Tycoon's Ring Of Convenience. Julia James

more to do.

      And that was before she considered the work that the outbuildings needed! Bowing walls, slate roofs deteriorating, cobbles to reset... A never-ending round. Even before a start was made on the overgrown gardens.

      She felt her shoulders sag. So much to be done—all costing so, so much. She gave a sigh, starting to unpack her suitcase. Staff had been reduced to the minimum—the Hudsons, and the cleaners up from the village, plus a gardener and his assistant. It was just as well that her father had preferred a very quiet life, even if that had contributed to his wife’s discontent. And he had become increasingly reclusive after her desertion.

      It had suited Diana, though, and she’d been happy to help him write the St Clair family history, acting as secretary for his correspondence with the network of family connections, sharing his daily walks through the park, being the chatelaine of Greymont in her mother’s absence.

      Any socialising had been with other families like theirs in the county, such as their neighbours, Sir John Bartlett and his wife, her father’s closest friends. She herself had been more active, visiting old school and university friends around the country as they gradually married and started families, meeting up with them in London from time to time. But she was no party animal, preferring dinner parties, or going to the theatre and opera, either with girlfriends or those carefully selected men she allowed to squire her around—those who accepted she was not interested in romance and was completely unresponsive to all men.

      Into her head, with sudden flaring memory, stabbed the image of the one man who had disproved that comforting theory.

      Angrily, she pushed it away. It was irrelevant, her ridiculous reaction to Nikos Tramontes! She would never be seeing him again—and she had far more urgent matters to worry about.

      Taking a breath, anxiety clenching her stomach, she went downstairs and settled at her father’s desk in the library. In her absence mail had accumulated, and with a resigned sigh she started to open it. None of it would be good news, she knew that—more unaffordable estimates for the essential repairs to Greymont. She felt her heart squeeze, and fear bite in her throat.

      Somehow she had to get the money she needed.

      But not by marrying Toby Masterson. She could not bring herself to spend the rest of her life with him.

      She felt a prickle of shame. It had not been fair even to think of him merely as a solution to her problems.

      Wearily, she reached for her writing pad. She’d have to pen a careful letter—thanking him for taking her out in London, implying that that was all there was to it.

      As she made a start, though, it was quite another face that intruded into her inner vision, quite different from Toby’s pudgy features. A face that was dramatic in its looks, with dark eyes that set her pulse beating faster—

      She pushed it from her. Even if Nikos Tramontes were not involved with his supermodel girlfriend, all a man like that would be after would be some kind of dalliance—something to amuse him, entertain him while he was in London.

       And what use is that to me?

      None. None at all.

      * * *

      Nikos slowly made his way along the avenue of chestnut trees, avoiding the many potholes as Greymont gradually came into view.

      With a white stucco eighteenth-century façade, a central block with symmetrical wings thrown out, its aspect was open, but set on a slight elevation, with extensive gardens and grounds seamlessly blending into farmland. The whole was framed by ornamental woodland. A classic stately home of the English upper classes.

      Memory jabbed at him, cruel and stabbing. Of another home of another nation’s upper class. A chateau deep in the heart of Normandy, built of creamy Caen stone, with turrets at the corners in the French style.

      He’d driven up to the front doors. Had been received.

      But not welcomed.

       ‘You will have to leave. My husband will be home soon. He must not find you here—’

      There had been no warmth in the voice, no embrace from the elegant, couture-clad figure, no opening of her arms to him. Nothing but rejection.

       ‘That is all you have to say to me?’

      That had been his question, his demand.

      Her lips had tightened. ‘You must leave,’ she’d said again, not answering his question.

      He had swept a glance around the room, with its immaculate décor, its priceless seventeenth-century landscapes on the walls, the exquisite Louis Quinze furniture. This was what she had chosen. This was what she had valued. And she had been perfectly willing, to pay the price demanded for it. The price he had paid for it.

      Bitterness had filled him then—and an even stronger emotion that he would not name, would deny with steely resolve that he had ever felt. It filled him again now, a sudden acid rush in his veins.

      With an effort, he let it drain out of him as he drew his powerful car to a momentary halt, the better to survey the scene before him.

      Yes—what he was seeing satisfied him. More than satisfied him. Greymont, the ancestral home of the St Clairs, and all that came with it would serve his purpose excellently. But it was not just the physical possession he wanted—that was not what this visit was about. Had he wished. he could easily have purchased such a place for himself, but that would not have given him what he was set upon achieving.

      His smile tightened. He knew just how to achieve what he wanted. What would make Diana St Clair receptive to him. Knew exactly what she wanted most—needed most. And he would offer it to her. On a plate.

      His gaze still fixed on his goal, he headed towards it.