The final twist of the knife almost made her cry out with the pain of it as she silently eased the bedroom door open, unable to tear her eyes from the man she would never see again.
Could never see again.
And now the anguish flooded through her veins, drowning her. She could never do what they had so ecstatically talked of in the long, long reaches of the night.
‘Come with me!’ he had said, his eyes alight. ‘This night is only the start of what we shall have together! Come with me to the Caribbean—a thousand islands to explore! We’ll see them all! And every single one will be for us! Come with me…’
She heard his voice, warm and vibrant, ringing in her head.
‘Come with me!’
Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle the sob that rose in her throat. Impossible! It was impossible for her to go with him.
Impossible to do anything but what she was doing now.
Leaving him.
The previous evening
LUKE XENAKIS GLANCED up at the Victorian warehouse, converted now into highly fashionable loft apartments in the old London Docklands. He’d come here from the City, straight from that final meeting with his broker—the one that had taken him over ten long, punishing years to achieve. And now, at last—Thee mou!—at last he had done what he had set out to do.
Emotion speared through him, hard and vicious. Finally he was exerting his death-grip on his enemy’s throat.
A life for a life.
His ancestors would have had no hesitation in making that bitter truth a literal one. Luke’s mouth twisted as he entered the building. But in these more civilised days there had to be other ways to exert savage justice upon those who so deserved it. And now—tonight—that justice was finally being served upon his enemy.
Within twenty-four hours the man would be destroyed.
Wiped out financially. Ruined.
The twist in his mouth turned to a smile. A savage smile.
He headed up the echoing iron staircase to the topmost loft apartment, from which he could already hear the thump of pounding music, driving all other thoughts out of his head.
It was just what he wanted now.
The start of his new life…
Talia paused in the entrance lobby to the loft apartment, hesitant suddenly. Should she really dive into the party inside? Then she rallied her nerve.
I need this.
Tonight, at least, for the space of a few hours she would lose herself. Forget the pressures of her life—pressures that were increasing all the time, it seemed.
She sighed inwardly. She knew why. Her poor mother’s nerves were more jagged than ever, and her father’s perpetually short temper was even shorter these last few months. Why, Talia had no idea, and she didn’t want to know. She spent all her energy trying to soothe her nervy mother and placate her tyrannical father so he would not turn on her mother.
It was wearying and stressful, but she had no option, she thought bitterly as she paused on the threshold of the party. No option but to go along with what her father wanted of her or it would be her mother who would pay the price of his vicious ill humour and displeasure.
So I have to go on being Natasha Grantham, ornamental daughter of the wildly successful property magnate Gerald Grantham, of Grantham Land. I have to be part of the image he puts out, along with his elegant, fashionable wife, his huge riverside mansion in the Thames Valley and this even more huge villa in Marbella. And the luxury apartments all over the world, the fleet of exorbitantly lavish cars, the yacht and the private jet. All of this so that others can envy his success and wealth and achievement.
It was all her father cared about—his success and his image. Certainly not about his wife and daughter.
The pitiful thing, Talia thought bleakly, was that whereas she was painfully aware of that bleak truth, her mother persisted in believing the fiction that he was devoted to them. She made endless excuses for him—the pressure of work, the demands of his business, he was doing it all for them. But Talia knew that her father was devoted only to one person and one cause: himself.
She and her mother were merely possessions—props to make him look good. Her mother, Maxine, was expected to be a glittering society hostess, and she was to be the decorative dutiful daughter, working for him as his interior designer, overseeing the refurbishment of his property purchases as he directed, and available on demand for the endless social functions he required her to attend. In exchange she was allowed to live rent-free in one of his many London flats, with an allowance to cover her wardrobe expenses.
Talia’s eyes shadowed again. The world saw her as a pampered princess, her daddy’s darling—but the reality was brutally different. She was a pawn in the ruthless power game at which her father excelled as he controlled every aspect of her life with an iron fist.
To get any time away from his demands was precious to her. Like tonight. On an impulse that was quite unlike her, she’d taken up a casually worded invitation from someone she knew in the world of interior design to come to this party. It was not her usual scene at all. Typically, on the rare nights she had to herself, she stayed in, or occasionally went to a concert or the theatre, either on her own or with a girlfriend.
Never with a man.
She never dated. Only once had she indulged in an affair, in her early twenties, but her father had ruthlessly used his influence to ruin the young man’s career, and then told Talia what he had done. She had learnt her lesson.
Now, at twenty-six, it was hard to accept that she could never indulge in a relationship of her own choosing. All around her partygoers were mingling with each other, dancing, flirting, hooking up. Restlessness filled her.
How long can I endure my life as it is?
Never had the gilded cage she lived in seemed more unbearable. Never had she felt so trapped, so stifled. Never had she felt more desperate to escape.
And tonight, dear God, she would escape it. She would immerse herself in the party and dance the night away. Her mother was at the Thames-side mansion, her father abroad—probably with one of his mistresses.
The longer he was away the better!
She took a breath, plunging forward. Through the crush she could see, way across the huge room, beneath the iron girder rafters of the loft apartment and the steel columns dividing up the space, an area that had been set up as a bar.
As she made her way towards it, squeezing past people, she could feel male eyes on her. It was a familiar feeling—all her life she’d known that her glorious chestnut hair, tawny eyes, fine-boned features and flawless skin were part and parcel of the image her father wanted her to present to the world, reflecting well on himself for having a beautiful ornamental daughter to show off.
Usually she dressed at his diktat, in suits and dresses that were too fussy for her own taste. But tonight she was defying his rules. She gave her head a little shake, feeling her long hair, loosened from its customary upswept style, snaking lushly down over her bare back, framing her face. She’d used more make-up than she usually did, accentuating her eyes, her cheekbones, her rich red mouth.
The strapless dark burgundy dress she was wearing—shorter than she typically wore, and far more figure-hugging—had been an impulse purchase that afternoon, bought from