In memory of my darling dad, Bob Gibbs,
who encouraged me to write and
was so proud of me
‘TAHLIA, you look divine.’ Crispin Blythe, owner of the contemporary art gallery Blythe of Bayswater, greeted Tahlia Reynolds effusively. ‘Those baubles you’re wearing must be worth a small fortune.’
‘A large fortune, actually,’ Tahlia replied dryly, moving her hand to the ornate sapphire and diamond necklace at her throat. ‘These “baubles” are top-grade Kashmiri sapphires.’
‘Let me guess. A present from Daddy? Reynolds Gems’ profits must be booming.’ Crispin’s smile faded slightly. ‘It’s good to know that some businesses are unaffected by this wretched recession.’
Tahlia frowned at the faintly bitter note in Crispin’s voice. She had heard rumours that the gallery was suffering from the downturn in the economy, and for a moment she was tempted to reveal that things were far from rosy with her father’s jewellery company, but she kept quiet. Reynolds Gems’ financial problems would be public knowledge if the company went into liquidation, but they were not at that point yet. Perhaps she was being unrealistic, but she refused to give up hope that the company her father had built up over the past thirty years could be saved. It would not be for want of trying, she thought grimly. Her parents had used all their savings trying to keep Reynolds afloat, while she had worked for no salary for the past three months, and had traded in the sports car her father had given her three years ago, for her twenty-first birthday, for a battered old Mini.
In desperation she had even sold her few items of jewellery, as well as many of the designer clothes that she had once been able to afford. The dress she was wearing tonight was on loan from a friend who owned a boutique, and the sapphire and diamond necklace was not her own—though it was one of Reynolds Gems’ most valued pieces, stunningly beautiful and instantly eye-catching. Her father had asked her to wear it tonight in the hope of drumming up new business for Reynolds, but she was terrified of losing it, and knew she was going to spend the evening constantly checking that it was still around her neck.
She followed Crispin into the gallery, accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter, and glanced around at her fellow guests who were congregated in groups, admiring the paintings by the artist Rufus Hartman. Tahlia nodded to one or two acquaintances and allowed her eyes to drift. They came to an abrupt halt on the man who was standing on the other side of the room.
‘Who is that?’ she murmured curiously, feeling her heart jolt violently beneath her ribs. In a room packed with good-looking, successful men, the simmering virility of this particular man set him apart from the crowd.
‘I assume you’re referring to the Greek hunk in the Armani?’ Crispin said archly, following the direction of her gaze. ‘Thanos Savakis, billionaire head of Savakis Enterprises. He bought out the Blue-Sky holiday chain a couple of years ago, and owns several five-star hotels around the world. Careful, darling, you’re drooling,’ Crispin murmured wickedly as Tahlia continued to stare. ‘A word of warning: Savakis has a reputation as a womaniser. His affairs are discreet, but numerous—and short-lived. Commitment is not a word associated with Thanos Savakis—unless it’s his commitment to making even more money to add to his enviable fortune,’ Crispin finished with a theatrical sigh.
‘Workaholic womanisers are definitely not my type,’Tahlia murmured faintly, dragging her gaze from the man and taking a sip of champagne. But her eyes were drawn inexorably towards him, and she was glad that he was looking down at the dainty blonde who was hanging onto his arm because it gave her a chance to study him.
Tall and lean, with broad shoulders sheathed in an expertly tailored jacket, he was mesmerising, and Tahlia quickly realised that she was not the only woman in the room to be fascinated by him. With his classically sculpted features, bronzed skin and gleaming black hair, which was cropped short to emphasise the proud tilt of his head, he was stunningly handsome. But teamed with his blatant sex appeal Thanos Savakis possessed some indefinable quality—a magnetism and self-assurance that set him apart from other men. He would command any situation, Tahlia decided. She sensed his innate arrogance, and although he appeared to be giving his full attention to the pretty blonde at his side, she detected the giveaway signs that he was growing impatient of his companion’s chatter.
The woman was a little too eager, Tahlia mused. Instinct told her that a man as self-possessed as Thanos Savakis would be irritated by any hint of neediness, and as she watched he carefully but firmly extricated himself from the blonde’s grip and strolled into the adjoining gallery.
Gorgeous, but definitely out of her league, Tahlia decided, giving herself a mental shake as she slowly became aware once more of the babble of voices around her, and the clink of champagne flutes on a silver tray as a waiter walked past. She was shocked by the effect the sexy Greek had had on her—especially as the width of the room had separated them and he hadn’t even glanced in her direction. She could not remember ever being so aware of a man. Not even James.
Her mouth tightened. Six months ago her relationship with James Hamilton had come to a shocking and explosive end, and since then she had struggled to piece her shattered heart back together. But the bitterness she felt towards him still burned as corrosively as on the night she had discovered his treachery.
‘Tahlia, darling, that’s vintage Krug you’re gulping down, not fizzy water.’ Crispin’s laconic drawl dragged Tahlia back to the present. ‘Can I get you another?’
She grimaced as she glanced down and saw that she had drained her glass without realising it. ‘No, thanks. I’d better not.’
Crispin gave her an impatient look. ‘Oh, live daringly for once. A few glasses of bubbly will help you relax.’
‘Correction, a few glasses will have me giggling inanely,’ Tahlia said dismally. ‘And, after the recent press stories about me, I really could do without being snapped by the paparazzi clearly the worse for drink.’
Crispin gave her an amused glance. ‘Yes, the tabloids do seem to have excelled themselves,’ he agreed. ‘The headline “Gems girl Tahlia Reynolds blamed for marriage break-up of TV soapstar Damian Casson” was particularly attention-grabbing.’
Tahlia flushed. ‘It isn’t true,’ she said tensely. ‘I was set up. I’ve only ever met Damian once, when we were guests at a book launch party held at a hotel. He was knocking back champagne all night and kept pestering me. I told him to get lost. The next morning he came over to my table at breakfast to apologise. We got chatting, and he told me he’d got drunk the previous night after he’d rowed with his wife and she had refused to go to the party with him. When I left, he offered to carry my bag to the car—hence the picture of the two of us emerging from the hotel together. Neither of us had expected the media to be hanging around at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning—or at least,’ she said slowly, ‘I hadn’t expected them to be there.’
Anger formed a tight knot in Tahlia’s chest at the realisation that Damian had undoubtedly been aware of the presence of the media.
‘I was shocked when a journalist asked about