his way along the avenue of chestnut trees, avoiding the many potholes as Greymont gradually came into view.
With a white stucco eighteenth-century façade, a central block with symmetrical wings thrown out, its aspect was open, but set on a slight elevation, with extensive gardens and grounds seamlessly blending into farmland. The whole was framed by ornamental woodland. A classic stately home of the English upper classes.
Memory jabbed at him, cruel and stabbing. Of another home of another nation’s upper class. A chateau deep in the heart of Normandy, built of creamy Caen stone, with turrets at the corners in the French style.
He’d driven up to the front doors. Had been received.
But not welcomed.
‘You will have to leave. My husband will be home soon. He must not find you here—’
There had been no warmth in the voice, no embrace from the elegant, couture-clad figure, no opening of her arms to him. Nothing but rejection.
‘That is all you have to say to me?’
That had been his question, his demand.
Her lips had tightened. ‘You must leave,’ she’d said again, not answering his question.
He had swept a glance around the room, with its immaculate décor, its priceless seventeenth-century landscapes on the walls, the exquisite Louis Quinze furniture. This was what she had chosen. This was what she had valued. And she had been perfectly willing, to pay the price demanded for it. The price he had paid for it.
Bitterness had filled him then—and an even stronger emotion that he would not name, would deny with steely resolve that he had ever felt. It filled him again now, a sudden acid rush in his veins.
With an effort, he let it drain out of him as he drew his powerful car to a momentary halt, the better to survey the scene before him.
Yes—what he was seeing satisfied him. More than satisfied him. Greymont, the ancestral home of the St Clairs, and all that came with it would serve his purpose excellently. But it was not just the physical possession he wanted—that was not what this visit was about. Had he wished. he could easily have purchased such a place for himself, but that would not have given him what he was set upon achieving.
His smile tightened. He knew just how to achieve what he wanted. What would make Diana St Clair receptive to him. Knew exactly what she wanted most—needed most. And he would offer it to her. On a plate.
His gaze still fixed on his goal, he headed towards it.
‘MR TRAMONTES?’
Diana stared blankly as Hudson conveyed the information about her totally unexpected visitor. What on earth was Nikos Tramontes doing here at Greymont?
Bemused, and with an uneasy flutter in her stomach, she walked into the library. She found her uninvited guest perusing the walls of leather-bound books, and as he turned at her entrance she felt an unwelcome jolt to her heart-rate.
It had been a week since she’d left London, but seeing his tall, commanding figure again instantly brought back the evening she’d spent at Covent Garden. Unlike on the two previous occasions she’d set eyes on him, this time he was in a suit, and the dark charcoal of the material, the pristine white of his shirt, and the discreet navy blue tie, made him every bit as eye-catching as he had been in evening dress.
It annoyed her that she should feel that sudden kick in her pulse again as she approached. She fought to suppress it, and failed.
‘Ms St Clair.’ He strode forward, reaching out his hand.
Numbly, she let him take hers and give it a quick, businesslike shake.
‘I’m sorry to call unannounced,’ he went on, his manner still businesslike, ‘but there is a matter I would like to discuss with you that will be of mutual benefit to us both.’
He looked at her, his expression expectant.
Blankly, she went and sat down on the well-worn leather sofa by the fireplace, and watched him move to do likewise. He took her father’s armchair, and a slight bristle of resentment went through her. She leant over to ring the ancient bell-pull beside the mantel and, when Hudson duly appeared, asked for coffee to be served.
When they were left alone again, she looked directly at her unexpected visitor. ‘I really can’t imagine, Mr Tramontes, that there is anything that could be of mutual benefit to us.’
Surely, for heaven’s sake, he was not going to try and proposition her again? She devoutly hoped not.
He smiled, crossing one long leg over the other. It was a proprietorial gesture, and it put her hackles up. The entrance of Hudson with the coffee tray was a welcome diversion, and she busied herself pouring them both a cup, only glancing at Nikos Tramontes to ask how he took his coffee.
‘Black, no sugar,’ he said briskly, and took the cup she proffered.
But he did not drink from it. Instead, he swept his gaze around the high-ceilinged, book-lined room, then brought it back to Diana.
‘This is an exceptionally fine house you have, Ms St Clair,’ he said. ‘I can see why you won’t sell.’
She started, whole body tensing. What on earth? How dared Nikos Tramontes make such a remark to her. It was none of his business.
He saw her expression and gave a smile that had a caustic twist to it. ‘It wasn’t that hard,’ he said gently, not letting her drop her outraged gaze, ‘to discover the circumstances of your inheritance. And I have eyes in my head. I may not be that familiar with English country houses, but a pot-holed drive, masonry that is crumbling below the roofline, grounds that could do with several more gardeners...’
He took a mouthful of coffee, setting the cup aside on the table her father had used to lay his daily newspaper on. Looked at her directly again.
‘It makes sense of your interest in Toby Masterson,’ he told her. ‘A man with a merchant bank at his disposal.’
Again, outrage seethed in Diana—even more fiercely. Her voice was icy. ‘Mr Tramontes, I really think—’
He held up a hand to silence her. As if, she thought stormily, she was some unruly office junior.
‘Hear me out,’ he said.
He paused a moment, studying her. She was dressed casually, in dark green well-cut trousers and a paler green sweater, with her hair caught back in a clip, no jewellery, and no make-up he could discern—a world away from the muted elegance of her evening dress. But her pale, breathtaking beauty still had the same immediate powerful impact on him as it had when she’d first caught his eye. Her current unconcealed outrage only accentuated his response.
‘I understand your predicament,’ he said.
There was sympathy in his voice, and it made her suspicious. Her expression was shuttered, her mouth set.
