making his voice emerge harshly. ‘My business won’t wait.’
Again she swallowed. He followed the movement of her slim throat with a fascination that surprised him. The scent of her skin filled his nostrils: feminine warmth and the tang of cinnamon.
Abruptly she stepped back, her chest rising and falling quickly, drawing his attention till he snapped his eyes back to her face.
‘In that case you can talk with me.’ She turned and led the way into the salon, her steps a clipped, staccato beat on the honey-coloured wood floor.
Jonas dragged his gaze from the sway of her hips in dark trousers and followed, furious to find himself distracted from his purpose even for a moment.
She settled herself on an overstuffed chair near a window framed by cloth of gold curtains. Hoping to put him at a disadvantage with her back to the light? It was such an obvious ploy. Instead of taking a seat Jonas prowled the room, knowing that with each passing moment her unease increased. Whoever she was, she was in cahoots with Silvia Ruggiero. Jonas wouldn’t trust her an inch.
‘Why should I share my business with a stranger?’ He peered at an over-decorated ormolu clock.
Was there nothing in this place that wasn’t overdone? It reeked of a nouveau riche fixation with show and quantity rather than quality. His cursory survey had revealed the best pieces in the room to be fakes. But that had been his father—all show and no substance. Especially when it came to things like love or loyalty.
‘I’m not a stranger.’ Her tone was curt. ‘Perhaps if you stopped your crude inventory you’d realise that.’
To Jonas’ surprise unfamiliar heat rose under his skin. True, his behaviour was crass, calculated to unnerve rather than reassure. But he felt no need to ingratiate himself with his father’s mistress or her crony.
He took his time swinging around to meet her eyes.
‘Then perhaps you’ll do me the courtesy of answering my question. Who are you?’
‘I thought that would be obvious. I’m Ravenna. Silvia’s daughter.’
* * *
Ravenna watched shock freeze Jonas’ features.
You’d think after all these years she’d be used to it, but still it struck her a blow.
She’d been a gawky child, all long limbs and feet and a nose it had taken years to grow into. With her dark, Italian looks, exotic name and husky voice she’d been the odd one out in her English country schools. When people saw her with her petite, ravishingly beautiful mother, the kindest comments had been about her being ‘different’ or ‘striking’. The unkindest, at the boarding school her mother had scrimped to send her to—well, she’d put that behind her years ago.
But she’d thought Jonas would remember her, even if she’d worn braces and plaits last time they’d met.
True it had taken her a few moments to recognise him. To reconcile the grim, abrasive intruder in the exquisitely tailored clothes with the young man who’d treated her so kindly the day he’d found her curled in misery behind the stables. He’d been softer then, more understanding. To her dazed teenage eyes he’d shone like a demigod, powerful, reassuring and sexy in the unattainable way of movie stars.
Who’d have thought someone with such charm could turn into a louse?
Only the sex appeal was unchanged.
She looked again into those narrowed pewter-grey eyes that surveyed her so closely.
No, that had changed too. The softness of youth had been pared from Jonas Deveson’s features, leaving them austerely sculpted and attractively spare, the product of generations of aristocratic breeding. He wasn’t a chinless wonder of pampered privilege but the sort of hard-edged, born-to-authority man you could imagine defending Deveson Hall astride a warhorse, armed with sword and mace.
From his superbly arrogant nose to his strong chin, from his thick, dark hair to his wide shoulders and deep chest, Jonas was the sort to make females lose their heads.
How could she find him attractive when he oozed disapproval? When his barely veiled aggression had kept her on tenterhooks from the moment he stalked in the door?
But logic had little to do with the frisson of awareness skimming Ravenna’s skin and swirling in her abdomen.
Steadily she returned his searching look. No matter how handsome he was, or how used to command, she wasn’t about to fall in with his assumption of authority.
‘What’s your business with my mother?’ Ravenna sat back, crossing one leg over the other and placing her hands on the arms of the chair as if totally relaxed.
He flicked a look from her legs to her face and she felt a prick of satisfaction that she’d surprised him. Did he expect her to bow and scrape in his presence? The thought shored up her anger.
‘When will she be back?’ No mistaking the banked fury in those flashing eyes. For all his outward show of calm his patience was on a short leash.
‘If you can’t answer politely, you might as well leave.’ Ravenna shot to her feet. She had enough on her plate without dealing with Piers’ privileged son. Just confronting him sapped her already low stamina. The last thing she needed was for him to guess how weak she felt. He’d just railroad her into doing his bidding—he had that look about him.
She was halfway to the door when his words stopped her.
‘My business with your mother is private.’
Slowly she turned, cataloguing the harsh light in his eyes and the straight set of his mouth. Whatever his business it spelled trouble and Mamma wasn’t in any state to deal with him. She was floundering, trying to adjust to the loss of the man she’d loved so ardently. Ravenna had to protect her.
‘My mother’s not in Paris. You can deal with me.’
He shook his head and took a pace towards her. It ate up the space between them alarmingly, bringing him within touching distance.
Did she imagine she felt the heat of his body warm her?
‘Where is she?’ It wasn’t a request but a demand. ‘Tell me now.’
Ravenna curled her fingers into tight fists, her nails scoring her flesh. His high-handed attitude infuriated her.
‘I’m not your servant.’ By a miracle she kept her voice even. She knew the guilt Silvia had suffered for years because of this man’s refusal to reconcile with his father. ‘My mother might have worked for your family once but don’t think you can come here and throw your weight around. You have no power over me.’
Anger pulsed between them, so strong she felt it throb hard against her chest wall.
At least she thought it was anger. The air between them clogged with tension that stole her breath and furred the nape of her neck.
‘But I do have power over your mother.’ The words were silky soft, like an endearment. But it was suppressed violence she heard in that smooth baritone, a clear threat.
‘What
