Rome was suddenly rigid. He said icily, ‘You have done your homework.’
‘Knowledge is power. And Arnie Grant doesn’t know I have a grandson—which is his second weakness.’
Rome shook his head in disbelief. He said, ‘You actually expect me to marry this girl—whatever her name is?’
‘She’s called Cory,’ Matt said. Something flickered in his eyes, then vanished. ‘It’s a family name. But she’s known as the Ice Maiden, because she freezes men off. And you won’t marry her,’ he added with a wheezing laugh. ‘Because when Arnie Grant discovers your real identity—that you’re my grandson and illegitimate at that—he’ll move heaven and earth to stop it. To get rid of you from her life.
‘That’s why a hired stud won’t do. It has to be you. Because Arnie Grant will want you to go away—to disappear before the truth comes out and turns him into a laughing stock, together with his precious child. And he’ll pay you to do just that.
‘But he’ll know that I know,’ he added gloatingly. ‘That I set him up—and he’ll have to live with that humiliation for the rest of his life. It will finish him.’
He nodded. ‘You’ll be able to name your own price, and whatever he offers you, I’ll match. And you can consider the loan paid off, too.’
‘I could do that anyway,’ Rome flashed. ‘I came over here looking for finance. I can repay you from my new borrowing. I don’t need your dirty bargain.’
‘Ah,’ Matt said softly. ‘But you may find that money’s not as readily available to you as you thought. That you’re not considered a good risk. In fact, I’d offer generous odds that your luck—and your credit—have run out.’
Rome rose and walked out to the window. Afternoon was fading into evening, and a breeze was stirring the rain-soaked shrubs in the garden below.
He thought of the thick autumn sunlight falling on Montedoro, the rich gleam of the earth and the pungent scents of the cantina, and felt a bleakness invade his very soul.
The vineyard had become his life. Its workers were his people. He was not prepared to let them go to the wall.
He said without looking around, ‘So, you’ve poisoned the wells for me. Did you do the same in Italy?’
‘I didn’t have to. A man called Paolo Cresti did it for me. He thinks you’re having an affair with his wife.’
Rome swung back to face him. ‘That’s a lie,’ he said coldly. ‘I haven’t set eyes on her since her marriage.’
Matt’s smile was thin. ‘That’s not what she’s let her husband believe. You should have remembered the old saying—hell have no fury like a woman scorned.’
Rome stared at him bitterly. ‘I should have remembered much more than that,’ he said. He walked back to the bed and picked up the cutting. ‘Has it occurred to you that this girl may not find me attractive?’
‘Plenty of women have, by all accounts. Why should she be an exception?’
‘And I may not fancy her,’ Rome reminded him levelly.
‘But you’ll fancy the money you’ll get from old Grant.’ Matt leered at him. ‘Just keep thinking of that. And keep your eyes shut, if you have to.’
Rome’s mouth twisted in disgust. He looked down at the photograph. ‘This tells me nothing. I need to see her properly before I decide.’
‘I can’t argue with that.’ Matt handed him an elaborately embossed card from the folder. ‘A ticket in your name for a charity ball at the Park Royal Hotel tomorrow night. She’ll be there. He won’t. You can look her over at your leisure.’
There was a tap at the bedroom door, and Kit Sansom appeared with a tray of coffee.
‘We shan’t need that,’ her father said. ‘Because Rome is leaving. He’s got some serious thinking to do.’ His smile was almost malicious. ‘Haven’t you—boy?’
Rome hadn’t spent all the intervening time thinking, however. He’d attempted to make contact with some of the financial contacts on his list, but without success, no one wanted to know him, he realised bitterly. Matt Sansom had done his work well.
And now, for Montedoro’s sake, he was committed to the next phase of this war of attrition between two megalomaniac old men.
He groaned, and tossed down the rest of his whisky. If ever he’d needed to get roaring, blazing drunk, it was tonight.
As he walked back inside to refill his glass, someone knocked at the door of his suite. A porter faced him.
‘Package for you, sir. Brought round by special messenger.’ He accepted Rome’s tip, and vanished.
Frowning, Rome slit open the bulky envelope. He realised immediately that he was looking at a complete dossier on Cory Grant—where she lived, how she spent her spare time, where she shopped, her favourite restaurants. Even the scent she used.
No detail too trivial to be excluded, he acknowledged sardonically.
But it was chillingly thorough. Matt must have been planning this for a long time, he thought. And the screwed-up land deal was just an excuse.
He poured himself another whisky, stretched out on the bed and began to read.
‘You made me look a complete idiot,’ said Philip. ‘Walking out like that.’
Indignation added a squeak to his voice, Cory thought dispassionately. And who needed a man who squeaked?
She kept her tone matter-of-fact. ‘I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.’
‘Oh, come off it, Cory. I told you—I ran into some old friends—lost track of time rather. And I’m sorry if you felt neglected.’ He paused. ‘But I’ll make it up to you.’ His voice became chummy, almost intimate. ‘Why don’t we have dinner? I promise I’ll give you my undivided attention.’
Cory gave her cordless phone receiver a look of blank disbelief.
She said politely, ‘I don’t think so, thanks. We don’t have enough in common.’ Except, she thought, that your father is one of Gramps’s main sub-contractors, and you realise you may have rocked the boat.
‘Look, Cory.’ He sounded hectoring again. ‘I’ve apologised. I don’t know what else you want me to say.’
‘Goodbye would do quite well.’
‘Oh, very amusing. Know something, Cory? It’s time you got off that high horse of yours and came down to earth, or you’re going to end up a sad old maid. Because I don’t know what you want from a man. And I suspect you don’t know either.’
She said, ‘It’s quite simple, Philip. I want kindness. And you just don’t qualify.’
She replaced her receiver, cutting off his spluttering reply.
She should have let her answering machine take the call, she thought. She simply wasn’t up to dealing with Philip’s efforts at self-justification after her disturbed night.
And she wasn’t up to dealing with the reasons for the disturbed night either.
With a sigh, she went into her tiny kitchen, poured orange juice, set coffee to percolate and slotted bread into the toaster.
Gramps would be next, she thought, eager to know how the evening had gone, and she’d make up a kindly fib to satisfy him.