘And which big, bad fairy brought you back into town, kitten?’

The ‘kitten’ bit was habit, but it still hurt. The first time he’d ever said it to her she’d felt as if she’d hit the jackpot. ‘No fairy—bad or otherwise. Just a car,’ she smiled, as though she confronted men like dark, avenging angels every day of her life!

‘And what are you doing here?’

‘You mean right now? I’m sitting on these damp pebbles getting my bottom wet!’

His face stayed stony, but he automatically put his hand out to help her up. ‘Here!’

‘Thanks!’ She caught it. Her cold fingers seemed bloodless in his warm, calloused grasp and her breath was lost on the wind.

He bent and, with his other hand, cupped her elbow, so that he was able to swing her easily to her feet, but he didn’t let go. Not straight away. As if he could tell that her knees were still too shaky to support her. He didn’t speak again, either, just subjected her to a hard, silent scrutiny while she dragged the salty air back into her lungs.

She hadn’t seen him since her mother’s funeral—where he had stood in the shadows at the back of the church. He had been wearing a brand-new suit—the first time anyone in Milmouth could remember seeing him in a suit. He must have bought it specially. She had been moved by that. More than moved.

But they had hardly spoken—other than Shelley thanking him for coming, and him stiltedly saying that she knew how much he’d loved her mother. Which was true. And he had looked ill at ease. Not surprisingly. As if he had been dying to say something not very nice to her, but hadn’t been able to as a mark of respect.

Ever unconventional, he had sent a big bunch of tiny pale mauve Michaelmas daisies, with their yellow centres glowing like miniature suns. Her mother’s favourite flower. And when Shelley had seen those she hadn’t been able to stop crying…

Now her heart drummed with the vibrant reality of seeing him again. It had been a long time—in fact it gave her a real jerk when she realised just how long it had been.

She stared at him.

A couple of the lines on his face weren’t quite as faint as before. And the eyes had lines at the corners which had not been there before, either. Crinkly little laughter lines, which made Shelley wonder who had put them there. The hair was still thick, still ruffled—all dark and windswept with the ends lightened to honey by the sun.

He was taller than Marco—taller than nearly all the men she had ever met, and most of that seemed to be leg. His faded denims matched the sky, while the navy sweater matched his eyes.

Her first, instinctive thought was that she must have been mad to ever leave him. But that wasn’t a very smart thing to think. You shouldn’t wish for the impossible, and you couldn’t rewrite history. And the unfriendly look in his eyes told her that he certainly wouldn’t want to—even if you could.

‘Hello, Drew,’ she said at last, and with that he let her go. She half stumbled and she saw him tense as if to save her if she fell again. But she didn’t. Just tottered for a moment on the too high heels of her leather boots. She smiled up at him, as anyone would in the face of such courtesy. ‘Thank you for coming to my rescue.’

He didn’t bother with any niceties. And he didn’t smile back. ‘Don’t make me out to be Sir Galahad,’ he drawled. ‘He shouldn’t have knocked you over. He knows he’s not to jump up at people like that.’

‘It was my fault.’ She looked over at the dog and realised her mistake. The animal was paler and thinner and much younger than the dog she remembered. ‘It isn’t Fletcher?’

‘How could it be?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Fletcher was almost crippled when you left—not jumping around like a puppy. I know they say that the Milmouth air is rejuvenating but that would be a little short of miraculous!’

‘Still, I shouldn’t have called him like that.’

‘No, you shouldn’t,’ he agreed shortly.

‘He’s lovely, Drew,’ she said, meaning it. ‘When did you get him?’

‘He isn’t mine.’ His eyes were wintry. ‘I’m just walking him for somebody else.’

‘Anybody I know?’ The question came out before she realised that she had no right to ask him things like that.

He clearly thought so, too. ‘What would you say if I told you I was out walking him for a sweet, little old lady?’

The trouble was that she would believe him. ‘I’d say that you were a model citizen. An upstanding member of the community.’

‘Would you?’ he queried softly, and let his gaze drift unhurriedly over her face. ‘Would you really?’

Shelley shifted. She was used to men staring. That was what men did in Italy. It was acknowledged and recognised as perfectly normal to gaze at a woman in open appreciation, as you would a fine painting, or a delicious meal. But the way Drew was looking at her was making her feel uncomfortable. As if she were some bit of flotsam he had found washed up on the beach.

And he was shaking his head, as though he didn’t like what he saw. ‘What on earth have you done to yourself?’ he demanded in a low, incredulous voice.

He made her feel like Cinderella before the transformation scene. ‘Done to myself?’ Her indignation was genuine. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He shrugged. ‘Well, the dog wouldn’t have knocked you over if you hadn’t been so damned skinny.’

‘Skinny?’ she gritted. The word was insulting—as he had obviously meant it to be. ‘Don’t you know anything, Drew? That a woman can never be too thin—’

‘What a load of rubbish,’ he interrupted with quiet, curling distaste. ‘Haven’t you heard that the waif look is out? You look like you haven’t eaten a square meal in years.’

Should she bother telling him that women in Milan watched their figures like hawks? Which was why they looked beautiful and elegant in the wonderful fashions which the city was so famous for. ‘Clothes look much better if you aren’t carrying any excess flesh,’ she told him smugly. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘Well, I prefer to see a woman out of clothes,’ he drawled, noticing with pleasure that she flinched when he said that. Good! He smiled as his gaze lingered in a way which was now very Italianate. ‘And when a woman is naked a few curves are infinitely preferable to looking like a bag of bones.’

‘Bag of bones?’ she repeated in horrified disbelief, feeling quite sick at the thought of him with naked women. ‘Are you saying that I look like a bag of bones?’

He shrugged. ‘Pretty much. You sure as hell don’t look great. Mind you—’ and his gaze narrowed ‘—the clothes don’t help—and what on earth have you done to your hair?’

Shelley could hardly believe what she was hearing! She had learnt a lot about looking good while she had been living with Marco. From a rather wild and windswept girl, she had become high-maintenance woman. She had transformed herself from small-town hick to city slicker. People admired the way she looked these days—her hips were as narrow as a boy’s and she only ever wore neutrals.

But Drew didn’t seem to be one little bit impressed by her new-found fashion know-how.

She glanced down at her admittedly rather crumpled grey linen suit—and then back up into a pair of judgemental navy eyes.

‘I agree that this isn’t what I would normally wear to walk on the beach,’ she allowed. ‘But this suit was designed by one of Milan’s most desirable couturiers.’ She saw him pull a face, and as the events of the last days took their toll something inside her snapped.

‘Most women would give their eye-teeth to own an outfit by this designer!’ she fumed. ‘And as for my hair! For your information, it is shaped and tinted with highlights and lowlights every six weeks, by one of Milan’s finest cutters. Have you,’ she heard herself asking inanely, ‘any idea of how much it costs to look like this?’

But as soon as the words were out and she saw the look on his face she wished she could unsay them.

Distaste wasn’t the word.

‘I should have guessed that money would have been at the top of your agenda! So no change there.’ He gave a scornful little laugh. ‘Well, for your information, kitten—you were done.’

‘Done?’

‘Yeah, done. Conned. Fleeced. Cheated.’

Shelley couldn’t believe her ears. ‘What?’

‘You heard,’ he whispered softly. ‘You’ve become one of those women who know the cost of everything and the value of nothing, haven’t you, Shelley? Seems like I had a lucky escape.’

‘Or maybe you just don’t like the way I dress because the clothes I wear indicate that I’m an independent woman now?’

‘Independent?’ His lips curled like an old-fashioned movie star’s. ‘I don’t think so! Being a rich man’s plaything doesn’t usually fall into the category of independent.’

She didn’t have to defend herself to him, so why did she suddenly feel as though she was in the witness box?

She chipped the words out like ice. ‘I virtually ran the art gallery in Milan, for your information!’

‘What? Flat on your back?’

Shelley opened her mouth to snap back at him, but no words came. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She had imagined seeing Drew again one day; of course she had. Every woman thought of the man they had almost married from time to time. And she had had lots of imaginary conversations with him inside her head. But they had been nothing like this. Rather, some of them had gone along the lines of him narrowing his eyes in appreciation and giving a long, low whistle while a look of profound regret would give his body a kind of deflated look, before he said something like, ‘Wow!’

Others had been stupidly unrealistic versions involving white lace and rice and confetti, but she had banished those very early on. They used to make her pillow damp with tears.

But not this. She met the mockery in his eyes.

‘Actually,’ she said, with acid-sweetness, ‘while you’ve been busily hammering nails into pieces of wood, I’ve learnt to speak fluent Italian, as well as how to—’ She looked pointedly at where the denim was at its thinnest, stretched tautly over his mouthwatering thighs. She swallowed. ‘Dress.’

‘Just not very attractively,’ he amended silkily. ‘Shelley, your arrogance is simply breathtaking.’

‘Then it’s a good match for yours, isn’t it, Drew?’

‘So where is he?’

She played dumb. ‘Who?’

‘Your lover, your mentor, your stallion—’

‘Please don’t call him that!’

‘Why not? Does the truth offend you?’ He looked around the empty beach with exaggerated scrutiny. ‘I expect he’s somewhere warm and comfortable, is he, polishing the leather of his hand-made shoes?’

‘Why, you…you…Philistine!’ Her eyes swivelled to his feet. He wore a scruffy old pair of canvas deck-shoes, without socks. Without socks! Marco would have sooner gone to prison than gone out in footwear like that! He would have said that those were shoes for a tramp. And yet somehow Drew managed to look nothing like a tramp. He looked, Shelley realised with a lurch of horror, he looked incredibly sexy…

‘You look like you should be standing on a street corner begging for small change!’ She glared at him.