Miss Prim and the Billionaire

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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.