Miss Prim and the Billionaire Read online

‘I don’t blame you at all. It’s stifling in there, isn’t it? Why don’t we both sit out in the fresh air?’

  He gestured towards the garden and she walked ahead, too dazed to do anything else.

  He hadn’t reacted.

  He hadn’t recognised her.

  It might be the poor light. Twilight was settling, making everything fade into shadows, denying him a clear view of her face. That was a relief. It would give her time to take control of the situation.

  But she was shaken with anguish as they reached a table and he pulled out a chair for her. He had loved her so much, and now he no longer recognised her.

  ‘What can I get you to drink?’ Marcel asked. ‘Champagne?’

  ‘Tonic water, please,’ she said. ‘I prefer to keep a clear head.’

  ‘You’re quite right. I’ll have the same since obviously I’d better keep a clear head too. Waiter!’

  A stranger might be fooled by this, she thought wryly, but the young Marcel had had an awesome ability to imbibe cheap wine while losing none of his faculties. After a night of particular indulgence she’d once challenged him to prove that he was ‘up to it’. Whereupon he’d tossed her onto the bed, flung himself down beside her and proved it again and again, to the delight and hilarity of them both.

  Hilarity? Yes. It had been a joy and a joke at the same time—exhausting each other, triumphing over each other, never knowing who was the winner, except that they both were.

  ‘Cassie, my sweet beloved, why do you tease me?’

  ‘To get you to do what I wanted, of course.’

  ‘And did I do it to your satisfaction?’

  ‘Let’s try again and I’ll let you know.’

  ‘You clearly believe that business comes before pleasure,’ he told her now in a voice that the years hadn’t changed. He spoke English well, but with the barest hint of a French accent that had always enchanted her.

  How many women, she wondered, had been enchanted by it since?

  ‘Smith recommended you to me in the highest possible terms,’ Marcel continued. ‘He said nobody knew as much about my new property as you.’

  ‘I hope I can live up to Mr Smith’s praise,’ she said primly.

  ‘I’m sure you will.’ His reply was courteous and mechanical.

  ‘Do you mean to make the hotel similar to La Couronne?’

  ‘I see you’ve been doing your homework. Excellent. There will be similarities. I aim to provide many facilities, like a conference centre.’

  ‘I wonder if the building is big enough for that.’

  ‘I agree. There will need to be expansion. I want the best firm of builders you can recommend.’

  For a while he continued to talk about his plans, which were ambitious, and she made notes, not even raising her head when the waiter appeared with their tonic water.

  Her hand, and one part of her brain, were working automatically. There was nothing in him to suggest recognition, no tension, no brightening of the eyes. His oblivion was so total that she even wondered if she was mistaken and he wasn’t her Marcel after all. But when she stole a sideways glance she knew there had been no mistake. The shape of his head, the curve of his lips, the darkness of his eyes; all these she knew, even at a distance of years.

  This was her Marcel.

  Yet no longer hers.

  And no longer really Marcel.

  The same was true of her. Cassie was gone for ever and only Mrs Henshaw remained.

  He moved and she hastened to bury herself in her work. When she dared to look up he had filled her glass. In her best businesslike voice she said, ‘I happen to know that the owner of the building next door has been thinking of selling.’

  ‘That would be useful for my expansion. Give me the details and I’ll approach him. Do you have any more information?’

  She scribbled some details and passed them to him.

  ‘Excellent. I’m sure Smith told you that I need an assistant to work with me on this project. You’d do better than anyone.’

  ‘That’s very impulsive. Don’t you need more time to think about it?’

  ‘Not at all. The right decisions are very quickly made. And so they should be.’

  For a moment she was fired with temptation. To take the job, be with him day after day, with him not knowing who she was. The prospect was so enticing as to be scary.

  But she could not. She must not.

  ‘It’s impossible,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘Why? Would your husband object? He doesn’t mind you working for Smith.’

  ‘I’m divorced.’

  ‘So you’re the mistress of your own destiny and can do as you choose.’

  She almost laughed aloud. Once she’d imagined exactly the same, and been shown otherwise in the most brutal fashion.

  ‘Nobody chooses their own destiny,’ she said. ‘We only think we do. Wise people remember that.’

  He gave her a curious look. ‘Are you wise, Mrs Henshaw?’

  ‘Sooner or later we all become wise, don’t we?’

  ‘Some of us.’

  As he said it he looked directly at her. She met his eyes, seeking recognition in them, but seeing only a blank. Or merely a weariness and disillusion that matched her own.

  ‘Things are moving fast in the property world,’ he said, ‘as I’m sure you know. When I tell Smith that I’ve decided to employ you I’m sure he’ll release you quickly.’

  He’d decided, she noted. No suggestion that she had a decision to make.

  ‘I need a little time to think,’ she hedged.

  ‘I’ll pay you twice what you’re getting now.’

  ‘I could lie about the amount.’

  ‘And I could check with him. I won’t, though, I trust you. Don’t worry, I’m a hard taskmaster. I’ll get full value from you.’

  ‘Now, look—’

  ‘I won’t take no for an answer. Fine, that’s settled.’

  ‘It is not,’ she said, her temper rising. ‘Please don’t try to tell me what to do.’

  ‘As your employer I shall expect to.’

  ‘But you’re not my employer.’

  ‘I soon will be.’

  He’d always liked his own way, she recalled, but he’d used charm. Now charm was gone, replaced by bullying. Perhaps she couldn’t entirely blame him after the way he’d suffered. But still she knew she had to escape.

  ‘Mr Falcon, I think it’s time you understood—’

  ‘Well, well, well. Who’d have thought it?’

  The words, coming out of nowhere, startled them both. Approaching them was a large man with an air of pathological self-satisfaction.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she groaned. ‘Not him.’

  ‘You know this man?’

  ‘He’s Keith Lanley, part financial journalist, part muck-raker. He spends his days scurrying around trying to work out who’s going to go bankrupt next.’

  ‘What a thing to happen!’ Lanley exclaimed, coming up to them. ‘So the rumours are true, Jane. You’re a sly character, getting out of Daneworth while the going’s good. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend? Of course I already know who he is. Everyone’s ears pricked up when the Falcon family came to town.’

  ‘I’m here for a wedding,’ Marcel said coldly. ‘So are the other members of my family.’

  ‘Of course, of course. But no Falcon ever passed up the chance of making money, now, did he? And a lot depends on how you present it to the world. Suppose we three—’

  But she’d had enough.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said, rising to her feet.

  ‘Now, wait—’

  Lanley reached to grab her but she evaded him and fled deeper into the garden. Trying to follow her, Lanley found himself detained by Marcel, his face dark with rage.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ he said furiously.

  ‘Hey, no need to get irate. I could do you a favour.’

  ‘The only favour you could do me is to vanish off the face of the earth. Now, get out before I hav
e you arrested.’

  ‘I suppose you could, too,’ Lanley said in a resigned voice. ‘All right, I’ll go—for now.’ He began to go but turned. ‘You couldn’t just give me a quote about your father?’

  ‘Get out!’

  When the man had departed Marcel looked around. He was breathing hard, trying to force himself to be calm when all he wanted to do was roar to the heavens. Anguish possessed him, but more than anguish was rage—terrifying anger at her, at himself, at the cruel fate that had allowed this to happen.

  Where was she? Vanished into thin air?

  Again!

  He began to run, hunting her here and there until at last he came across her leaning against a tree, her back to him. He touched her and her reaction was instant and violent.

  ‘No, leave me alone. I won’t talk to you.’

  ‘It’s not Lanley, I’ve sent him away.’

  But she didn’t seem to hear, fending him off madly until she lost her balance and fell, knocking her head against the tree. He tried to catch her but could only partly break her fall, steadying her as she slid to the ground.

  ‘Your head,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Cassie.’

  People were approaching, calling out.

  ‘She’s collapsed,’ he called back. ‘She needs a doctor.’

  Lifting her in his arms, he hurried the hundred yards back to the hotel. Word had gone ahead and the hotel doctor was waiting for them.

  Her eyes were closed but she was aware of everything, especially Marcel’s arms holding her firmly. Where their bodies touched she could feel his warmth, and just sense the soft thunder of his heart.

  Cassie. He’d called her Cassie.

  Hadn’t he?

  Her mind was swimming. Through the confusion she could hear his voice crying ‘Cassie,’ but had he said it or had she imagined it through the fog of her agitation? Had he known her all the time and concealed it? What would he do now?

  She felt herself laid down and heard voices above her. She gave a soft gasp and opened her eyes.

  ‘I think Mrs Henshaw’s coming round,’ the doctor said.

  Marcel’s face hovered over her.

  ‘I’m all right, honestly,’ she murmured. ‘I just bumped my head against the tree and it made me dizzy for a moment.’

  ‘Let’s do a check,’ the doctor said.

  She barely heard. Her eyes were seeking Marcel’s face, desperate to know what she could read in it.

  But it was blank. There was nothing there.

  For a moment she fought the truth, but then she forced herself to accept it. He hadn’t recognised her, hadn’t spoken her name. She’d simply imagined what she wanted to believe.

  No!

  A thousand voices screamed denial in her head. That wasn’t what she wanted. She wouldn’t think it or allow him to think it.

  The doctor finished checking her, cleaned the graze and pronounced himself satisfied. ‘But I’d recommend an early night,’ he said. ‘Are you staying here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does anyone live at home with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity. I’d rather you weren’t alone tonight.’

  ‘She won’t be,’ Marcel intervened. ‘She’ll stay in my suite, with a woman to watch out for her.’

  ‘Oh, will I?’ she said indignantly.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Henshaw. You will. Please don’t waste my time with further argument.’

  He walked out, leaving her seething. ‘Cheek!’

  ‘Be fair,’ said the doctor. ‘He obviously cares a lot about you.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve only just met him.’

  In a few minutes it was clear that Marcel had gone to make arrangements. He returned with a wheelchair.

  ‘I don’t need that,’ she said, aghast.

  ‘Yes, you do. Take my hand.’

  This was the moment to hurry away, put the whole disastrous evening behind her and forget that Marcel had ever existed. But he had firm hold of her, ushering her into the chair in a manner that brooked no refusal.

  Since arguing was useless she sat in silence as he took her into the elevator and upstairs to his suite, where a pleasant-looking young woman was waiting.

  ‘This is my sister Freya,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve brought you a nightdress,’ Freya said.

  ‘I’ll leave you.’ Marcel departed quickly.

  ‘This is the bedroom and bathroom,’ Freya told her. ‘I’ll look in often to make sure you’re all right. Let me help you undress.’

  As they worked on it Freya asked, ‘Whatever did Marcel do to you?’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault. I fell against a tree.’

  ‘Well, he obviously feels responsible.’

  ‘He has no need.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s just a very generous and responsible man. I’m still getting to know him.’

  ‘I thought he said you were his sister.’

  ‘His stepsister.’ Freya laughed. ‘He keeps calling me his sister so that he doesn’t have to marry me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Amos wants me to marry one of his sons so that I’ll really be part of the family. His first choice is Darius but Darius is no more keen than I am. So then Marcel is “next in the firing line” as he puts it. That “sister” business is his way of protecting himself.’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  Freya chuckled. ‘I’m not weeping into my pillow. He’s not my style at all. Too much like his father. Oh, it’s rotten of me to say that when Amos has been so kind to me, but now I can still escape. The thought of being married to a man like that—’ She gave a melodramatic shudder.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Money, money, money. That and always being one step ahead of his enemies.’

  ‘Does Marcel have a lot of enemies?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t think he has many friends. There’s a coldness in him that it’s hard to get past. There now, you’re ready for bed. Would you like me to stay?’

  ‘No, thank you. You’ve been very kind.’

  She was desperate to be alone. As soon as the door closed she pulled the covers over her head and tried to sort out her confused mind.

  Freya had spoken of his coldness, but the young man she’d known and loved had been incapable of coldness. Somehow, one had become the other.

  This isn’t happening. It can’t be. I’ll wake up and find it was a dream. At least, I hope so. Or do I hope so? Is that what I really want? Did he recognise me or not? Is he just pretending not to? What am I hoping for?

  But thinking was too troubling, so at last she gave up and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHE awoke suddenly in the dark. Listening intently, she could make out the sound of footsteps nearing her room. Marcel. She slid further down the bed, pulling the duvet over her, not sure that she wanted to see him.

  The door opened, someone came in and stood looking down at her. Her heart was thundering as the moment of truth neared. Last night he’d seemed not to know her, but then she’d heard her name whispering past. Surely that had come from him and now everything was different. What would he say to her? What could she say to him?

  She gasped as a hand touched her.

  ‘It’s only me,’ said Freya. ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you?’

  ‘No, no, I…I’m all right.’ She didn’t know what she was saying. Everything was spinning in chaos.

  Freya switched on the lamp and sat down on the bed, placing a cup on the sidetable.

  ‘I’m going now, but I brought you a cup of tea first.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Jane—do you mind if I call you Jane? Or should it be Mrs Henshaw?’

  ‘Oh, please, no.’ She shuddered. ‘I’ve had enough of Mrs Henshaw.’

  ‘Jane, then?’

  ‘Yes, Jane. Although I think I’ve had enough of Jane too.’

  ‘Goodness, what does that mean?’ Freya’s friendliness was charming.

  ‘Suddenly I seem to be
a lot of different people and none of them is really me. Does that sound crazy?’

  ‘Not in this family,’ Freya said wryly. ‘You have to be a bit crazy to get your head around the way they all live. Sometimes I worry for my mother. She’s Amos’s third wife and he wasn’t faithful to either of the others.’

  ‘Where does Marcel come in the picture?’ Jane Henshaw asked, careful to drink her tea at once to hide her face.

  ‘When Amos was married to Elaine, Darius’s mother, he travelled abroad a lot, and while he was doing business in France he met Laura, set up home with her and they had Marcel.’

  ‘While he was still married to Elaine?’

  ‘While he was still actually living with her in England. He divided his time between London and Paris, and even had another son by his wife. That’s Jackson. A couple of years later Elaine found out about his infidelity and left him. He brought Laura and Marcel over to England and married her as soon as his divorce was through.’

  ‘So Marcel grew up in England?’ Jane said slowly.

  ‘I think he was about eleven when he moved here. Of course it didn’t last. When he was fifteen Laura discovered that Amos had been “at it” again, and she returned to Paris, taking Marcel with her. He came back seven years later, but not to Amos. He resented the way his mother had been treated, and he even stopped using the name Falcon and went back to using Laura’s name, Degrande.

  ‘He had a rebellious streak and set up home with some other lads, living from day to day, doing any job they could get. He enjoyed it for a couple of years, then went back to France. Eventually he and Amos were reconciled, and he returned to England and became a Falcon again. Actually I think that was bound to happen. In his heart he was always a chip off the old block. Those two years being free and easy were fun, but it was never going to last.’

  ‘They might have done. Perhaps something happened to send that side of him into hiding.’

  ‘Kill it off for good, more like,’ Freya said robustly. ‘Marcel is Amos’s son through and through—hard, implacable, money-minded. Will it pay? What will I get out of it, and how can I squeeze more? That’s how his mind works.’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

  ‘He’s all right, always pleasant to me, but Amos can forget about me marrying him. I’d sooner marry the devil.’