even to think of him merely as a solution to her problems.
Wearily, she reached for her writing pad. She’d have to pen a careful letter—thanking him for taking her out in London, implying that that was all there was to it.
As she made a start, though, it was quite another face that intruded into her inner vision, quite different from Toby’s pudgy features. A face that was dramatic in its looks, with dark eyes that set her pulse beating faster—
She pushed it from her. Even if Nikos Tramontes were not involved with his supermodel girlfriend, all a man like that would be after would be some kind of dalliance—something to amuse him, entertain him while he was in London.
And what use is that to me?
None. None at all.
* * *
Nikos slowly made 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.
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