mind. All the shock and the panic she had felt were gone now—completely gone. Unneeded and unnecessary. Instead there was now thin, vicious satisfaction. It was fitting—oh, so fitting!—that he should be here, in the moment of her life’s grateful achievement, when he had nearly, so very nearly, destroyed her life.
But I wouldn’t let him! I clawed my way back and now I’m here, and I’ve got everything I’ve wanted all my life! So go to hell, Angelos Petrakos! Get out of my life and stay out for ever!
Then, casting him away with her damnation, she gazed into Giles’s eyes. The eyes of the man she was going to marry.
On the far side of the room Angelos Petrakos’s eyes were bladed like knives.
* * *
The rest of the evening passed in a blur for Thea. Gratitude and relief were paramount, but she also knew that there were still grave difficulties ahead of her. She was not—how could she be?—the ideal bride for Giles. But she knew how hard she would work to succeed as his wife—a wife he would never regret marrying, that even his parents would accept as well. She would not let them down. Nor Giles. For what he was giving her was beyond price to her. And she would not risk him regretting it.
And I can do it! I remade myself out of what I was—and I can make myself a suitable wife for Giles! I can!
Resolution surged through her. Giles deserved the very best of her, and she would not stint in her efforts to get it right for him. I’ll learn how to do it, she vowed, as she listened to Giles telling her more about Farsdale, the ancestral pile in Yorkshire he would inherit one day.
‘Are you sure you want to take it on?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘It’s a bit of a monstrosity, you know!’
She smiled fondly. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes—I only hope I won’t let you down.’
‘No!’ he answered quickly, taking her hand. She felt warmth go through her. ‘You’ll never do that! You’ll be the most beautiful and wonderful Viscountess we’ve had in the family!’
Angelos stood, hands curved over the cold metal balustrade of the roof terrace of his London apartment, and gazed out over the river, flowing darkly far below. The darkness of the Thames was shot with gold and scarlet—reflected lights from the buildings either side of its wide expanse. From the penthouse terrace he could see the city stretching far in all directions.
A vast, amorphous conurbation—cities within cities—physically contiguous but socially isolated from each other as if there were stone walls and barbed wire fences between them. The London that he inhabited when he visited the city was the one that had the highest fence around it, the thickest walls, keeping out those who did not qualify for entrance.
The London of the rich.
Many wanted to get in—few succeeded. The failure rate was steep, the odds stacked heavily against them. Passports hard to come by.
Money was one passport—the main one. Those whose endeavours made them sufficient money could gain entry. But sometimes money was not essential, not necessary. Sometimes—Angelos’s eyes darkened to match the inky water far below—other attributes would do it.
Especially if you were female.
His hands tightened over the balustrade.
The time-honoured method.
That was what she had used.
He exhaled slowly. He gave an impatient hunching of his shoulders. Well, of course she would! What else did she have?
The cynical twist of his mouth deepened. Only now she wanted more than she had wanted once from him. In the years since then her ambitions had soared—as the dossier he’d ordered showed glaringly.
The Hon. Giles Edward St John Brooke—only son of the fifth Viscount Carriston, principal seat Farsdale, Yorkshire. The Hon. Giles has been a regular escort for the subject at a wide variety of social events over the last year. It is a relationship rumoured in the gossip columns to be potentially one of matrimony, but with the speculative impediment that the Viscount and Viscountess might not approve, preferring a more traditional wife for their heir.
The final phrase echoed in Angelos’ head.
… a more traditional wife …
His mouth thinned.
Had they had her investigated, being concerned for their son? If so, they would have found only what his own security team had found.
Thea Dauntry, twenty-five years old, fashion model, represented by premier modelling agency Elan. Owns lease of a one-bedroom flat in Covent Garden. British nationality and passport. Born Maragua, Central America, to church-funded aid worker parents who died in an earthquake when she was six. Returned to the U.K. and lived in Church of England boarding school until she was eighteen. Travelled abroad for two years. Started modelling career at twenty-one. Good reputation for reliability. No known drug usage. No other known liaisons other than Giles St John Brooke. Press coverage neglible. No scandals. No record of court orders or police convictions.’
For a second, black fury knifed through him. Then, abruptly, he turned away, stepping back indoors, slicing shut the balcony glass door behind him.
She should be asleep, Thea knew. Yet she was restless, staring sightlessly up into the dark in the bedroom of her Covent Garden apartment. Outside she could hear the noise of the street, subdued now, given the lateness of the hour—well gone midnight. But London never slept. She knew the city. Knew it like a chronic, malign disease. She had lived here all her life. But not in this London. This London was a world away, a universe away, from the London she had once known. The London she would never, never know again … never go back to.
And now she would be leaving London completely. She would not miss it—would embrace with gratitude and determination the windswept moors of Yorkshire, the new, wonderful life that was opening out in front of her. Where she would be safe for ever.
But even as she lay there, hearing the subdued noise of the traffic far beyond in the Strand, she felt the shadow feint over her skin. A dark shadow—cruel. Flicking a card down in front of her. A deep, hard voice that had reached out of the past.
But the past was gone—over. It would not come back.
She could not allow it to come back.
Giles phoned in the morning, wanting her to go with him to Farsdale, to be presented with the heirloom engagement ring and meet his parents. But Thea demurred.
‘You owe it to them to see them on your own first,’ she said. ‘I won’t cause a breach, Giles, you know that. And I’ve got a photo shoot this morning anyway.’
‘I hope it’s for a trousseau,’ said Giles warmly. ‘To put you in the right frame of mind!’
She laughed, and hung up on him. The troubled, restless unease of the night was gone, vanished in the brightness of the morning. Her heart felt light, as if champagne were bubbling in her veins. The past was gone. Over. Dead. It was not coming back. Ever. She would not allow it. And it meant nothing, nothing, that a spectre from her past had risen from his damnable earth-filled coffin like that last night!
He
