in the short one-liner, the gist of it being that it was her fault his son was dead. Enrique had been driving recklessly because Julia had broken his heart and his father hoped she rotted in hell!
A flash of rage sparkled in Rand’s black eyes. She knew about the car crash, the crash that had killed his fiancée as well as her ex, and yet she had the nerve to face him. God, she was hard, but, controlling his temper, he said, ‘Even though you had parted, it must have come as quite a shock to you.’
His large hand reached and squeezed her shoulder for a moment, and Jules felt the pressure of his fingers right through to the bone. ‘Yes,’ she murmured, surprised by his apparent if somewhat fierce gesture of comfort.
‘I am sorry. Forgive me for reminding you of your grief,’ he drawled softly.
From her sitting position she felt at a distinct disadvantage, his great frame towering over her, crowding her, and, lifting her chin, she looked up into his dark face. Was that sincerity in the night-black eyes that held hers? She wasn’t sure. He had the ‘sorry’ and the ‘forgive me’ in there—so why did she have the uneasy feeling she had just been insulted?
‘Yes, well, thank you,’ she murmured, feeling more of a hypocrite by the second, ‘but I prefer not to talk about it.’ She lowered her eyes from his intent gaze, her mind in a state of flux. He must know why she was here, so why was he being so nice? Perhaps marriage and a few children had mellowed him, she thought.
CHAPTER TWO
THIS interview was not going at all as Jules had planned; she was not here to relive the past but to hopefully assure her mother’s future. ‘I did not come all this way to talk over the past. The present is more my concern,’ she said firmly.
‘Yes, of course, how foolish of me to think you might need sympathy. After all, you left Enrique virtually standing at the altar.’ Rand stepped back and with a lift of one broad shoulder added, ‘Why would you be worried about the death of an ex-fiancé, years ago, when you were not even concerned with the recent death of your own father?’
Jules’ head shot back up, her green eyes clashing with contemptuous black, her doubts of his sincerity confirmed, and she realised the gloves were off with a vengeance.
‘You know nothing of my relationship with my father.’ She leapt to her feet. ‘Or, rather lack of one,’ she added cynically. ‘And it really has nothing to do with you anyway.’
One of the few times Jules had had a conversation with her dad he had explained how years ago when his sister Ester had been a student she had got involved with a far left political party in Chile. After spending a term in prison for her beliefs, she had finally escaped to Europe. She had met and married an Italian widower with a four-year-old son, Randolfo, and never returned. Brother and sister held completely opposing political views, and they had been estranged for decades. Which with hindsight should have told Jules something about her dad’s character years ago, but it had taken her own engagement to reveal him in his true colours.
Jules seriously doubted her father would ever have contacted his sister, if she had not made the first move years later by asking her adult stepson to check up on her only sibling on her behalf. Carlos Diez had been a cold-hearted, manipulative man as Jules had discovered for herself.
‘It does have something to do with me in as much as I am the sole executor of your father’s will,’ Rand reminded her.
‘And of course your obvious concern must be looking after your stepmother Ester’s interest, I understand that,’ Jules shot back throwing caution to the wind. ‘But I don’t—’
‘Stop right there,’ Rand cut in. ‘I have no intention of discussing business with you on an empty stomach. Join me for lunch, and then we will talk.’
She didn’t want to join him for lunch; in fact she wanted to escape from his powerful presence as soon as humanly possible. But one look at the grim determination in his darkly attractive face, and she knew she had little choice in the matter. Rand Carducci was not a man to be pushed around by anyone, and, if she was to have any chance of getting what she had come for, she could not afford to antagonise the man. ‘Lunch would be nice,’ Jules agreed.
Nice was not a word Rand would have used. Jules had developed into a very beautiful woman, on the outside at least, but at the moment the red tinge to her cheeks and the angry confusion in her flashing green eyes told him all he needed to know. Jules was a gold-digging, heartless little witch and she knew what side her bread was buttered on.
His firm lips twisted in a cynical smile that did not reach his eyes. He might have had some lingering sympathy for the skinny kid he remembered, but the simmering sexuality of the woman before him did not evoke sympathy, but a much more basic emotion. She was the type who could get any man she wanted with a glance from her brilliant emerald eyes and probably did. Carlos Diez apart, Jules owed him personally—if Señor Eiga was to be believed she had indirectly cost him a fiancée. A long time ago, true, but not something Rand could easily forget.
It was in his power to make sure she did not get a cent and he was sorely tempted to do just that. But he was an astute businessman, with a multimillion-dollar corporation to run, and he had neither the time nor inclination to hang around in Chile longer than was necessary. He would settle with the woman for as little as possible. There were other people more worthy who had to be considered.
‘Good. I am glad you agree, and I do understand your concern over your father’s estate,’ Rand said smoothly, not by a flicker of an eyelash revealing the anger simmering inside him. ‘And I can assure you, you will get your just reward, trust me—’ cupping her elbow with one strong hand, he urged her towards the door ‘—but there is no great hurry. As you have taken advantage of the travel arrangements my PA arranged for you I gather you aren’t planning on going anywhere for the next week,’ he opined hardily. ‘And it is good to see you looking so well and with the past firmly behind you.’
‘Yes, well…’ Was that a compliment? Or was he being sarcastic yet again? Jules wondered. But, glancing at him, she added politely, ‘Thank you.’ What else could she say? She needed his help.
Rand’s glittering black eyes scanned her beautiful face, his strong jaw line clenching hard as he noted the evasiveness in her expressive eyes, exactly as he’d expected. When he had heard Jules had run away from her fiancé and her father, he had not been very surprised. She had seemed little more than a child to Rand when she’d got engaged, and far too immature for marriage. As for her father, Carlos, he had been a hard man to like. If it had not been for Ester, the only mother he had ever known and adored, asking him to visit the man when he was in Chile on business, he doubted he would naturally have made friends with Carlos Diez.
Rand let go of her arm a moment and turned to lock the office door, his firm lips twisting in a dry smile. He was quite sure she would not run away from him; she had too much to lose, and yet for years he had not thought badly of her.
The car accident a few months after the aborted wedding had been just that, an accident, Rand had told himself at the time, and, though he had been devastated by the result, it had never entered his head to blame Jules. If anything he had felt slightly sorry for the girl. But he knew Señor Eiga had been convinced Enrique had been driving recklessly because he’d still been heartbroken over Jules, a hard-hearted young woman, and her own father had agreed with him.
Privately Rand had thought if anyone had been to blame it had been Enrique for allowing his emotions to overcome his common sense. It was all right to be reckless with one’s own life, but not with somebody else’s.
