скачать книгу бесплатно
Ravenna surveyed the apartment in despair. Most of the furnishings she knew now were fake, from the gilded Louis Quinze chairs to the china masquerading as period Limoges and Sèvres.
Mamma had always been adept at making ends meet, even through the toughest times.
A reluctant smile tugged Ravenna’s lips. Life in a swanky apartment in the Place des Vosges, one of Paris’s premier addresses, hardly counted as tough, not like the early days of Ravenna’s childhood when food had been scarce and the winters cold without enough blankets or warm clothes. But those early experiences had stood her mother in good stead. When the money began to run out she’d methodically turned to replacing the priceless antiques with copies.
Silvia Ruggiero had always made do, even if her version of ‘making do’ lately had been on a preposterously luxurious scale. But it was what Piers had wanted and in Silvia’s eyes that was all that mattered.
Ravenna tugged in a shaky breath. Her mother was far better off in Italy staying with a friend, instead of here, coping with the aftermath of Piers’ death. If only she’d told Ravenna straight away about his heart attack. Ravenna would have been here the same day. Even now she could barely believe her mother had kept that to herself, worrying instead about disturbing Ravenna with more trouble!
Mothers! Did they ever believe their children grew up?
Silvia had been barely recognisable when Ravenna had arrived in Paris from Switzerland. For the first time her gorgeous mother had looked older than her age, worn by grief. Ravenna was concerned for her. Piers might not have been Ravenna’s favourite but her mother had loved him.
No, Mamma was better off out of this. Packing up here was the least Ravenna could do, especially after Piers’ generosity when she most needed it. So what if it meant facing creditors and selling what little her mother had left?
She returned to her inventory, glad she’d organised for an expert to visit and separate any valuable items from the fakes. To Ravenna they all looked obscenely expensive and rather ostentatious. But since her home was a sparsely furnished bedsit in a nondescript London suburb, she was no judge.
* * *
Jonas pressed the security buzzer a second time, wondering if she was out and his spur of the moment trip to Paris had been an impetuous waste of time.
He didn’t do impetuous. He was methodical, measured and logical. But he also had a razor-sharp instinct for weakness, for the optimum time to strike. And surely now, mere weeks after Piers’ death, his father’s mistress would be feeling the pinch as creditors started to circle.
Static buzzed and a husky, feminine voice spoke in his ear. ‘Hello?’
Yes! His instinct had been right.
‘I’m here to see Madam Ruggiero.’
‘Monsieur Giscard? I was expecting you. Please come up.’
Jonas pushed open the security door into a marble foyer. He ignored the lift and strode up the couple of floors to what had been his father’s love nest. Suppressing a shiver of revulsion, he rapped on the door of the apartment.
It swung open almost immediately and he stepped past a slim young woman into a lavishly furnished foyer. Through an open door he glimpsed an overfull salon but no sign of the woman he’d come to see. He moved towards the inner room.
‘You’re not Monsieur Giscard.’ The accusation halted him.
He swung round to find eyes the colour of rich sherry fixed on him.
‘No. I’m not.’
For the first time he paused to survey the woman properly and something—surprise?—rushed through him.
Slim to the point of fragility, she nevertheless had curves in all the right places, even if they were obscured by ill-fitting dark clothes. But it was her face that arrested him. Wide lush mouth, strong nose, angled cheekbones that gave her a fey air, lavish dark lashes and rather straight brows framing eyes so luminous they seemed to glow. Each feature in her heart-shaped face was so definite that together they should have jarred. Instead they melded perfectly.
She was arresting. Not pretty but something much rarer. Jonas felt his pulse quicken as heat shot low in his body.
He stiffened. When was the last time the sight of a woman, even a uniquely beautiful one, had affected him?
‘And you are?’ She tilted her head, drawing his gaze from her ripe mouth to the ultra-short sable hair she wore like a chic, ruffled cap. Another few weeks and she’d have curls.
He frowned. Why notice that when he had more important matters on his mind?
‘Looking for Madam Ruggiero. Silvia Ruggiero.’ It surprised him how difficult it was to drag his gaze away and back to the apartment’s inner rooms.
‘You don’t have an appointment.’ There was something new in her voice. Something hard and flat.
‘No.’ His mouth curled in a smile of grim anticipation. ‘But she’ll see me.’
The young woman strode back into his line of sight, blocking his way to the salon. Jonas catalogued the lithe grace of her movements even as he told himself he didn’t have time for distractions.
She shook her head. ‘You’re the last person she’d see.’
‘You know who I am?’ His gaze sharpened as he took in her defiant stance—arms akimbo and feet planted wide, as if she could prevent him if he chose to push past! She was tall, her mouth on a level with his collarbone, and she stared up at him with complete assurance.
‘It took me a moment but of course I do.’ A flicker of expression crossed her features so swiftly Jonas couldn’t read it. But he watched her swallow and realised she wasn’t as confident as she appeared. Interesting.
‘And you are?’ Jonas was used to being recognised from press reports, but instinct told him he’d met this woman before. Something about her tugged at half-buried memory.
‘Forgettable, obviously.’ Her lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile that ridiculously drove a spike of heat through his belly.
Jonas blinked. She wasn’t smiling at him yet he reacted.
Annoyance flared. He drew himself up, watching her gaze skate across his shoulders and chest.
‘She’s not here.’ The words tumbled out in a breathless rush that belied her aggressively protective stance. ‘So you can’t see her.’
‘Then I’ll wait.’ Jonas stepped forward, only to come up against her slim frame, vibrating with tension. He’d expected her to give way. She surprised him with her determination to stand her ground. But he refused to retreat, no matter how distracting the sensation of her body against his. His business with Silvia Ruggiero was long overdue.
He looked down and her golden brown eyes widened as if in shock.
‘I’m not going away,’ he murmured, suppressing an inexplicable desire to lift his hand and see if her pale face was as soft as it appeared. The realisation threw him, making his voice emerge harshly. ‘My business won’t wait.’
Again she swallowed. He followed the movement of her slim throat with a fascination that surprised him. The scent of her skin filled his nostrils: feminine warmth and the tang of cinnamon.
Abruptly she stepped back, her chest rising and falling quickly, drawing his attention till he snapped his eyes back to her face.
‘In that case you can talk with me.’ She turned and led the way into the salon, her steps a clipped, staccato beat on the honey-coloured wood floor.
Jonas dragged his gaze from the sway of her hips in dark trousers and followed, furious to find himself distracted from his purpose even for a moment.
She settled herself on an overstuffed chair near a window framed by cloth of gold curtains. Hoping to put him at a disadvantage with her back to the light? It was such an obvious ploy. Instead of taking a seat Jonas prowled the room, knowing that with each passing moment her unease increased. Whoever she was, she was in cahoots with Silvia Ruggiero. Jonas wouldn’t trust her an inch.
‘Why should I share my business with a stranger?’ He peered at an over-decorated ormolu clock.
Was there nothing in this place that wasn’t overdone? It reeked of a nouveau riche fixation with show and quantity rather than quality. His cursory survey had revealed the best pieces in the room to be fakes. But that had been his father—all show and no substance. Especially when it came to things like love or loyalty.
‘I’m not a stranger.’ Her tone was curt. ‘Perhaps if you stopped your crude inventory you’d realise that.’
To Jonas’ surprise unfamiliar heat rose under his skin. True, his behaviour was crass, calculated to unnerve rather than reassure. But he felt no need to ingratiate himself with his father’s mistress or her crony.
He took his time swinging around to meet her eyes.
‘Then perhaps you’ll do me the courtesy of answering my question. Who are you?’
‘I thought that would be obvious. I’m Ravenna. Silvia’s daughter.’
* * *
Ravenna watched shock freeze Jonas’ features.
You’d think after all these years she’d be used to it, but still it struck her a blow.
She’d been a gawky child, all long limbs and feet and a nose it had taken years to grow into. With her dark, Italian looks, exotic name and husky voice she’d been the odd one out in her English country schools. When people saw her with her petite, ravishingly beautiful mother, the kindest comments had been about her being ‘different’ or ‘striking’. The unkindest, at the boarding school her mother had scrimped to send her to—well, she’d put that behind her years ago.
But she’d thought Jonas would remember her, even if she’d worn braces and plaits last time they’d met.
True it had taken her a few moments to recognise him. To reconcile the grim, abrasive intruder in the exquisitely tailored clothes with the young man who’d treated her so kindly the day he’d found her curled in misery behind the stables. He’d been softer then, more understanding. To her dazed teenage eyes he’d shone like a demigod, powerful, reassuring and sexy in the unattainable way of movie stars.
Who’d have thought someone with such charm could turn into a louse?
Only the sex appeal was unchanged.
She looked again into those narrowed pewter-grey eyes that surveyed her so closely.
No, that had changed too. The softness of youth had been pared from Jonas Deveson’s features, leaving them austerely sculpted and attractively spare, the product of generations of aristocratic breeding. He wasn’t a chinless wonder of pampered privilege but the sort of hard-edged, born-to-authority man you could imagine defending Deveson Hall astride a warhorse, armed with sword and mace.
From his superbly arrogant nose to his strong chin, from his thick, dark hair to his wide shoulders and deep chest, Jonas was the sort to make females lose their heads.
How could she find him attractive when he oozed disapproval? When his barely veiled aggression had kept her on tenterhooks from the moment he stalked in the door?
But logic had little to do with the frisson of awareness skimming Ravenna’s skin and swirling in her abdomen.
Steadily she returned his searching look. No matter how handsome he was, or how used to command, she wasn’t about to fall in with his assumption of authority.
‘What’s your business with my mother?’ Ravenna sat back, crossing one leg over the other and placing her hands on the arms of the chair as if totally relaxed.
He flicked a look from her legs to her face and she felt a prick of satisfaction that she’d surprised him. Did he expect her to bow and scrape in his presence? The thought shored up her anger.
‘When will she be back?’ No mistaking the banked fury in those flashing eyes. For all his outward show of calm his patience was on a short leash.
‘If you can’t answer politely, you might as well leave.’ Ravenna shot to her feet. She had enough on her plate without dealing with Piers’ privileged son. Just confronting him sapped her already low stamina. The last thing she needed was for him to guess how weak she felt. He’d just railroad her into doing his bidding—he had that look about him.
She was halfway to the door when his words stopped her.
‘My business with your mother is private.’
Slowly she turned, cataloguing the harsh light in his eyes and the straight set of his mouth. Whatever his business it spelled trouble and Mamma wasn’t in any state to deal with him. She was floundering, trying to adjust to the loss of the man she’d loved so ardently. Ravenna had to protect her.
‘My mother’s not in Paris. You can deal with me.’
He shook his head and took a pace towards her. It ate up the space between them alarmingly, bringing him within touching distance.
Did she imagine she felt the heat of his body warm her?
‘Where is she?’ It wasn’t a request but a demand. ‘Tell me now.’
Ravenna curled her fingers into tight fists, her nails scoring her flesh. His high-handed attitude infuriated her.
‘I’m not your servant.’ By a miracle she kept her voice even. She knew the guilt Silvia had suffered for years because of this man’s refusal to reconcile with his father. ‘My mother might have worked for your family once but don’t think you can come here and throw your weight around. You have no power over me.’
Anger pulsed between them, so strong she felt it throb hard against her chest wall.
At least she thought it was anger. The air between them clogged with tension that stole her breath and furred the nape of her neck.
‘But I do have power over your mother.’ The words were silky soft, like an endearment. But it was suppressed violence she heard in that smooth baritone, a clear threat.
‘What do you mean?’ Alarm raised her voice an octave.
‘I mean your mother’s in serious trouble.’
Fear clawed at Ravenna’s throat and she swallowed hard, taking in the pitiless gleam in his silvery eyes.
Understanding hit. ‘You’re not here to help, are you?’
His bark of laughter confirmed the icy foreboding slithering along Ravenna’s spine.
‘Hardly!’ He paused, as if savouring the moment. ‘I’m here to see she goes to prison for her crimes.’
CHAPTER TWO
RAVENNA LOCKED HER knees as the room swirled sickeningly.
She reached out a groping hand to steady herself and grabbed fabric, fingers digging claw-like as she fought panic.
The last few months had been tougher than anything she could once have imagined. They’d tested her to the limits of endurance. But nothing had prepared her to confront such pure hatred as she saw in Jonas Deveson’s face. There was no softness in his expression, just adamantine determination. It scared her to the core.
Shock slammed into her and the knowledge, surer with every gasping breath, that he was serious. He intended to send her mother to prison.
A hand covered hers to the wrist, long fingers encompassing hers easily, sending darts of searing heat through her chilled flesh.
Stunned, Ravenna looked down to find she’d grabbed the only thing near—the lapel of Jonas Deveson’s tailored jacket. Now he held her hard and fast.
‘Are you all right?’ Concern turned his deep voice to mellow treacle. She felt it softening sinew and taut muscle, easing her shocked stasis enough that she finally managed to inhale. The spinning room settled.
She tugged her hand away. Worryingly, she felt cold without that skin-to-skin contact.
Ravenna spun on her foot and paced to the window. This time when she clutched fabric it was the heavy gold swag of curtain. It was rich and smooth under her tingling fingers, but not as reassuring as the fine wool warmed by Jonas Deveson’s body.
