with this deal you’re working on. The newspapers are full of it. It’s nice that you still can find a window for a dying old man.’
Rafael raised both eyebrows and looked at his godfather wryly.
David Dunmore might look the very soul of benevolence, with his round spectacles and his tufting grey hair and his jolly, might-almost-be-related-to-Father-Christmas appearance, but Rafael knew very well that behind that façade there beat the heart of someone as sharp as a tack and not averse to a little emotional blackmail.
He also knew that his godfather would never have requested his presence if it hadn’t been something urgent. The more convoluted the road he took to get there, the more significant the request would be and right now, after an hour of going round the houses, the size of the favour had increased exponentially.
Rafael relaxed back in his chair, drink in his hand, and braced himself for the long haul.
He hadn’t been to his godfather’s house in a while. At least a couple of months and not since the old man had been confined to bed and climbing the four walls. When they met, they generally met at the old-fashioned gentleman’s club David was a member of where, as he was fond of saying, a chap could hear himself think over a decent whisky and food that hadn’t been tampered with by a celebrity chef. ‘Cabbage and cottage pie—who needs it?’ Rafael would routinely retort, both comfortable in a relationship in which easy familiarity was the offspring of mutual respect and great love.
Rafael had almost forgotten how exquisite this house in Belgravia was, with its graceful proportions and expensive clutter that harked back to a time before minimalism had become the fashion. Soft Persian rugs covered the rich, wooden floor and artefacts from trips abroad jostled with priceless works of art and dainty sculptures.
‘I thought you’d stopped playing the “dying” card,’ he said mildly. ‘After the consultant gave you the all clear and declared you as fit as a fiddle.’
‘What do consultants know?’
‘A lot, considering the years they’ve spent practising medicine. Hillman, as it happens, is top of his field when it comes to dodgy tickers, so it’s fair to say if he’s given you the all clear then the “dying” card is no longer appropriate.’
‘Well, superficially I may look as though I’m on the mend, but you have no idea the sort of stress I’ve been enduring for the past few months.’
The smile dropped from Rafael’s face. ‘Freddy? Throwing his weight around again? Let me take care of the bloody man.’
‘You can’t. You have no pull in my company and threatening him with hell and damnation isn’t going to work. Right now, he can tell that I’ve been mortally wounded. I no longer have the stamina or the interest to go into my offices nearly as much as I used to, and he’s been…making mischief. But you know how it is, Rafael. He is my stepson, for better or for worse, and he’s also a significant shareholder thanks to the divorce settlement. There is nothing I can do about him, but three of my trusted directors have handed in their resignations, and I fear he is systematically going to try and get his cronies in to replace them. Five years ago, I would have had the energy to keep more of an eye on the boy, but…’
He sighed. ‘The old guard are ready to go. They’re just allowing themselves to be pushed out slightly ahead of schedule. But that’s by the by. For the time being. No, I asked you here to discuss something entirely different.’
Rafael said nothing. His antennae were picking up undercurrents swirling beneath the surface. The silence stretched and then, eventually, David Dunmore reached into the old-fashioned briefcase on the walnut coffee table next to him and extracted an envelope.
He leant forward, handed it to Rafael and then sat back, linking fingers on his protruding stomach to watch his godson with keen interest.
‘What’s this?’
‘Read it.’
Rafael met his godfather’s steady gaze, his dark eyes veiled, revealing nothing of the sudden cool chill of apprehension sweeping through him. He opened the envelope. One sheet of paper. It was almost a shock to see that it was a handwritten letter because nowadays nearly everyone communicated by email. The writing was decisive, indicating someone with a strong will, and loopy, indicating that its author was probably a woman.
He felt his godfather’s eyes on him, and knew that a response was going to be required, but as he read the letter, then reread it for good measure, for once in his life Rafael found himself at a complete loss for words.
‘I know you’re probably a little surprised at the content.’
‘A little surprised? That’s the understatement of the century! When did this bombshell drop on your lap and how much is it going to cost you?’
‘Now, now, don’t jump to conclusions, Rafael. First of all, it’s true.’ David sighed and sat back and closed his eyes for a few seconds, then he looked at his godson. ‘I met Maria Suarez over twenty years ago when I was in my late forties. She was just twenty-six and the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on. At the time, I was between wives.’ He grimaced. ‘Shelling out a small fortune in alimony to Fiona and pretty jaded when it came to the opposite sex. Maria was…a breath of fresh air.’
‘Okay,’ Rafael said crisply. ‘Before you start waxing lyrical about beautiful women and breaths of fresh air, David, let’s cut to the chase.’ The urge to protect—a primal force that harked back down the years to a time when this man sitting in front of him had been his safe harbour in turbulent waters—kicked into gear with a vengeance.
‘This woman, if it even is her, gets in touch with you to tell you that you have a long-lost kid on the other side of the world. Says she’s about to kick the bucket and her conscience has got the better of her.’ He clicked his tongue with rampant disbelief. ‘Question—how does she know where you live? And presumably, if she knows where you live, then she also knows how wealthy you are.’
David shifted uncomfortably and shot his godson a jaundiced look.
‘How did you meet her?’
Long-lost daughter…? Presumably as poor as a church mouse…? In need of some cash…? And that was if there was any daughter at all and if the mysterious letter-writer was who she claimed to be! Could this tender and touching story have any more holes?
And, if his godfather was inclined to believe all this tosh, then it was up to Rafael to rescue him from his folly. There was no way he was going to allow any more potential gold-diggers to run roughshod over him and the ‘prodigal daughter’ angle was just the sort of cunning ploy his godfather would fall for. Was falling for, from the looks of it.
‘I was in Argentina all those years ago,’ David reflected with the sort of wistful expression that made Rafael want to grind his teeth together in frustration. ‘Out there for a year, sourcing locations for my flagship South American boutique hotels, introducing them to the concept of the eco hotel. Met her when I was there. My word, what a raven-haired beauty. As sweet-natured as it was possible to be. I fell head over heels in love with her.’
‘But no happy ending.’ Rafael yanked him back to reality. ‘Considering you returned to London and promptly married Ingrid and kissed sweet goodbye to yet another sizeable chunk of your assets when you divorced her—not to mention bidding farewell to the shares in the company which your dear stepson is intent on taking over.’ He sighed.
