“Where did he die?” She was trying desperately not to cry.
“Get yourself together, Sonya,” he urged, his whole body tense. “His housekeeper found him. He died peacefully in his sleep.”
“Thank God! Does Lady Palmerston know?”
“Sonya, everyone will know if we don’t get a move on. I have to get you out of here. I have to get out of here. People know me. I fear this is going to be a very big story.” He couldn’t think of a worse scenario.
Over the coming days several photographs of Sonia appeared in the papers and on the Internet. In all of them she looked movie-star glamorous.
A real knockout was the general opinion. All of the photographs, on Marcus’s arm—Marcus looking very much older—standing with David, the two of them appearing to be staring into one another’s eyes, sitting at the table with the rich and famous as they had been on that gala night. The night she had been wearing a vintage evening gown and Lucille Wainwright’s glorious emerald and diamond necklace with the diamond chandelier drops. Her expression in all of them was of cool grace, as if she were to the manner born.
Sonya knew, if no one else, she was the image of her mother, Lilla. Her mother in turn had inherited Katalin’s remarkable looks and colouring. Such physical beauty was a gift of the genes.
In New York on a piercingly cold day Laszlo Andrassy-Von Neumann stood in complete silence in Central Park as a tall burly man wearing a greatcoat and a thick dark hat with ear flaps approached him. The man came to a brief halt, withdrawing a manila folder from a deep pocket. Andrassy-Von Neumann had already seen the photographs. They were unmistakably of a woman of his family. To his intense triumph the photographs were of his lost cousin, Sonya. A few more photographs had been taken on the street where she appeared to be in flight from the paparazzi, the rest were the same photographs that had been splashed across the Australian press.
So that was where young Sonya had sought sanctuary! In exchange for the folder he passed his informant a thick envelope containing a substantial wad of money. It was worth every penny. He had now ascertained Sonya was living in Sydney, under the name of Erickson. It was an enormous stroke of luck the man she had been involved with had been a public figure, otherwise it might have taken longer to find her. She had covered her tracks like a professional. In a way he couldn’t help but admire her. America had been very good to his family and him. But he was Hungarian. He wanted to get back to his roots. He had poured so much into his country of birth he now had the estate back: the palace, the title deeds, every last contract signed and sealed.
He was the Andrassy-Von Neumann heir. Katalin and Lilla were dead. He had, however, no real wish to harm Sonya. All she had to do was hand over the Madonna. He would make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Ten million into her bank account? That should do it. Of course, if she were foolish enough to hold out against him? He didn’t believe she would. From a penniless little florist to a millionairess in one bound. Her grandmother and her mother and father were dead. He was certain she would see the good sense in making a deal. The only sense. After all, they were family. He was Count Laszlo Andrassy-Von Neumann. The title to his mind would never be defunct. And Sonya must never be allowed to lay claim to being a countess and the rightful heir of an ancient family’s estates. She couldn’t possibly stand a chance against him. Katalin’s true identity had been destroyed. All reference to her dropped like the plague. Like her father, the old count who had been fool enough to remain in his palace, and her brother, the heir, Katalin had become a victim of war. As for her daughter, Lilla, she was the child of little more than a peasant. The extraordinary thing was he would have recognised his cousin Sonya anywhere. She was without question an Andrassy-Von Neumann.
The phone was ringing as Sonya let herself into the apartment. She was breathing hard with outrage. She had been chased home from a local convenience store by one of the TV channels, a car with a man and a woman in it, on the lookout for a few words, no doubt. It was pretty much like being a hunted animal.
“You have to get out of there.”
It was David issuing instructions. He skipped the niceties. Niceties had flown out of the window.
“I’m not going anywhere, David,” she said, resisting his formidable tone. “Those media hounds would be onto me wherever I went. Your parents are home?” A photograph of the Wainwrights arriving at the airport had already hit the front pages. No comment from either of them. Both had looked gravely upset.
He gave in to a maddened sigh. “Neither of them wants you at the funeral, Sonya.”
“What about you, David?” she questioned, very intent on the answer. If he said he didn’t want her there, she would begin immediately to try to banish him from her heart and mind.
“You have a right to be there,” he said. “The problem, of course, is that your presence will cause a considerable stir.”
“Too bad!” she answered coldly. “Marcus would have wanted me to be there. Marcus loved me. Have you forgotten?”
“Listen, Sonya, I’m desperately tired,” he admitted, with a decided edge. “I maybe damned near thirty but my dad still likes to bawl me out. My mother too is good at beating a drum.”
“So you have to go along with them? I understand.” Her heart dropped like a stone.
“Oh, come off it!” he bit off. “I can take the heat. The whole business, you must admit, is ghastly. The press must be giving you hell?” He hadn’t willed or wanted falling in love with this woman. But he had. He had a terrible longing to be with her. But he couldn’t shake the crush of guilt. Or the knowledge he knew so little about her. She hadn’t been given an opportunity to make a final decision. It was possible she could have actually accepted Marcus’s proposal. Lack of trust was a sharp knife in his chest.
“The press are doing their level best,” she told him, aware of his ambivalent feelings towards her. “No wonder celebrities hate them. The hounding is appalling.”
“That’s why I want you to shift. I have an apartment lined up for you. Somewhere very secure.”
“Thank you, David,” she said with icy politeness, “but I can’t take advantage of your kind offer. I’m staying here. And I’m coming to the funeral. Your parents can bawl you out all they like. They can bawl me out too if they want to. I have backbone. I know enough about you to believe you’re every bit as tough as your illustrious parents. I can promise you I’ll keep a low profile. I won’t do a thing to draw attention to myself.”
His discordant laugh echoed down the phone. “Sonya, you must have learned by now you only have to show your face to draw attention.”
“Did I ask to have this face?” she burst out angrily. “Blonde women get too much attention, all of us bimbos. We both know I intend to pay my last respects to Marcus. If your family thinks they can try any stand-over tactics, they won’t work. I’ve known some truly horrible people, David. Your parents would be the good guys compared to them.”
“Don’t you worry the press will uncover these horrible people?” he warned her. “They’re pursuing you, and they’re going to keep it up. I would think Marcus has taken care of you in his will.”
“What, you don’t know already?” she asked witheringly.
“It’s the waiting game.” A stinging heat assailed him. He so wanted to see her, despite all that was happening. “Sonya, I want to help you. You need protection. You’re going to be hotly pursued in the days ahead.”
Pain shot through her right temple. A bad headache coming on. “That seems to be my fate, David, to be pursued. I’ll say goodbye now. You must do what you have to do. I know you mean well, but I refuse to be deterred. I will be at