Mills & Boon are excited to present this new family saga from award-winning author Lucy Gordon

The Falcon Dynasty

Five successful brothers looking for brides!

Amos Falcon is a proud, self-made man who wants his legacy to live on through his five sons. Each son is different, for they have different mothers, but in one aspect they are the same: he has raised them to be ruthless in business and sensible in matters of the heart.

But one by one these high-achieving brothers will find that when the right woman comes along love is the greatest power of them all …

Dear Reader,

Paris is one of my favourite cities and I really enjoyed setting a book there. Its beauty and its aura of romance contain a magic that always works for me. Frenchmen, of course, have an especially romantic reputation. An eye for the ladies, an appreciation of a pretty face. We love them for it.

Marcel, my hero, seems to be just like that: a man who plays love like a game. But only on the surface. Deep in his heart is a despair that has never left him since he was betrayed by Cassie, his one true love. And when he meets her again it causes an earthquake inside him.

She too is devastated. She was innocent of betrayal, but how can she convince him? The years have changed them. Can their new selves still love as their old selves did? And who are they inside?

I sympathise with that question because it’s one that a writer often asks herself. Who am I? Cassie, reaching out to the man who still rules my heart? Or Marcel, trying to resist the love that both alarms and tempts me? The answer, of course, is that I am both, moving between them, and delighted when they find the joy that once seemed lost for ever.

But now they’ve achieved their happy ending and it’s time for me to become someone else.

Warmest wishes,

Lucy Gordon

About the Author

LUCY GORDON cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Charlton Heston and Sir Roger Moore. She also camped out with lions in Africa and had many other unusual experiences which have often provided the background for her books. Several years ago, while staying Venice, she met a Venetian who proposed in two days. They have been married ever since. Naturally, this has affected her writing, where romantic Italian men tend to feature strongly. Two of her books have won the Romance Writers of America RITA® award. You can visit her website at www.lucy-gordon.com

Miss Prim and

the Billionaire

Lucy Gordon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

AS THE soft light of dawn crept into the room the young man looked down on the girl, asleep beside him, her long blonde hair cascading across the pillow, her face soft and sweet. He kissed her lips gently and she stirred, murmuring, ‘Marcel.’

‘Shh,’ he said. ‘I just want to tell you—’

‘Mmm?’

‘—lots of things. Some of them I can’t say when you’re awake. When I look at you I’m struck dumb. I can’t even find the words to tell you how lovely you are—but then, you already know that.’

He drew the sheet back to reveal her glorious form, both slender and voluptuous.

‘There are plenty of people to praise your beauty, those photographers, and so many other men who’d take you from me if they could. But you don’t let them. Bless you, my darling, my sweet Cassie.’

Without opening her eyes, she gave a sleepy smile that made Marcel’s heart turn over. He was in his early twenties with a face that was still boyish, and as gentle as her own. His naked body was lean, almost too much so. Time would fill out his shape and bring maturity to his features, but perhaps he would never be better than he was now, his dark eyes full of adoration as he gazed down at her.

‘Can you hear me? I have something to tell you. You may be cross with me for concealing it, but you’ll forgive me, I know you will. And then I’ll ask—no, I’ll beg you to become my wife. What we have now is wonderful, but I want more. I want to claim you in the sight of the world, to climb to the top of the highest tower and cry aloud that you belong to me. To me! Nobody else. We’ll marry as soon as possible, won’t we, my darling? And all the world will know that you’re mine as completely as I am yours.

‘That time will come soon, but first I have to explain what I’ve been hiding. The fact is that I—no, let me keep my secret a little longer. In truth I’m a coward. I’m so afraid that you’ll be angry with me when you know that I deceived you, just a little, that I let you think—never mind. I’ll tell you when the right moment comes.

‘For this moment I just want to say that I love you, I belong to you, and nothing will ever part us. My darling, if you knew how I long to call you my wife. I pray that our wedding will happen soon.

‘But sleep now, just a little longer. There’ll be time later. We have all our lives to love each other.’

CHAPTER ONE

‘THE trouble with weddings is that they bring out the idiot in people.’

The cynical remark made Marcel Falcon glance up, grinning with agreement. The man who’d come to sit beside him was a business associate with whom he was on cordial terms.

‘Good to see you, Jeremy,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the drinks. Waiter!’

They were at a table in the bar of the Gloriana Hotel, one of the most luxurious establishments in London, providing not only rooms but wedding facilities for those who could afford them. Marcel gave his order, signed for it to go onto his bill and turned back to his companion, saying, ‘You’re right about weddings. No good to anyone. I’d just as soon have avoided this one, but my brother, Darius, is the bride’s ex-husband.’

Jeremy stared. ‘And he’s a guest at her wedding to another man? I’ve heard of sophisticated, but that takes the biscuit.’

‘It’s for the children, Frankie and Mark. They need to see their parents acting friendly despite the divorce.’

‘And I’ll bet your father had a hand in the decision.’

‘There aren’t many decisions my father doesn’t have a hand in,’ Marcel agreed wryly. ‘He actually got them to delay the wedding until a certain date had passed, so that he could come to England without incurring a huge tax bill.’

Amos Falcon was so extravagantly wealthy that he’d had to flee to the tax haven of Monaco where he lived for most of the time, venturing back to England for only ninety days of the year.

‘Frankie and Mark are his only grandchildren,’ Marcel said, ‘so he’s determined to stay part of their lives.’

‘Strange, that. A man with five sons and only one of them has carried on the line so far.’

‘He says the same thing. He’s always urging us to marry, preferably Freya.’

‘Who’s Freya?’

‘His stepdaughter, the closest thing to a daughter that he has, and he’s set on marrying her to one of us, and so binding her into the family.’

‘Don’t any of you get a say in your choice of wife?’

‘Are you kidding? This is my father we’re talking about. Since when did anyone ever get a say?’ Marcel spoke cynically but with wry affection.

‘Failing Freya,’ he went on, ‘then some other wife to continue the great Falcon dynasty. But except for Darius we’ve all disappointed him. Jackson seems to find wild animals more interesting than people, Leonid is a man we hardly ever see. He could have a dozen wives, but since he seldom leaves Russia we wouldn’t know. And Travis doesn’t dare marry. He’d lose all his fans.’

He spoke of his younger half-brother, born and raised in America, and a successful television actor with an army of adoring female followers.

‘No man could be expected to risk his fortune just for marriage,’ Jeremy agreed solemnly. ‘That just leaves you, the amorous Frenchman.’

Marcel grimaced. ‘Enough!’ he said. ‘If you knew how that stereotype bores me.’

‘And yet you make use of it. The life in Paris, the endless supply of women—all right, all right.’ He broke off hastily, seeing Marcel’s face. ‘But since you have what most men would give their eye teeth for, the least you can do is enjoy it.’

The waiter arrived with their drinks. When he’d gone Jeremy raised his glass.

‘Here’s to being a bachelor. I’d give a lot to know how you’ve managed to stay single so long.’

‘A sense of reality helps. You start off regarding all women as goddesses, but you soon see reason.’

‘Ah! Let you down with a crash, did she?’

‘I can’t remember,’ Marcel said coldly. ‘She no longer exists.’

She never really did, said the voice in his head. A figment of your imagination.

‘Well, I reckon you’ve got it right,’ Jeremy said. ‘All the women you want, whenever you want.’

‘Stop talking nonsense.’

‘I’m not. Look at those girls. They can’t keep their eyes off you.’

It was true. Three young women were at the bar, buying drinks then glancing around, seeming to take stock of the men, form opinions about them, each pausing when they came to Marcel. One of them drew a long breath, one put her head on one side, and the third gave an inviting smile.

You couldn’t blame them, Jeremy reckoned, Marcel was in his thirties, tall, dark-haired and well built but without a spare ounce on him anywhere. His face was handsome enough to make the girls swoon and the men want to commit murder.

But it was more than looks. Marcel had a charm that was delightful or deadly, depending on your point of view. Those who’d encountered only that charisma found it hard to believe in the ruthlessness with which he’d stormed the heights of wealth and success—until they encountered that ruthlessness for themselves. And were floored by it.

But the willing females at the bar knew nothing of this. They saw Marcel’s looks, the seemingly roguish gleam in his eyes, and they responded. Soon, Jeremy guessed, at least one of them would find an excuse to approach him. Or perhaps all three.

‘Have you made your choice?’ he asked caustically. ‘I don’t like to rush it.’

‘Ah yes, of course. And there are some more just coming in. Hey, isn’t that Darius?’

The door of the bar led into the hotel lobby, where they could just see Marcel’s half-brother, Darius Falcon, pressing the button at the elevator. A young woman stood beside him, talking eagerly.

‘Who’s she?’ Jeremy asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Marcel replied. ‘I think she comes from the island he’s just acquired. A man who owed him money used it to pay the debt, and he’s living there at the moment while he decides what to do. He told me he’d be bringing someone, but he didn’t say a lot about her.’

By now Darius and his companion had stepped into the elevator and the doors had closed.

‘I must go up and greet them,’ Marcel said, draining his glass. ‘See you later.’

It was an excuse. Before visiting Darius he meant to call on their father, who’d arrived an hour ago. But instead of heading straight for the main suite, he strolled about, inspecting his surroundings with the eye of a professional. The Gloriana might be among the top hotels in London but it couldn’t compete with La Couronne, the hotel he owned in Paris.

He’d named it La Couronne, the crown, to let the world know that it was the queen of hotels, and his own pride and joy. He had personally overseen every detail of an establishment that offered conference facilities as well as luxurious accommodation, discretion as well as flamboyance. Anybody who was anybody had stayed there: top level businessmen, politicians, film stars. It was a place of fashion and influence. But most of all money.

Money was the centre of his life. And from that centre it stretched out its tentacles to every distant detail. He’d started his business with loans guaranteed by his father, who also added money of his own, to be repaid in due course. Marcel had returned every penny.

At the back of the hotel he found a huge room that would be used for the wedding next day. It was a grandiose place, decorated to imitate a church, although the ceremony would be a civil one. Flowers were being piled everywhere, suggesting a romantic dream.

‘We’ll marry as soon as possible, won’t we, my darling? And all the world will know that you ‘re mine as completely as I am yours.’

The voice that echoed in his head made him stiffen and take an involuntary step back, as though seeking escape.

But the voice was his own and there was nowhere to flee.

‘If you knew how I long to call you my wife.’

Had he really said that? Had he actually been that stupid? Young, naïve, believing what he longed to believe about the girl he adored, until his delusions were stripped away in pain and misery.

But that was long past. Now he was a different man. If only the voice would stop tormenting him.

He left the wedding venue quickly and almost at once bumped into his father. They had last met several weeks ago when Amos had suffered heart trouble, causing his sons to hurry to his bedside in Monaco. Now, to Marcel’s relief, the old man seemed strong again. His face had aged with the strain of his illness, but he was both vigorous and alert.

‘Good to see you better,’ he said, embracing his father unselfconsciously.

‘Nothing wrong with me,’ Amos declared robustly. ‘Just a lot of fuss. But I was glad to have you all there for a while. Now you must come up and visit Janine and Freya. They’re looking forward to seeing you again.’

Amos’s private life might politely be described as colourful. Marcel’s mother had been his second wife. Janine was his third. Freya, her daughter by a previous husband, was also part of the family. Amos, a man with five sons and no daughters, had particularly welcomed her as a plan formed in his mind.

‘Let’s go up slowly,’ he suggested now. ‘We can take a look at the place and get some ideas. It’s not a bad hotel but you could do better.’

‘I’ve been thinking of expanding,’ Marcel mused. ‘A change of scene might be interesting.’

‘Then London’s the place to look. Property prices have plunged and you could pick up a bargain. I’ve got some good banking contacts who’ll help, and I can loan you some money myself, if needed.’

‘Thanks. I might take you up on that.’

They toured the hotel, each making notes.

‘The one thing this place has got that La Couronne hasn’t is the wedding facility,’ Amos observed. ‘You might try that. Money to be made.’

‘I doubt if it would increase my profit,’ Marcel said coolly. There were many reasons why weddings didn’t appeal to him, but none that he was prepared to discuss.

They finished on the eighth floor where there was a bar with magnificent views of London. Sitting by the window, Amos indicated a tall building in the distance.

‘See that? Headquarters of Daneworth Estates.’

‘I’ve heard of them,’ Marcel mused. ‘Things not going too well, I gather.’

‘That’s right. They’re having to sell assets.’

Amos’s tone held a significance that made Marcel ask, ‘Any asset in particular?’

‘The Alton Hotel. It was bought with the idea of development but the money ran out and it’s ripe for takeover at a knock-down price.’

He quoted a figure and Marcel’s eyebrows rose. ‘As little as that?’

‘It’s possible, if someone with a certain amount of influence twisted the screw on Daneworth so that the sale became more urgent.’

‘You don’t happen to know anyone with that kind of influence?’ Marcel asked satirically.

‘I might. How long will you be in England?’ ‘Long enough to look around.’

‘Excellent.’ Amos made a noise that sounded like ‘Hrmph!’ adding, ‘It’s good to know I have one son I can be proud of.’

‘Are you still mad at Darius because he gave his wife too generous a deal over the divorce? I thought you liked Mary. You’ve come to her wedding.’

‘I won’t quarrel with the mother of my only grandchildren. But sense is sense, and he hasn’t shown any. Do you know anything about the girl he’s bringing with him today?’

‘I saw them arrive. She looks attractive and pleasant. I’m going to visit them in a minute.’

‘While you’re there take a good look at her. See if Darius is falling into her trap.’

‘Thus spoiling your scheme to marry him to Freya?’ Marcel said ironically.

‘I’d like to have Freya as my daughter-in-law, I make no secret of it. And if Darius won’t come up to the mark—’

‘Forget it,’ Marcel interrupted him.

‘Why should I? It’s time you were putting down roots.’

‘There are plenty of others to do that.’

Amos snorted. ‘Five sons! Five! You’d think more than one of you would have settled down by now.’

But Amos himself was hardly an advertisement for domesticity, Marcel thought cynically. Of the five sons, only two had been born to the woman he’d been married to at the time. His own mother hadn’t married Amos until several years after his birth. Travis and Leonid were bastards and proud of it. But he didn’t want to quarrel with his father, so he merely shrugged and rose to go.

‘Tell Janine and Freya I’ll be up as soon as I’ve been to see Darius,’ he said.

As he approached his brother’s room he was barely conscious of adjusting his mask. He donned it so often that it was second nature by now, even with a brother with whom he was on cordial terms. When he arrived his charming smile was firmly in place.

The door was already open, giving him a clear view of a pretty young woman, done up in a glamorous style, and Darius regarding her with admiration, his hands on her shoulders.

‘Am I interrupting anything?’ he asked.

‘Marcel!’ Darius advanced to thump his brother with delight, after which he turned and introduced his companion as Harriet.

‘You’ve been keeping this lady a big secret,’ Marcel said, regarding her with admiration. ‘And I understand why. If she were mine I would also hide her away from the world.’

His father was in for a shock, he reckoned. Harriet was definitely a threat to his plans for Darius’s next wife.

He chatted with her for a few moments, flirting, but not beyond brotherly limits.

‘So Darius has warned you about the family,’ he said at last, ‘and you know we’re a load of oddities.’

‘I’ll bet you’re no odder than me,’ she teased.

‘I’ll take you up on that. Promise me a dance tonight.’

‘She declines,’ Darius said firmly.

Marcel chuckled and murmured in Harriet’s ear, ‘We’ll meet again later.’

After a little more sparring, he blew her a kiss and departed, heading for his father’s suite. He greeted his stepmother cordially but he couldn’t help looking over her shoulder at the window, through which he could see the building Amos had pointed out to him.

Daneworth Estates. Assets ripe for an offer. Interesting.

In an office on the tenth floor of a bleakly efficient building overlooking the River Thames, Mr Smith, the manager of Daneworth Estates, examined some papers and groaned before raising his voice to call, ‘Mrs Henshaw, can you bring the other files in, please?’

He turned back to his client, a middle-aged man, saying, ‘She’ll have all the details. Don’t worry.’

He glanced up as a young woman appeared in the doorway and advanced with the files.

‘I’ve made notes,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll find I’ve covered everything.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ he replied.

The client regarded her with distaste. She was exactly the kind of woman he most disliked, the kind who could have looked better if she’d bothered to make the best of herself. She had the advantage of being tall and slim, with fair hair and regular features. But she scraped her hair back, dressed severely, and concealed her face behind a pair of large steel-rimmed spectacles.

‘It’s nearly six o’clock,’ she said.

Mr Smith nodded. ‘Yes, you can go.’

She gave the client a faint nod and left the office. He shivered. ‘She terrifies me,’ he admitted.

‘Me too, sometimes,’ Mr Smith agreed. ‘But if there’s one person whose efficiency I can rely on it’s Mrs Henshaw.’

‘It always sounds odd to me the way you call her “Mrs”. Why not just Jane?’

‘She prefers it. Familiarity is something she discourages.’

‘But you’re her boss.’

‘Sometimes I wonder which of us is the boss. I hesitate between valuing her skills and wanting to get rid of her.’ ‘She reminds me of a robot.’

‘She certainly doesn’t have any “come hither” about her,’ the manager agreed. ‘You’d never think she’d once been a fashion model.’

‘Get away!’

‘Really. She was called “Cassie” and for a couple of years she was headed for the very top. Then it all ended. I’m not sure why.’

‘She could still look good if she tried,’ the client observed. ‘Why scrape her hair back against her skull like a prison wardress? And when did you last see a woman who didn’t bother with make-up?’

‘Can’t think! Now, back to business. How do I avoid going bankrupt and taking your firm down with me?’

‘Can’t think!’ the client echoed gloomily.

Neither of them gave a further thought to Mrs Henshaw on the far side of the door. She heard their disparaging comments and shrugged.

‘Blimey!’ said the other young woman in the room. ‘How do you stand them being so rude about you?’

Her name was Bertha. She was nineteen, naïve, friendly and a reasonably good secretary.

‘I ignore it,’ Mrs Henshaw said firmly.

‘But who was that Cassie they keep on about? The gorgeous model.’

‘No idea. She was nothing to do with me, I know that.’ ‘But they said it was you.’

‘They were wrong.’ Mrs Henshaw turned to look at Bertha with a face that was blank and lifeless. ‘Frankly,’ she said, ‘Cassie never really existed. Now hurry off home.’

The last words had an edge of desperation. She urgently needed to be alone to think about everything that was happening. She knew the company was in dire straits, and it would soon be time to move on.

But to what? Her life seemed to stretch before her, blank, empty. Just as it had done for the last ten years.

The days when she could afford a car were over, and she took a bus to the small block of apartments where she lived in a few rooms one floor up. Here everything was neat, restrained, unrevealing. A nun might have lived in this place.

Tonight was no different from any other night, she assured herself. The name Cassie, suddenly screaming out of the darkness, had thrown the world into chaos, but she’d recovered fast. Cassie was another life, another universe. Cassie’s heart had been broken. Mrs Henshaw had no heart to break.

She stayed up late studying papers, understanding secrets about the firm that were supposed to be hidden. Soon there would have to be decisions but now she was too weary in her soul to think about them.

She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. The dreams she’d dreaded were waiting to pounce. There was Cassie, gloriously naked, madly in love, throwing herself into the arms of the handsome boy who’d worshipped her. There were his eyes, gazing at her with adoration, but then with hate.

‘I loved you—I trusted you—now I can’t bear the sight of you!’

In sleep she reached out her hands to him, crying, ‘Marcel, you don’t understand—please—please—’ ‘Get out of my sight! Whore!’

She screamed and awoke to find herself thrashing around in bed, throwing her head from side to side.

‘No,’ she cried. ‘It isn’t true. No, no, no!’

Then she was sitting up, staring into the darkness, heaving violently.

‘Leave me alone,’ she begged. ‘Leave me alone.’

Wearily she got out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. A shambling wreck of a woman looked back at her from the mirror. Now the severe barriers of the day were gone, leaving no trace of the steely ‘prison wardress’. The tense stillness of her face was replaced by violent emotion that threatened to overwhelm and destroy her. Her hair, no longer scraped back, flowed over her shoulders, giving her a cruel resemblance to Cassie, the beautiful girl who had lived long ago. That girl had vanished into the mists, but suddenly her likeness taunted Mrs Henshaw from the mirror. Tears streamed from her eyes and she covered them with her hands, seeking oblivion.

‘No,’ she wept. ‘No!’

But it was too late to say no. Years too late.

CHAPTER TWO

‘I JUST hope I don’t regret this,’ Mr Smith said heavily. ‘The Alton Hotel is worth twice what he’s offering, but it’s still the best offer we’ve had.’

Mrs Henshaw was frowning as she studied the figures. ‘Surely you can drive him up a little?’

‘I tried to but he just said “Take it or leave it.” So I took it. We have to sell off properties fast, before we go under.’

‘Is that your way of telling me to find another job?’

‘Yes, but I may be able to help you. I’ve told him you’ll meet him to discuss details. Marcel needs an assistant with local knowledge, so I’m sure you can impress him. Why are you looking like that?’

‘Nothing—nothing—what did you say his name was?’

‘Marcel Falcon. He’s one of Amos Falcon’s sons.’

She relaxed, telling herself to be sensible. The Marcel she had known had been Marcel Degrande, and obviously no connection with this man. It was absurd to be still reacting to the name after so long.

‘Play your cards right and you’ll come out on top,’ Mr Smith advised.

‘When do I go?’

‘Right now. He’s staying at the Gloriana Hotel, and he’s expecting you there in half an hour.’

‘Half a—? What? But that doesn’t give me time to research the background or the man—’

‘You’ll have to play it by ear. And these papers—’ he thrust some at her ‘—will give you the details of his offer. Yes, I know we don’t usually do it like this, but things are moving fast and the sooner we get the money the better.’

She took a taxi and spent the journey memorising facts and figures, wishing she’d had time to do some online research. She’d heard of Amos Falcon, whose financial tentacles seemed to stretch halfway across the world, but it would have been useful to check his son out too.

Never mind, she thought. A heavy evening’s work lay ahead of her, and she would tackle it with the meticulous efficiency that now ruled her whole life.

At last she entered the Gloriana and approached the reception desk. ‘Please tell Mr Falcon that Mrs Jane Henshaw is here.’

‘He’s over there, madam.’

Turning, she saw the entrance door to the bar and just inside, a man sitting at a table. At that moment he turned his head, revealing just enough of his face to leave her stunned.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No … no …’

The world went into chaos, thundering to a halt, yet still whirling mysteriously about her.

Marcel. Older, a little heavier, yet still the man whose love had been the glorious triumph of her life, and whose loss had brought her close to destruction. What malign chance had made their paths cross again?

She took a step back, then another, moving towards the door, desperate to escape before he saw her. She managed to get into the hotel garden where there was a small café, and sat down. She was shaking too violently to leave now. She must stay here for a while.

If only he hadn’t seen her.

If only they had never seen each other in the beginning, never met, never loved, never hated, never shattered each other.

Who were those two youngsters who seemed to stand before her now? Naïve, innocent, ignorant, perhaps a little stupid, but only with the stupidity of children who knew they could conquer the world with their beauty, talent and enthusiasm.

Jane Agnes Cassandra Baines had always known she was destined to be a model.

‘Nobody could be that beautiful and waste it,’ her sister had said. ‘Go for it, girl. And choose a better name. Jane will make people think of plain Jane.’

Rebecca was eight years her senior, and had been almost her mother since their parents died in their childhood. These days Rebecca’s misfortunes meant that she was the one who needed caring for, and much of Jane’s money went in helping her.

‘Cassandra,’ Rebecca had said back then. ‘Mum loved that name because she said it meant “enticer of men”. Dad was outraged. I can still remember them squabbling, him saying, “You can’t call her that. It’s not respectable.” In the end Mum managed to squeeze it in as your third name.’

‘Enticer of men,’ she’d murmured in delight. ‘Cassandra. Yes—I’m Cassandra.’

Her agent had partly agreed. ‘Not Cassandra, Cassie,’ he said. ‘It’s perfect. You’re going to be a star.’

She’d climbed fast. Jane no longer existed. Cassie’s picture was everywhere and so were her admirers. Wealthy men had laid their golden gifts at her feet, but she’d cared only for Marcel Degrande, a poor boy who lived in a shabby flat.

He’d been earning a pittance working for a grocery store, and they’d met when he’d delivered fruit to her door. One look at his smile, his teasing eyes, and she’d tossed aside two millionaires like unwanted rubbish. From then on there was only him.

For Marcel it had been the same. Generous, passionate, he had offered himself to her, heart and soul, with nothing held back.

‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ he said. ‘You could have them and their money, but me—you’ve seen how I live. I can’t take you to posh restaurants or buy you expensive presents.’

‘But you give me something no other man can give,’ she assured him, laying her hand over his heart. ‘Who cares about money? Money’s boring.’

‘Yes. Money is boring,’ he said fervently. ‘Who needs it?’

‘Nobody.’ She threw herself back on the bed and wriggled luxuriously. ‘But there’s something I do need, and I’m getting impatient.’

‘Your wish is my command,’ he said just before his mouth came down on hers, his hands explored her willing body, and they quickly became one.

Returning his love had been the greatest joy of her life, a joy that she knew instinctively could never be repeated. It had lasted a few months, then ended in cruelty.

Jake, a rich, powerful man with criminal connections, used to getting his own way, had made it plain that he wanted her. She’d told him he had no chance. He’d departed without a word, and she’d congratulated herself on having dealt with the situation.

Marcel had been away making a long-distance delivery. When he called she said nothing about Jake, not wanting to worry him. Time enough to tell him everything when he returned.

He never did return. On the evening she expected him the hours passed without a word. She tried to call, but his phone was dead. At last there was a knock on her door and there was Jake.

He thrust a photograph into her hands. It showed Marcel in bed, bloodied, bandaged and barely alive.

‘He had an accident,’ Jake said, smirking. ‘A van knocked him over in the street.’

‘Oh, heavens, I must go to him. Which hospital is he in?’

‘You don’t need to know that. You’re not going to see him again. Are you getting the message yet? I could have him killed in a moment, and I will if you don’t see sense. And don’t even try to find the hospital and visit him because I’ll know, and he’ll pay the price.’

He pointed to the picture. ‘A doctor who works there owes me a favour. She took this. I’m sure you don’t want him to suffer any more … misfortunes.’

She was left with the knowledge that not only was Marcel badly hurt and she could never see him again, but that he would think she had deserted him. That thought nearly destroyed her.

She risked writing him a letter, telling everything, swearing her love, begging him not to hate her, and slipped it through the door of his dingy apartment. He would find it when he returned from the hospital.

For days she waited, certain that Marcel would contact her, however briefly. But he never did, and the deafening silence blotted out the world. His phone stayed dead. In desperation, she called his landlady, who confirmed that she’d seen him arrive home and collect mail from the carpet.

‘Ask him to call me,’ she begged.

‘I can’t. He’s vanished, just packed his bags and left. I think he still has some family in France, so maybe he’s gone there. Or maybe not. His mobile phone’s dead and it’s like he never existed.’

But it was the other way around, she thought in agony. Marcel had wiped her out as though she’d never existed. Obviously he didn’t believe her explanation that she had done it for him. Or if he did believe, it made no difference. He hated her and he would not forgive.

Now his voice spoke in her memory.

‘It’s all or nothing with me, and with you it’s all, my beloved Cassie. Everything, always.’

And she’d responded eagerly, ‘Always, always—’ But he’d warned her, all or nothing. And now it was nothing.

Sitting in the hotel garden, she tried to understand what she’d just learned. The ‘poor boy’ with barely a penny had actually been the son of a vastly wealthy man. But perhaps he hadn’t known. He might have been illegitimate and only discovered his father later. She must try to believe that because otherwise their whole relationship had been based on a lie. The love and open-heartedness, so sweet between them, would have been an illusion.

She shivered.

It was time to flee before he found her. She couldn’t bear to meet him and see his eyes as he discovered her now, her looks gone. How he would gloat at her downfall, how triumphant he would be in his revenge.

But as she neared the building she saw that it was already too late. The glass door into the garden was opening. Marcel was there, and with him the receptionist, saying, ‘There’s the lady, sir. I was sure I saw her come out here. Mrs Henshaw, here is Mr Falcon.’

‘I’m sorry I kept you waiting,’ Marcel said smoothly.

‘No … it was my fault,’ she stammered. ‘I shouldn’t have come outside—’

‘I don’t blame you at all. It’s stifling in there, isn’t it? Why don’t we both sit out in the fresh air?’

He gestured towards the garden and she walked ahead, too dazed to do anything else.

He hadn’t reacted.

He hadn’t recognised her.

It might be the poor light. Twilight was settling, making everything fade into shadows, denying him a clear view of her face. That was a relief. It would give her time to take control of the situation.

But she was shaken with anguish as they reached a table and he pulled out a chair for her. He had loved her so much, and now he no longer recognised her.

‘What can I get you to drink?’ Marcel asked. ‘Champagne?’

‘Tonic water, please,’ she said. ‘I prefer to keep a clear head.’

‘You’re quite right. I’ll have the same since obviously I’d better keep a clear head too. Waiter!’

A stranger might be fooled by this, she thought wryly, but the young Marcel had had an awesome ability to imbibe cheap wine while losing none of his faculties. After a night of particular indulgence she’d once challenged him to prove that he was ‘up to it’. Whereupon he’d tossed her onto the bed, flung himself down beside her and proved it again and again, to the delight and hilarity of them both.

Hilarity? Yes. It had been a joy and a joke at the same time—exhausting each other, triumphing over each other, never knowing who was the winner, except that they both were.

‘Cassie, my sweet beloved, why do you tease me?’

‘To get you to do what I wanted, of course.’

‘And did I do it to your satisfaction?’

‘Let’s try again and I’ll let you know.’

‘You clearly believe that business comes before pleasure,’ he told her now in a voice that the years hadn’t changed. He spoke English well, but with the barest hint of a French accent that had always enchanted her.

How many women, she wondered, had been enchanted by it since?

‘Smith recommended you to me in the highest possible terms,’ Marcel continued. ‘He said nobody knew as much about my new property as you.’

‘I hope I can live up to Mr Smith’s praise,’ she said primly.

‘I’m sure you will.’ His reply was courteous and mechanical.

‘Do you mean to make the hotel similar to La Couronne?’

‘I see you’ve been doing your homework. Excellent. There will be similarities. I aim to provide many facilities, like a conference centre.’

‘I wonder if the building is big enough for that.’

‘I agree. There will need to be expansion. I want the best firm of builders you can recommend.’

For a while he continued to talk about his plans, which were ambitious, and she made notes, not even raising her head when the waiter appeared with their tonic water.

Her hand, and one part of her brain, were working automatically. There was nothing in him to suggest recognition, no tension, no brightening of the eyes. His oblivion was so total that she even wondered if she was mistaken and he wasn’t her Marcel after all. But when she stole a sideways glance she knew there had been no mistake. The shape of his head, the curve of his lips, the darkness of his eyes; all these she knew, even at a distance of years.

This was her Marcel.

Yet no longer hers.

And no longer really Marcel.

The same was true of her. Cassie was gone for ever and only Mrs Henshaw remained.

He moved and she hastened to bury herself in her work. When she dared to look up he had filled her glass. In her best businesslike voice she said, ‘I happen to know that the owner of the building next door has been thinking of selling.’

‘That would be useful for my expansion. Give me the details and I’ll approach him. Do you have any more information?’

She scribbled some details and passed them to him.

‘Excellent. I’m sure Smith told you that I need an assistant to work with me on this project. You’d do better than anyone.’

‘That’s very impulsive. Don’t you need more time to think about it?’

‘Not at all. The right decisions are very quickly made. And so they should be.’

For a moment she was fired with temptation. To take the job, be with him day after day, with him not knowing who she was. The prospect was so enticing as to be scary.

But she could not. She must not.

‘It’s impossible,’ she said reluctantly.

‘Why? Would your husband object? He doesn’t mind you working for Smith.’

‘I’m divorced.’

‘So you’re the mistress of your own destiny and can do as you choose.’

She almost laughed aloud. Once she’d imagined exactly the same, and been shown otherwise in the most brutal fashion.

‘Nobody chooses their own destiny,’ she said. ‘We only think we do. Wise people remember that.’

He gave her a curious look. ‘Are you wise, Mrs Henshaw?’ ‘Sooner or later we all become wise, don’t we?’ ‘Some of us.’

As he said it he looked directly at her. She met his eyes, seeking recognition in them, but seeing only a blank. Or merely a weariness and disillusion that matched her own.

‘Things are moving fast in the property world,’ he said, ‘as I’m sure you know. When I tell Smith that I’ve decided to employ you I’m sure he’ll release you quickly.’

He’d decided, she noted. No suggestion that she had a decision to make.

‘I need a little time to think,’ she hedged. ‘I’ll pay you twice what you’re getting now.’ ‘I could lie about the amount.’

‘And I could check with him. I won’t, though, I trust you. Don’t worry, I’m a hard taskmaster. I’ll get full value from you.’

‘Now, look—’

‘I won’t take no for an answer. Fine, that’s settled.’ ‘It is not,’ she said, her temper rising. ‘Please don’t try to tell me what to do.’

‘As your employer I shall expect to.’ ‘But you’re not my employer.’ ‘I soon will be.’

He’d always liked his own way, she recalled, but he’d used charm. Now charm was gone, replaced by bullying. Perhaps she couldn’t entirely blame him after the way he’d suffered. But still she knew she had to escape.

‘Mr Falcon, I think it’s time you understood—’

‘Well, well, well. Who’d have thought it?’

The words, coming out of nowhere, startled them both. Approaching them was a large man with an air of pathological self-satisfaction.

‘Oh, no,’ she groaned. ‘Not him.’

‘You know this man?’

‘He’s Keith Lanley, part financial journalist, part muckraker. He spends his days scurrying around trying to work out who’s going to go bankrupt next.’

‘What a thing to happen!’ Lanley exclaimed, coming up to them. ‘So the rumours are true, Jane. You’re a sly character, getting out of Daneworth while the going’s good. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend? Of course I already know who he is. Everyone’s ears pricked up when the Falcon family came to town.’

‘I’m here for a wedding,’ Marcel said coldly. ‘So are the other members of my family.’

‘Of course, of course. But no Falcon ever passed up the chance of making money, now, did he? And a lot depends on how you present it to the world. Suppose we three—’

But she’d had enough.

‘Goodbye,’ she said, rising to her feet.

‘Now, wait—’

Lanley reached to grab her but she evaded him and fled deeper into the garden. Trying to follow her, Lanley found himself detained by Marcel, his face dark with rage.

‘Leave her alone,’ he said furiously.

‘Hey, no need to get irate. I could do you a favour.’

‘The only favour you could do me is to vanish off the face of the earth. Now, get out before I have you arrested.’

‘I suppose you could, too,’ Lanley said in a resigned voice. ‘All right, I’ll go—for now.’ He began to go but turned. ‘You couldn’t just give me a quote about your father?’

‘Get out!’

When the man had departed Marcel looked around. He was breathing hard, trying to force himself to be calm when all he wanted to do was roar to the heavens. Anguish possessed him, but more than anguish was rage—terrifying anger at her, at himself, at the cruel fate that had allowed this to happen.

Where was she? Vanished into thin air?

Again!

He began to run, hunting her here and there until at last he came across her leaning against a tree, her back to him. He touched her and her reaction was instant and violent.

‘No, leave me alone. I won’t talk to you.’

‘It’s not Lanley, I’ve sent him away.’

But she didn’t seem to hear, fending him off madly until she lost her balance and fell, knocking her head against the tree. He tried to catch her but could only partly break her fall, steadying her as she slid to the ground.

‘Your head,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Cassie.’

People were approaching, calling out.

‘She’s collapsed,’ he called back. ‘She needs a doctor.’

Lifting her in his arms, he hurried the hundred yards back to the hotel. Word had gone ahead and the hotel doctor was waiting for them.

Her eyes were closed but she was aware of everything, especially Marcel’s arms holding her firmly. Where their bodies touched she could feel his warmth, and just sense the soft thunder of his heart.

Cassie. He’d called her Cassie.

Hadn’t he?

Her mind was swimming. Through the confusion she could hear his voice crying ‘Cassie,’ but had he said it or had she imagined it through the fog of her agitation? Had he known her all the time and concealed it? What would he do now?

She felt herself laid down and heard voices above her. She gave a soft gasp and opened her eyes.

‘I think Mrs Henshaw’s coming round,’ the doctor said.

Marcel’s face hovered over her.

‘I’m all right, honestly,’ she murmured. ‘I just bumped my head against the tree and it made me dizzy for a moment.’

‘Let’s do a check,’ the doctor said.

She barely heard. Her eyes were seeking Marcel’s face, desperate to know what she could read in it.

But it was blank. There was nothing there.

For a moment she fought the truth, but then she forced herself to accept it. He hadn’t recognised her, hadn’t spoken her name. She’d simply imagined what she wanted to believe.

No!

A thousand voices screamed denial in her head. That wasn’t what she wanted. She wouldn’t think it or allow him to think it.

The doctor finished checking her, cleaned the graze and pronounced himself satisfied. ‘But I’d recommend an early night,’ he said. ‘Are you staying here?’

‘No.’

‘Does anyone live at home with you?’

‘No.’

‘Pity. I’d rather you weren’t alone tonight.’

‘She won’t be,’ Marcel intervened. ‘She’ll stay in my suite, with a woman to watch out for her.’

‘Oh, will I?’ she said indignantly.

‘Yes, Mrs Henshaw. You will. Please don’t waste my time with further argument.’

He walked out, leaving her seething. ‘Cheek!’

‘Be fair,’ said the doctor. ‘He obviously cares a lot about you.’

‘Not at all. I’ve only just met him.’ In a few minutes it was clear that Marcel had gone to make arrangements. He returned with a wheelchair. ‘I don’t need that,’ she said, aghast. ‘Yes, you do. Take my hand.’

This was the moment to hurry away, put the whole disastrous evening behind her and forget that Marcel had ever existed. But he had firm hold of her, ushering her into the chair in a manner that brooked no refusal.

Since arguing was useless she sat in silence as he took her into the elevator and upstairs to his suite, where a pleasant-looking young woman was waiting.

‘This is my sister Freya,’ he said.

‘I’ve brought you a nightdress,’ Freya said.

‘I’ll leave you.’ Marcel departed quickly.

‘This is the bedroom and bathroom,’ Freya told her. ‘I’ll look in often to make sure you’re all right. Let me help you undress.’

As they worked on it Freya asked, ‘Whatever did Marcel do to you?’

‘It wasn’t his fault. I fell against a tree.’ ‘Well, he obviously feels responsible.’ ‘He has no need.’

‘Perhaps he’s just a very generous and responsible man. I’m still getting to know him.’

‘I thought he said you were his sister.’ ‘His stepsister.’ Freya laughed. ‘He keeps calling me his sister so that he doesn’t have to marry me.’ ‘What?’

‘Amos wants me to marry one of his sons so that I’ll really be part of the family. His first choice is Darius but Darius is no more keen than I am. So then Marcel is “next in the firing line” as he puts it. That “sister” business is his way of protecting himself.’

‘How do you feel about that?’

Freya chuckled. ‘I’m not weeping into my pillow. He’s not my style at all. Too much like his father. Oh, it’s rotten of me to say that when Amos has been so kind to me, but now I can still escape. The thought of being married to a man like that—’ She gave a melodramatic shudder.

‘Like what?’

‘Money, money, money. That and always being one step ahead of his enemies.’

‘Does Marcel have a lot of enemies?’ ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t think he has many friends. There’s a coldness in him that it’s hard to get past. There now, you’re ready for bed. Would you like me to stay?’ ‘No, thank you. You’ve been very kind.’ She was desperate to be alone. As soon as the door closed she pulled the covers over her head and tried to sort out her confused mind.

Freya had spoken of his coldness, but the young man she’d known and loved had been incapable of coldness. Somehow, one had become the other.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be. I’ll wake up and find it was a dream. At least, I hope so. Or do I hope so? Is that what I really want? Did he recognise me or not? Is he just pretending not to? What am I hoping for?

But thinking was too troubling, so at last she gave up and fell asleep.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE awoke suddenly in the dark. Listening intently, she could make out the sound of footsteps nearing her room. Marcel. She slid further down the bed, pulling the duvet over her, not sure that she wanted to see him.

The door opened, someone came in and stood looking down at her. Her heart was thundering as the moment of truth neared. Last night he’d seemed not to know her, but then she’d heard her name whispering past. Surely that had come from him and now everything was different. What would he say to her? What could she say to him?

She gasped as a hand touched her.

‘It’s only me,’ said Freya. ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you?’

‘No, no, I … I’m all right.’ She didn’t know what she was saying. Everything was spinning in chaos.

Freya switched on the lamp and sat down on the bed, placing a cup on the sidetable.

‘I’m going now, but I brought you a cup of tea first.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Jane—do you mind if I call you Jane? Or should it be Mrs Henshaw?’

‘Oh, please, no.’ She shuddered. ‘I’ve had enough of Mrs Henshaw.’ ‘Jane, then?’

‘Yes, Jane. Although I think I’ve had enough of Jane too.’

‘Goodness, what does that mean?’ Freya’s friendliness was charming.

‘Suddenly I seem to be a lot of different people and none of them is really me. Does that sound crazy?’

‘Not in this family,’ Freya said wryly. ‘You have to be a bit crazy to get your head around the way they all live. Sometimes I worry for my mother. She’s Amos’s third wife and he wasn’t faithful to either of the others.’

‘Where does Marcel come in the picture?’ Jane Henshaw asked, careful to drink her tea at once to hide her face.

‘When Amos was married to Elaine, Darius’s mother, he travelled abroad a lot, and while he was doing business in France he met Laura, set up home with her and they had Marcel.’

‘While he was still married to Elaine?’

‘While he was still actually living with her in England. He divided his time between London and Paris, and even had another son by his wife. That’s Jackson. A couple of years later Elaine found out about his infidelity and left him. He brought Laura and Marcel over to England and married her as soon as his divorce was through.’

‘So Marcel grew up in England?’ Jane said slowly.

‘I think he was about eleven when he moved here. Of course it didn’t last. When he was fifteen Laura discovered that Amos had been “at it” again, and she returned to Paris, taking Marcel with her. He came back seven years later, but not to Amos. He resented the way his mother had been treated, and he even stopped using the name Falcon and went back to using Laura’s name, Degrande.

‘He had a rebellious streak and set up home with some other lads, living from day to day, doing any job they could get. He enjoyed it for a couple of years, then went back to France. Eventually he and Amos were reconciled, and he returned to England and became a Falcon again. Actually I think that was bound to happen. In his heart he was always a chip off the old block. Those two years being free and easy were fun, but it was never going to last.’

‘They might have done. Perhaps something happened to send that side of him into hiding.’

‘Kill it off for good, more like,’ Freya said robustly. ‘Marcel is Amos’s son through and through—hard, implacable, money-minded. Will it pay? What will I get out of it, and how can I squeeze more? That’s how his mind works.’

‘You don’t like him, do you?’

‘He’s all right, always pleasant to me, but Amos can forget about me marrying him. I’d sooner marry the devil.’

‘I’m surprised he isn’t married already. Rich men don’t tend to be short of women.’

‘Oh, he’s never been short of women,’ Freya agreed. ‘Just not the kind he’s likely to marry, if you see what I mean. They serve their purpose, he pays them off. I believe his ‘leaving tips’ are quite generous. But he doesn’t fall in love.’ She gave a brief laugh. ‘Don’t take me too seriously. I’m only warning you that he’ll be tough to work for. After all, you’re not likely to want to marry him, are you?’

‘Not if I’ve got any sense,’ she said lightly.

‘Right, I must be going, but first I need to take some of Marcel’s clothes from the wardrobe. He’s sleeping out there on the sofa and he says don’t worry, he won’t trouble you.’

‘He’s very kind.’

‘He can be. Not always. Now I’m off.’ ‘Goodbye. And thank you.’ Freya slipped out of the door.

Cassie lay in silence, trying to come to terms with the storm of feeling inside her. It had started when she’d glimpsed him tonight, but now it had a new aspect. The woman who now convulsively clenched and unclenched her hands was no longer lovelorn and yearning, but possessed by a bitter anger.

Marcel had known all the time that he was Amos Falcon’s son. And he’d deceived her, pretending to be poor as a joke, because it boosted his pride to think she’d chosen him over rich men. It might have started as an innocent game, but the result had been catastrophic.

If I’d known you had a wealthy, powerful father, I wouldn’t have given in to Jake. I’d have gone to Amos Falcon, seeking his protection for you. He could have punished Jake, scared him off, and we’d have been safe. We could have been together all these years, and we lost everything because you had to play silly games with the truth. You stupid … stupid …

She pounded the pillow as though trying to release all the fury in her heart, until at last she lay still, exhausted, shocked by the discovery that she could hate him, while the tears poured down her face.

Finally she slept again, and only then did the door open and a figure stand there in silence, watching the faint light that fell from the hallway onto the bed, just touching the blonde hair that streamed across the pillow.

He moved closer to the bed, where he could see her face, relaxed in sleep and more like the face he had once known. In the first moments of their meeting he’d denied the truth to himself, refusing to admit that the evil witch who’d wrecked his life could possibly have returned.

But a witch didn’t die. She rose again to laugh over the destruction she had wrought. With every blank word and silent laugh, every look from her beautiful dead eyes, she taunted him.

A wise man would have refused to recognise her, but he’d never been wise where this woman was concerned. Fate had returned her to him, freeing him to make her suffer as he had suffered. And the man whose motto, learned from a powerful, ruthless father, was ‘seize every chance, turn everything to your advantage’ would not turn away from this opportunity until he’d made the most of it.

Suddenly the figure on the bed before him changed, becoming not her but himself, long ago, shattered with the pain of broken ribs, half blinded by his own blood, but even more by his own tears, longing every moment to see her approach and comfort him, finally realising that she would never do so.

That was when his heart had died. He’d been glad of it ever since. Life was easier without feelings. The women who could be bought were no trouble. They knew their place, did their duty, counted their reward and departed smiling. In time he might choose a wife by the same set of rules. Friends too tended to be business acquaintances. There were plenty of both men and women, there whenever he wanted them. His life was full.

His life was empty. His heart was empty. Safer that way.

He kept quite still for several long minutes, hardly daring to breathe, before closing the door and retreating, careful that she should never know he’d been there.

She awoke to the knowledge that everything had changed. As she’d told Freya, she seemed to have been several people in the last few hours, without knowing which one was really her. But now she knew. Cassie.

Somewhere in the depths of sleep the decision had been made. She was Cassie, but a different Cassie, angry, defiant, possessed by only one thought.

Make him pay.

He’d treated her with contempt, concealing his true identity because that had been his idea of fun. He hadn’t meant any harm, but his silly joke had resulted in years of pain and suffering for her. Perhaps also for him, but she was in no mood to sympathise.

Freya knocked and entered. ‘Just came to say goodbye,’ she said. ‘Marcel is waiting for you to have breakfast with him.’

She dressed hurriedly, twisted her hair into its usual bun and followed Freya out into the main room. Marcel was standing by the window with another man of about seventy, who turned and regarded her with interest.

‘Good morning, Mrs Henshaw,’ Marcel said politely. ‘I’m glad to see you looking well again. This is my father, Amos Falcon.’

‘Glad to meet you,’ the old man said, shaking her hand while giving her the searching look she guessed was automatic with him. ‘Marcel always chooses the best, so I expect great things of you.’

‘Father—’ Marcel said quickly.

‘He’s told me that your expertise is unrivalled,’ Amos went on. ‘So is your local knowledge, which he’ll need.’

Since Cassie had refused the job this might have been expected to annoy her, but things were different now. In the last few hours she’d moved to a level so different that it was like being a new person. So she merely smiled and shook Amos Falcon’s hand, replying smoothly, ‘I hope he finds that I live up to his expectations.’

A slight frisson in the air told her that she’d taken Marcel by surprise. Whatever he’d expected from her, it wasn’t this.

‘If you’d care to go and sit at the table,’ he said, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

A maid served her at the table in the large window bay. She drank her coffee absent-mindedly, her attention on Marcel, who was bidding farewell to his father and Freya.

Now she had a better view of him than the night before. The lanky boy had turned into a fine man, not only handsome but with an air of confidence, almost haughtiness, that was to be expected from a member of the great Falcon dynasty.

But then haughtiness fell away and he smiled at Freya, bidding her goodbye and taking her into a friendly hug. Cassie noticed that, despite her avowed disdain for him, Freya embraced him cheerfully, while Amos stood back and regarded them with the air of a man calculating the odds.

So it was true what Freya had said. If Amos couldn’t marry her to his eldest son, then Marcel was next in line. Doubtless she would bring a substantial dowry for which he could find good use.

Then it was over, they were gone and he was turning back into the room, joining her at the table.

‘I owe you my thanks,’ he said, ‘for not making a fool of me before my father. If you’d told him of your intention to refuse the job I offered I would have looked absurd. I’m grateful to you for your restraint.’

‘I doubt it’s in my power to make you look absurd,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m sure you’re well armoured against anything I could dream up.’

‘Now you’re making fun of me. Very well, perhaps I’ve earned it.’

‘You must admit you left yourself rather exposed by allowing your father to think I’d already agreed. Still, I dare say that’s a useful method of—shall we say—proceeding without hindrance?’

‘It’s worked in the past,’ he conceded. ‘But you’re right, it can leave me vulnerable if someone decides to be difficult.’ He saw her lips twitching. ‘Have I said something funny?’

‘How would you define “difficult”? No, on second thoughts don’t say. I think I can guess. Someone who dares to hold onto their own opinion instead of meekly obeying you.’ She struck an attitude. ‘I wonder how I knew that.’

‘Possibly because you’re much the same?’ he suggested.

‘Certainly not. I’m far more subtle. But I don’t suppose you need to bother with subtlety.’

‘Not often,’ he agreed, ‘although I flatter myself I can manage it when the occasion demands.’

‘Well, there’s no demand for it now. Plain speaking will suit us both better, so I’ll say straight out that I’ve decided it would suit me to work for you, on certain conditions.’

‘The conditions being?’

‘Double the salary I’m earning now, as we discussed.’ ‘And how much is that?’

She gave him the figure. It was a high one, but he seemed untroubled.

‘It’s a deal. Shake.’

She took the hand he held out to her, bracing herself for the feel of his flesh against hers. Even so, it took all her control not to react to the warmth of his skin. So much had changed, but not this. After ten years it was still the hand that had touched her reverently, then skilfully and with fierce joy. The sensation was so intense that she almost cried out.

From him there was no reaction.

‘I’m glad we’re agreed on that,’ he said calmly. ‘Now you can go and give in your notice. Be back here as soon as possible. Before you leave, we’d better exchange information. Email, cellphones.’

She gave him her cellphone number, but he said, ‘And the other one.’

‘What other one?’

‘You’ve given me the number you give to everyone. Now I want the one you give to only a privileged few.’ ‘And what about your “privileged” number?’ He wrote it down and handed it to her. ‘Now yours.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t have one.’ ‘Mrs Henshaw—’

‘It’s the truth. I only need one number.’

Now, she realised, he could guess at the emptiness of her life, with no need for a ‘privileged’ number because there was nobody to give it to. But all he said was, ‘You might have told me that before I gave you mine.’

‘Then you wouldn’t have given it to me. But if you object, here—take it back.’

She held out the paper but he shook his head.

‘No point. You could have memorised it by now. Very clever, Mrs Henshaw. I can see I shall have to be careful.’

‘If you’re having doubts you can always refuse to employ me.’

His eyes met hers and she drew a sharp breath, for there was a gleam in their depths that she hadn’t seen before—not for many years. It teased and enticed, challenged, lured her on to danger.

‘I’m not going to accept that offer,’ he said softly.

She nodded, but before she could speak he added significantly, ‘And you know I’m not.’

It could have been no more than courtesy but there was a new note in his voice, an odd note, that made her tense. She was at a crossroads. If she admitted that she did actually know what he meant, the road ahead was a wilderness of confusion.

Ignore the challenge, said the warning voice in her head. Escape while you can.

‘How could I know that?’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘I think we both know—all that we need to know. The decision has been taken.’

She wanted to cry out. He seemed to be saying that he really had recognised her, that the two of them still lived in a world that excluded the rest of the universe and only they understood the language they spoke.

But no! She wouldn’t let herself believe it. She must not believe it, lest she go crazy.

Crazier than she’d been for the last ten years? Or was she already beyond hope? She drew a deep breath.

But then, while she was still spinning, he returned to earth with devastating suddenness.

‘Now that we’ve settled that, tell me how you got here last night,’ he said.

His voice sounded normal again. They were back to practical matters.

‘In a taxi,’ she said.

‘I’m glad. It’s better if you don’t drive for a while after what happened.’

‘My head’s fine. It was only a tiny bump. But I’ll take a taxi to the office.’

‘Good. I’ll call you later. Now I must go. I have an appointment with the bank. We’ll meet tomorrow.’

He was gone.

At the office Mr Smith greeted her news with pleasure. When she’d cleared her desk he took her for a final lunch. Over the wine he became expansive.

‘It can be a good job as long as you know to be careful. Men like him resemble lions hovering for the kill. Just be sure you’re not the prey. Remember that however well he seems to treat you now, all he cares about is making the best use of you. When your usefulness is over you’ll be out on your ear. So get what you can out of him before he dumps you.’

‘Perhaps he won’t,’ she said, trying to speak lightly.

‘He always does. People serve their purpose, then they’re out in the cold. He’s known for it.’

‘Perhaps there’s a reason,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe someone deserted him.’

‘Don’t make me laugh! Dump him? Nobody would dare.’

‘Not now perhaps, but in the past, maybe when he was vulnerable—’

Mr Smith’s response was a guffaw. ‘Him? Vulnerable?

Never. Amos Falcon’s son was born fully formed and the image of his father. Hard. Armoured. Unfeeling. Oh, it’s not how he comes across at first. He’s good with the French fantasy lover stuff. Or so I’ve heard from some lady friends who were taken in when they should have known better. But don’t believe it. It’s all on the outside. Inside—nothing!’

‘Thanks for the lunch,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I must be going.’

‘Yes, you belong to him now, don’t you?’

‘My time belongs to him,’ she corrected. ‘Only my time.’

She fled, desperate to get away from the picture he showed her of Marcel—a man damaged beyond hope. Hearing him condemned so glibly made her want to scream.

You don’t know him, don’t know what he suffered. I knew him when he was generous and loving, with a heart that overflowed, to me at least. He was young and defenceless then, whatever you think.

Only a few hours ago her anger had been directed at Marcel, but now she knew a surge of protective fury that made her want to stand between him and the world. What did any of them understand when nobody knew him as she did?

She checked that her cellphone was switched on and waited for his call. It didn’t come. She tried not to feel disappointed, guessing that the bank would occupy him for a long time. And she had something else in mind, for which she would need time to herself.

When she reached home she locked the front door behind her. For the next few hours nothing and nobody must disturb her.

Switching on her computer, she went online and settled down to an evening of research.

She forced herself to be patient, first studying Amos Falcon, which was easy because there were a dozen sites devoted to him. An online encyclopaedia described his life and career—the rise from poverty, the enormous gains in power and money. There was less detail about his private life beyond the fact that he’d had three wives and five sons.

As well as Darius and Marcel there was Jackson Falcon, a minor celebrity in nature broadcasting. Finding his picture, she realised that she’d seen him in several television programmes. Even better known was Travis Falcon, a television actor in America, star of a series just beginning to be shown in England. The last son was Leonid, born and raised in Russia and still living there. About him the encyclopaedia had little information, not even a picture.

There were various business sites analysing Amos’s importance in the financial world, and a few ill-natured ones written in a spirit of ‘set the record straight’. He was too successful to be popular, and his enemies vented their feelings while being careful to stay just the right side of libel.

The information about Marcel told her little that she hadn’t already learned from Freya, but there was much about La Couronne, his hotel in Paris. From here she went to the hotel’s own site, then several sites that gave customers’ opinions. Mrs Henshaw studied these closely, making detailed notes.

Then Cassie took over, calling up photographs of Marcel that went back several years. Few of them were close-ups. Most had been taken at a distance, as though he was a reluctant subject who could only be caught by chance.

But then she came across a picture that made her grow tense. The date showed that it had been taken nine years ago, yet the change in him was already there. Shocked, she realised that the sternness in his face, the heaviness in his attitude, had settled over him within a year of their separation. This was what misery had done to him.

She reached out and touched the screen as though trying to reach him, turn time back and restore him to the vibrant, loving boy he’d once been. But that could never happen. She snatched her hand back, reminding herself how much of the tragedy was his own fault for concealing the truth. She must cling to that thought or go mad.

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