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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.’
