Czytaj książkę: «An Innocent, A Seduction, A Secret»

CHAPTER ONE

‘JUST A COUPLE more questions, if I may, Mr Rivas?’

Sebastio Rivas gritted his teeth but forced himself to smile. ‘Of course.’

The words of his solicitor and chief advisor rang in his ears.

‘I know you hate this, Sebastio, but since your father died a year ago you’re now the face of Rivas Bank and everyone wants a piece of you. You’re going to have to do a certain amount of letting the media in...and the public. They want to meet the man who has single-handedly turned one of the world’s most debt-ridden institutions back into a respected and successful bank.’

His smile must have been scary, because the journalist from one of the world’s leading financial broadsheets was looking at him nervously.

Sebastio’s suit felt constricting, his tie too tight. It was at moments like this that he longed most for his past—to be wearing the colours of his country, with fourteen teammates behind him and nothing but the reverent hush of a vast rugby stadium as everyone waited with bated breath to see if he could deliver the ball over the bar.

He missed the simplicity of working with a team with one aim in mind. Winning. Being the best they could be. Coming together in a fluid cohesive unit that was unstoppable. He’d never come across that amazing feeling of solidarity again.

Because you ruined it.

The journalist cleared his throat, bringing Sebastio back into the present moment—which was just as well because he had no desire to take a trip down that memory lane today.

The journalist apparently couldn’t read Sebastio’s mind, because he said blithely, ‘Your life is very different now from the world you inhabited before—that of a professional athlete playing international rugby for your country. You never showed any interest in banking until a few years ago, and yet your transition has been successful, to say the least. You have returned Rivas Bank to profitability within mere months of your father’s death.’

Sebastio’s eyes narrowed warningly but the young man stared him down. Maybe he wasn’t so nervous after all. Sebastio had to concede that of course there was no way he wasn’t going to be asked to explore this avenue. He had been one of the most celebrated athletes of his generation, captaining Argentina against the world’s best teams, beating them again and again, ushering in a golden era for Argentinian rugby.

He was very tempted to cut the interview short, but knew he couldn’t, so he forced that smile again and said coolly, ‘I’ve always been interested in banking. The Rivas family were one of the first to open a bank in the Americas, so it’s been in my blood for many generations.’

‘And yet the Rivas bank fell into something of a decline in recent times.’

Sebastio’s smile turned even more forced. ‘That is true. However, that decline is in the past now.’

Sebastio didn’t need to be reminded of what had precipitated that decline. He’d lived it. Witnessed it all too closely. It had come about for many reasons—the main one being Sebastio’s parents’ very high-profile and scandalous divorce. Scandalous because of the flagrant infidelities on both sides. And because of the life of excess exposed by the court case. Not to mention the vicious custody battle over eight-year-old Sebastio.

When the dust had settled, and Sebastio’s father had been granted primary custody of Sebastio, he’d proceeded to drink and gamble his way through what had been left of the family wealth and profits from the bank.

Admittedly Sebastio hadn’t done much to help when, as the only son and heir, he’d turned his back on his inheritance to play rugby professionally—which had had as much to do with rebelling against his family as it had to do with his love of the sport.

Thanks to his glamorous background, good looks and sporting prowess, and his aversion to commitment, he’d developed a reputation as one of the world’s most eligible bachelors. And one of the world’s most notorious playboys.

When Sebastio had stepped away from the rugby field, however, the bank had convened an emergency meeting, in order to appeal to him to reconsider taking up his position on the board. And once he’d realised how many thousands of lives were supported directly and indirectly through the bank—how many lives his father had been playing roulette with—he’d had no choice but to take his place and regain control of the sinking ship.

He’d already had enough guilt on his conscience to last him a lifetime. He hadn’t needed the added guilt of watching thousands of lives decimated, thanks to his father’s weaknesses.

He’d spent the last three years assuming more and more responsibility as his father had entered into a decline brought on largely through self-destruction and bitterness. Hugo Rivas had never really got over the fact that the most beautiful woman in Argentina had wanted to divorce him.

People said of Sebastio’s stratospheric success that his innate ability to understand the intricacies of finance and manage a financial institution was genetic, but he considered it merely fortuitous.

The journalist’s voice cut into his circling thoughts. ‘You walked away from rugby after the tragic car accident involving Victor Sanchez and his wife. How much of a part did the accident play in your move back into the family business? And are you still in touch with Victor Sanchez?’

The question had the effect of a small but devastating bomb inside Sebastio. He had never spoken about the catastrophic accident that had claimed two lives, ruined a third and blighted his own for ever. And he certainly wasn’t about to start.

He stood up smoothly, buttoning his jacket as he did so. ‘If that’s all... I have a meeting to attend.’

The journalist stood up too, with a wry smile, and held out his hand. ‘I hope you don’t blame me for trying, Mr Rivas. My editor would never forgive me if I didn’t ask the question everyone wants answered most.’

Sebastio took the journalist’s hand and squeezed it firmly enough to make the man’s eyes water slightly. He bared his teeth in another cordial smile. ‘You can ask all you want—not that I’ll ever answer.’

He turned and walked out, trying to ignore the beat of anger pulsing in his blood that a stranger had opened this Pandora’s box of unwelcome memories. Memories of the worst night of his life.

The screeching tangle of metal on metal and the smell of leaking petrol was still vivid enough to make Sebastio break out in a cold sweat. And the image of his friend’s wife, thrown from the car and lying at an unnatural angle on the road, blood pooling around her head.

His mouth was a grim line as he pulled on his coat and exited the exclusive hotel in London’s Knightsbridge. He was thousands of miles from Buenos Aires and yet the past wouldn’t leave him in peace.

You don’t deserve it.

The line of his mouth got tighter. He didn’t deserve peace. So maybe he owed the journalist something for reminding him of that.

He saw his driver jump out of his waiting car and rush around to open the door and that feeling of constriction was back. He said, ‘It’s okay, Nick. I’m going to walk back to the office.’

The suited man inclined his head. ‘Very well, sir. Nice day for it.’

Was it a nice day for it? Sebastio watched as the driver pulled out smoothly into the snarl of London traffic. He supposed that yes, it was a nice day. It was one of those rare English winter days—bright and clear and dry. Frost was in the air, but not on the ground yet. Christmas was around the corner and the decorations were up in earnest.

Sebastio passed women in expensive furs and men in bespoke suits and overcoats, much like his own.

He pulled up his collar against the chill and was oblivious to the appreciative looks he drew from a group of women standing outside a shop. He crossed the street, avoiding a particularly garish Christmas tree surrounded by singers in period costume belting out tuneless carols.

He loathed Christmas for too many reasons to count, and for the past three years had escaped it by going to parts of the world where Christmas wasn’t celebrated so much. One year he’d gone to Africa, another year to India. Last year he’d spent it in Bangkok.

That first year—after the accident had happened—Christmas had been a blur of grief, guilt and pain so acute that Sebastio hadn’t been sure he would come out the other side.

But he had. And this year he was here in London, in the hub of Christmas mania. Because the truth was that he didn’t deserve a free pass to escape. And, more pertinently because the Rivas bank had just opened its European headquarters here. He had been advised to make the most of the festive season by hosting a series of important social functions which would secure his place in English and European society.

It had even been suggested that he should decorate his house, where he was intending hosting these seasonal social functions, but the thought of being surrounded by trees and baubles and blinking lights made him feel so claustrophobic that he’d tuned out that particular advice.

He was passing the windows of one of the most famous department stores in the world now, and an ornate sign hung in the window, in front of red velvet drapes.

The famous Marrotts festive windows will be revealed this weekend!

Happy Christmas!

A couple of small children were trying to peer in between a small gap in the curtains, giggling before being led away by their parents.

Sebastio felt a shaft of pain so intense that he almost stopped dead in the street. If not for the accident, Victor and Maya’s daughter would now be...

He shook his head to dislodge the thought and instinctively moved away from the main thoroughfare, ducking down a side street. He cursed the reporter again for having precipitated this avalanche of memories.

At that moment Sebastio turned his head and realised he was passing another of those famous windows, but this time the red velvet drapes were partially open.

He came to a reluctant standstill on the quiet pavement as the scene in the window snagged his attention. It was a magical fairy forest, with branches opening into hidden worlds and little faces and eyes peeping out. Fairies, goblins...

In spite of himself, Sebastio was momentarily captivated. It was Christmassy, but...not. It tugged on a memory deep in the recesses of his mind. An uncomfortable reminder that he hadn’t always hated Christmas.

He’d had an English grandmother, and his parents had used to leave Sebastio with her every Christmas while they went on holiday. Those Christmases had been magical. His grandmother had taken him to West End shows. They’d decorated the house, watched movies, played games. All the things he’d never done with his parents because they had been too busy either having affairs, fighting or indulging in lavish reunion holidays.

Sebastio had used to dread their return, and he could remember one year clinging to his grandmother in tears, his father pulling him away roughly...

His grandmother had died not long after that, and they hadn’t even come back to England for her funeral. Sometimes Sebastio had wondered if he’d made it up. So starved of affection by his parents that he’d concocted a benevolent loving grandmother like some pathetic fairytale...

As time had passed it had seemed more and more like a fantasy because no subsequent Christmas had ever been like those idyllic ones he remembered. And so he’d blocked them out and convinced himself that he hated Christmas, because he knew he would never experience anything close to that magic again and to want it was a weakness.

He saw movement, and followed it to see a woman standing at one side of the display. She had her hands on her hips and her head cocked to one side as she looked up to where a young man was hanging a glittering star on the branch of a tree. They must still be dressing the window.

She shouldn’t have snagged his attention. She had her back to him and she was dressed in plain black trousers, a long-sleeved black top and flat shoes. He saw her shake her head, her shining cap of short hair glinting auburn in the lights. Then she bent down and picked up something else—another decoration—and handed it up to the man on the stepladder. As she reached up, her top rode high to reveal a taut pale belly and slim waist.

A beat of something pulsed to life in Sebastio’s blood. Awareness. Arousal. For a moment he almost didn’t recognise it, it had been so long since he’d felt it. Nearly four years. He welcomed it as an antidote to the bitter memories.

Then, as if sensing his attention on her, the woman slowly turned around. Sebastio wasn’t prepared for the kick to his solar plexus when he saw her revealed. She was stunning. Huge eyes framed by arching dark brows. Defined cheekbones and a lush mouth set off dramatically by her short hair, slightly longer at the front and feathering messily around her face.

It gave her a delicate gamine appeal that sent a definite surge of desire through Sebastio’s body. It confounded him. Being so tall and big himself, he’d always gravitated towards statuesque women. This one looked as if a puff of wind would blow her over. And yet he could sense an inner strength. Crazy when she was a total stranger, with a thick pane of glass separating them.

The woman was staring at Sebastio with an arrested expression. For a moment their eyes locked. Hers were deep blue, but even from here he could see the long lashes. And then, as if waking from a trance, she stalked over and dragged the drapes shut, leaving Sebastio looking back at his own distorted features in the glass.

He had the strangest sensation of déjà-vu—as if he had seen her somewhere before. But the feeling was too ephemeral to pin down.

He was stunned. No woman had ignited his interest or his desire so forcibly and immediately in four years. Not that anyone would believe it. Sebastio was a master of misdirection—covering up his flatlining libido with a series of high-profile dates that never went beyond a kiss. His reputation as a skilled lover and a connoisseur of beautiful women served as a smokescreen he used willingly.

He thought of the display in the window again. It had effortlessly captured his attention, taking him unawares, which was unusual when he had such an aversion to Christmas. He thought of the advice he’d been given to decorate his home and something occurred to him...

That woman might have sparked his libido back to life, but he needed her for something far more practical.

Sebastio went back the way he’d come and turned the corner into the main street, thronged with people. He saw the main doors of the shop and strode towards them purposefully.

* * *

Edie Munroe was standing looking at the closed drapes like someone who’d been hypnotised. Or hit over the head. She’d never in a million years expected to see that guy again and yet...she just had.

And it had struck her today as forcibly as it had four years ago, when she’d first laid eyes on him in a crowded nightclub in Edinburgh.

It couldn’t be him, she told herself now, feeling her skin rise into goosebumps. It couldn’t be Sebastio Rivas.

The fact that she even remembered his name was not welcome.

What were the chances it was him? It had to be someone who looked liked him. After all, Sebastio Rivas was a mega-famous international rugby star. What on earth would he be doing walking down a random side-street in London?

But her accelerated heart-rate told her it was him.

It was galling to be reminded that no other man in four years had had the same effect on her. And she’d tried. She’d gone on Tinder dates, blind dates and internet dates. But on each date, when the guy had tried to take things a step further, Edie had felt herself shutting down.

Because she couldn’t get out of her head how he’d made her feel four years ago. Alive and energised. Buzzing. Connected. Hopeful.

And aroused.

For the first time in her life she’d understood what people were talking about when they spoke of instant attraction, or said, You’ll know it when you feel it. She had felt it like a palpable energy. Electricity.

It had been a wholly new sense of desire, and she’d known instinctively that only he could assuage the building sense of excitement in her core. A crazy assertion to have about a total stranger, but one so deep she could still feel it today.

It was pathetic. Her entire exchange with Sebastio Rivas had lasted about five minutes. He’d told her to run along. He’d been out of bounds, out of her league, and he hadn’t hesitated in letting her know.

The fact that she’d gravitated across a heaving dance-floor to orbit the sun of his smouldering sexuality—like every other woman in the room—was as freshly humiliating today as it had been then, especially after he’d sent her on her way.

She’d been so sure she’d seen something...sensed something in him. Their eyes had locked and a silent communication had throbbed between them. She’d seen something in his demeanour, in his eyes, a kind of brittleness. And it had resonated within her because she’d felt the same.

She’d just come through a major ordeal—cancer, which she’d contracted when she was seventeen, throwing her life into instant turmoil. It had become a fight for survival, an endless round of toxic treatments and sterile hospital rooms.

For the previous eighteen months she hadn’t known if she would live or die, and some of the time she’d been feeling so sick she’d almost wished—

Edie clamped down on that thought, remembering her parents’ worried, pinched faces.

That very day she’d been given the all-clear, and that night had been her first foray back into the world. She’d felt as if a layer of skin had been removed, making everything feel too bright, too sharp. Too much.

She remembered that she’d been wearing a dress borrowed from a friend. Short, silver and slinky. Not her style at all. But then, that whole night had been about a celebration she’d never expected to experience. A celebration of life.

And, because her hair hadn’t yet started to grow back, she’d been wearing a wig. A shoulder-length bob. Bright red and hot and scratchy. Yet none of that had stopped her from approaching the most beautiful man in the room.

She’d never seen or met a man who’d come close to his sheer charisma and good-looks. Well over six foot, he’d had the leanly muscled build of an elite athlete. The power in his body had been evident under his dark suit.

A little desperately, she tried to tell herself again that the man she’d just seen outside couldn’t be him. But she’d never forget that face. Sculpted from stone. All slashing lines and sharp bones. Hard jaw. Deep-set eyes under black brows. Thick dark hair flopping messily over his forehead. Curling around his collar.

And a mouth made for sin. Full and sensual. Softening those hard lines and the stern demeanor he’d exuded like a force-field.

‘Edie... Earth to Edie... Can I come down now?’

She whirled around, aghast at her reaction to someone who probably wasn’t even the man she was thinking of. She was losing it.

‘Of course, Jimmy.’ She gabbled, ‘I think the man in the window—I mean, the man in the moon decoration works better than the star.’ She hoped Jimmy wouldn’t see her face flaming at her Freudian slip.

‘Not that anyone will see it,’ grumbled the young man as he came down the ladder. ‘We’re all the way around the corner from the main windows.’

Edie said brightly, ‘It means we can be more creative with our wee display.’

‘Wee being the operative word. I hate the way the big designers get to dress the main windows now. It’s so...commercial.’

‘I know,’ said Edie, hiding a smile at the art student’s dismay and forcing her mind away from the past. She’d never got to college herself and had worked her way up the ranks to be a creative display artist. ‘That’s the way it is now, and I’m sure they’ll be beautiful.’

‘Yes, but they won’t be magical.’

Privately Edie agreed. She too loved the magic and fantasy surrounding Christmas. She loved everything about Christmas. She was trying to create a little of that magic in this window, in spite of the fact that not many people would see it.

But, times had changed, and now the big fashion designers had more sway than the in-house creatives—especially at Christmas time.

She pulled out another box full of decorations and said, ‘Right, we’ll have a quick tea break and then get started with this lot. The window has to be finished by this evening.’

Jimmy mock saluted her. ‘Aye aye, boss.’

Edie smiled at his cheeky grin as he escaped for his break. She looked at her watch and sighed. She knew she should take a break too, but if they wanted this window to be finished... She decided to keep going.

As soon as her mind was occupied with nothing more than unwrapping decorations, though, it invariably wandered back to the man—to him.

Edie looked up at the drapes suspiciously. She got up from the stool she’d perched on and went over cautiously, peeking out through a gap.

Of course the street was empty now. Strange to feel disappointed. And silly. Maybe she’d conjured him up out of some subconscious fantasy she’d never admitted to harbouring?

Edie pulled the curtains closed firmly and turned around, ready to put all random thoughts of disturbing men and memories out of her mind. She heard a sound and looked up with a smile on her face, expecting it to be Jimmy.

But it wasn’t Jimmy. The smile promptly slid off her face.

Her supervisor, Helen, was standing in the doorway to the window space and behind her was...him. Even taller and more intimidating than she remembered. Not a fantasy. Real.

Helen, a no-nonsense blonde woman, came in, looking more than a little flushed and starry-eyed. And she was married with four children.

‘Edie, I’d like to introduce you to someone.’

Edie’s feet were glued to the floor. She could not believe this was happening.

And through the shock all she could think was, Would he recognise her? Her rational brain told her, Of course not. They’d barely spoken that night. She’d looked far different from how she looked now. And yet she couldn’t deny the tripping of her pulse, the breathless sense of anticipation.

Her boss said, ‘Edie, this is Mr Sebastio Rivas—Mr Rivas, this is Edie Munroe, one of our display artists.’

She stepped forward. The space, which was small anyway, now felt Lilliputian. Edie forced herself to look at him and her heart thudded to a stop. He was exactly how she remembered. Albeit slightly more groomed. His hair was still too long, but not as messy. The top button of his shirt was closed and his tie was pristine. She felt the strangest impulse to loosen it for him, as if she could sense that he felt constricted.

Crazy. He was a stranger. He had been then, and he still was. He was looking at her intently, but with no apparent spark of recognition. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

He held out his hand. It was big and masculine. She had a memory flash of that hand on her bare upper arm, steadying her. When she’d walked over to him in the club someone had bumped into her from behind, pitching her forward. His hand had circled her whole arm.

She realised that he was looking at her a little quizzically and that her boss was clearing her throat discreetly. Mortified to have been caught in her moment, Edie quickly put her hand in his. It disappeared. That same jolt of electricity she’d felt four years ago sizzled in her blood and she pulled her hand back, doing her best to hide her reaction. And her shock.

‘It’s nice to meet you.’

She forced herself to look at him again. She noticed how grey his eyes were. Almost like steel. He had long dark lashes that only enhanced his physicality. Much like that ridiculously sensual mouth.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Munroe.’

Her toes curled at his deep and accented voice.

Her boss spoke. ‘Mr Rivas has a proposition for you, Edie. Will you come with us to discuss it?’

She knew this wasn’t a request. ‘Of course. Jimmy will be back soon—he can get on with the rest of the decorating.’

Her boss made a small approving noise and went back out into the main shop. Sebastio Rivas indicated for Edie to go before him. She slipped out through the door, acutely conscious of him behind her, and she spotted more than one woman do a double-take as they walked past.

It brought back a flood of memories from that night. The way her heart had been pounding so hard after she’d walked over to him. Pounding with desire and nerves. It had been at that moment when someone had jostled her from behind and she’d pitched forward helplessly.

He’d put his hand around her arm to steady her and looked at her. ‘Who are you?’ His voice had been sharp. Almost accusatory.

Edie had stuttered out, ‘N-no one. I just... I wanted to come and speak to you. I saw you...from across the room. You were looking at me too...and I thought... I thought you might want to speak to me...’

His gaze had swept her up and down with an almost clinical disregard. The connection that had borne her aloft to do such an audacious thing had suddenly felt very tenuous. Suddenly she’d been very aware of her hot itchy head and the skimpy dress that felt far too skimpy.

She’d also become acutely conscious of the thick VIP rope, separating him and his friends from everyone else. And her. She’d become aware of the stunning women orbiting around him—women Edie couldn’t hope to compete with. Women with abundant curves and thick luxurious hair. Confident.