Taken for Revenge, Bedded for Pleasure

‘Of course not. Thank you for picking it up. Now, if you don’t mind I’m late and I have to hurry…’

Without looking up at him again she made to turn and walk away, wanting only to distance herself physically from the disturbing, charismatic pull of his presence and reassemble her defences, regain her comfortable numbness. But as she did so he reached out and took her arm, and the sensation of his fingers against her bare skin was like an electric shock. It ricocheted through her, making her flinch.

‘Wait,’ he said quietly. ‘You said “my painting”. In what way is that painting yours?’

Rigid with discomfort, his fingers still clasped around her arm, Bella looked down. ‘It isn’t,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. The painting’s yours now. I know that.’

‘But you’re not happy about it, are you?’

She didn’t reply. His voice was very low and, even standing in the middle of the street with traffic roaring past them along Piccadilly, disturbingly intimate. He shifted his position slightly, so that he was standing right in front of her, and she could see nothing but the solid wall of his chest. It was hard. Broad. Real. Very real. His fingers were still clasped around her arm; not too tightly, but she felt powerless to break away.

‘You wanted it very much,’ he said quietly. It was a statement, not a question.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Why?’

‘It’s…nice,’ Bella said tonelessly, thinking of calm, neutral things. Not thinking of his mouth, or how it would feel to kiss it.

‘Nice?’ Letting go of her arm, he took a step backwards and made a sharp expression of disgust. ‘The hell it is.’

‘I beg your pardon?

Olivier looked at her narrowly. Close up she had the kind of flawless, upmarket beauty that left him cold: short, glossy hair the colour of cherished old mahogany, skin like vanilla ice cream. Earlier on, in the auction room, he had thought he sensed a rawness and a passion in her which intrigued and excited him, but now he saw he’d been wrong. There was nothing but good breeding and good bones.

‘You don’t have to be an art expert to see that it’s rubbish,’ he said brutally. ‘It’s not worth a quarter of the hugely inflated price I just paid for it.’

That seemed to ignite some spark within her again. ‘Then why did you bother?’ she flared. ‘Whycouldn’tyoujust let me have it? I’m not remotely interested in what it’s worth or how collectable it is. I wanted it for reasons that have nothing to do with money.’

‘Meaning?’

Her chin rose an inch. ‘My grandmother grew up in the house in the picture. That’s why I wanted it.’

The sky had darkened, and a warm breeze shivered through the leaves of the trees in the park opposite as the first drops of rain splashed onto the hot pavement. Everything was suddenly very still, as if the regular spin of the world had faltered for a second or two. Olivier almost wanted to reach out to hold on to something to steady himself as for the briefest moment the iron self-control, the bedrock of his being, shivered and shifted.

He took a slow breath in and summoned a bland smile to his stiff face. It felt like ice cracking on a frozen lake.

‘Really? And your name is…?

‘Bella. Bella Lawrence.’

Lawrence. Hearing the name was like a shot of adrenalin: painful, sickening, but exhilarating. He gritted his teeth, scrutinizing her. ‘Well, Bella, what a…coincidence that you found a picture of it. You must have been thrilled.’

If she noticed the acid in his tone she didn’t react. Nothing disturbed the blankness of that porcelain-pretty face. ‘Yes,’ she said sweetly, ‘particularly since it’s her birthday tomorrow and it would have been a perfect present.’ She flashed him a saccharine smile. ‘Obviously I didn’t bargain on some millionaire city boy coming in at the last minute and paying silly money for it, so I’ll just have to think again.’

Millionaire city boy? She’d underestimated him considerably. And because she was a Lawrence that stung.

She turned to go, but he had no intention of letting her disappear yet.

‘What makes you think I’m a millionaire city boy?’

He didn’t move. He didn’t even raise his voice, but she turned back to him and Olivier felt a lick of triumph. As her eyes skimmed over him he took his phone from his inside pocket, barely glancing at it as he speed-dialled. Bella Lawrence shrugged.

‘The suit. The shoes. The arrogance. Am I right?’

‘Sort of.’ Without taking his eyes from hers, he gestured with a terse movement of his head to a gleaming dark green Bentley that was just pulling up at the kerbside. ‘Can I offer you a lift anywhere?’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Very impressive,’ she said sarcastically. ‘So you’re half millionaire city boy, half magician. What else can you do?’

He gave her a lethal smile. ‘Unfortunately, Mademoiselle Lawrence, my talents are too numerous to list now, while we’re in grave danger of getting soaked to the skin and I’m late for a meeting. But if you’d like to get into the car I’d be only too happy to enlighten you.’

He opened the car door and stood back. The rain was falling harder now, releasing the scent of hot asphalt and damp earth and making the skin on her bare arms glisten, but she didn’t move.

‘No, thank you,’ she said politely. ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea.’

‘Ri-ight.’ His fingers drummed an impatient beat on the roof of the car. ‘And I suppose you’d argue that choosing to get completely and unnecessarily soaked is a stroke of genius, would you?’ He sighed and stood back. ‘Look, you said yourself that you’re in a hurry—if it makes you feel better you can have the car to yourself. My office is just around the corner in Curzon Street. I’ll walk. Just tell Louis where you want to go.’

He took a couple of steps backwards, still watching her, silently willing her to accept the offer. He would find out where she lived eventually, but it would be so much easier to do it this way. The pavement was virtually empty now, as everyone with any sense had rushed to shelter in doorways or disappeared into the dark mouth of the tube. Bella Lawrence stood beside the open door of the Bentley in her expensive black dress, her hair slick with water.

She frowned suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘The painting—let’s just say it’s the least I can do. Please.’

She glanced up at the angry sky and hesitated. And then, bristling with resentment and indignation, slipped into the car and leaned forward to pull the door briskly shut. She didn’t look at him.

‘My pleasure,’ he murmured sarcastically to himself as the car drew smoothly away from the kerb and was swallowed up by the Friday afternoon traffic.

Though ‘pleasure’wasn’t quite the right word for it, he reflected as he thrust his hands into his pockets and strode through the rain.

Satisfaction.

That was it.

CHAPTER TWO

GENEVIEVE DELACROIX’S face was pale, delicately tinted with a faint rose-pink blush, as if in the aftermath of passion, and her rosy lips were curved in a lazy smile of repletion. Reclining on the velvet-draped couch, she was completely naked, apart from a large and heavily jewel-encrusted gold cross hanging on a length of red velvet ribbon around her neck.

Her eyes, dark blue and watchful, seemed to bore into Olivier’s back as he stood at the glass wall of his apartment, looking down over the most expensive view in London. Eight storeys below him cars sailed noiselessly along Park Lane, and above him planes bound for Heathrow studded the indigo sky with flashing points of light, outshining the stars. But Olivier noticed none of this. The image of the painting swam in front of him, superimposed on the glittering cityscape in the polished sheet of glass.

His instinct about the ‘charming amateur painting’ in the saleroom had been correct. Although it was unsigned, its subject matter—Le Manoir St Laurien—and the distinctively painstaking style of the brushwork had left him in no doubt that it had been painted by his father.

But Julien Moreau was no amateur. Had things been different he would have been one of the most important painters of his generation.

Olivier took a gulp of cognac from the glass in his hand, draining half the contents in a single mouthful, and then, steeling himself as if against a blow, he turned to face the picture behind him. The one that had lain hidden beneath the other work.

La Dame de la Croix.

For years he had searched for this painting. His contacts in the art world spread across the globe and encompassed all the major auction houses, galleries and collections, but since he knew that the portrait of Genevieve Delacroix was likely to have been concealed behind one of Julien’s flawed, later attempts, his contacts had been of little help. He had tried to keep an eye on the catalogues of smaller salerooms, but it had been like searching for a needle in a haystack. The odds had been impossibly stacked against him.

And yet he had done it. The painting was here, propped up on a tall steel bar chair in front of him, as fresh and vivid as if the paint was still wet.

Olivier Moreau prided himself on his ability to achieve. He was a man who got what he wanted through a combination of intelligence, focus and ruthlessness, but he knew that none of that was enough to have pulled off today’s coup.

That had been down to luck. Or maybe fate, or some long-overdue divine justice. Karma, some people might call it; after all, it was about time the mighty Lawrences were made to face up to what they’d done, and now the painting was back in his possession he could begin the process of exacting retribution.

He took another mouthful of cognac and let his gaze run speculatively over Genevieve Delacroix’s luscious flesh. Hypothetically, in the long years when he had dreamed of recovering this picture, he had always imagined he would simply reveal it, and the shocking scandal behind it, to the world in the most high-profile and damaging way possible.

But now that didn’t seem enough.

In his work Olivier operated on a principle of ‘absolute return’. His success lay in his ability to exact profit—maximum profit—from every available opportunity, and in this instance fate had very kindly presented him with not one opportunity, but two. La Dame de la Croix and Bella Lawrence had both fallen into his lap on the same day. He wouldn’t be the man he was if he let a chance like that pass without exploiting it to the full.

Fate…justice…karma—it hardly mattered what you called it. In truth they were all just euphemisms for revenge. The Lawrences didn’t know it yet, but it was payback time.

An eye for an eye.

A tooth for a tooth.

A heart for a heart.

Genevieve Lawrence was standing in the hallway rearranging the flowers that had just been delivered by one of London’s most exclusive florists when Bella came downstairs.

‘Morning,’ Bella said with an apologetic smile, kissing her grandmother’s perfumed cheek.

Genevieve cast an amused glance at her little gold watch. ‘Only just, cherie,’ she said in her voice of silk and silver. It might have been a lifetime since the young Genevieve Delacroix had left France to marry the dashing and distinguished Lord Edward Lawrence, but her accent was still as strong as ever. ‘I take it you slept well?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ Bella lied. There was no point in telling Genevieve that sleep had proved so elusive that she’d ended up sitting by the window and sketching in the moonlight. The man from the auction house, whose face was still so vivid in her mind, had proved frustratingly difficult to capture on paper. The sky had been streaked with pink when she’d finally given up trying and crawled back into bed. ‘Is there still lots to do for tonight?’

Pulling a dripping long-stemmed lily from the vase, Genevieve sighed. ‘There does seem to be a lot of last-minute things to attend to. For one thing, these flowers are all wrong. Now I remember why I haven’t entertained like this since your grandfather died.’

Bella made a soft, sympathetic sound. After almost fifty years of marriage, Genevieve had been widowed two years ago. ‘Will it be awful for you, to do it without him?’

‘Awful? Not at all,’ said Genevieve matter-of-factly, looking critically at the arrangement of lilies and white hydrangeas. She didn’t elaborate, and Bella realised with a flicker of surprise how little she knew her grandmother. Up until five months ago she had been nothing but a remote, elegant figure who had always stood silently by Edward Lawrence’s side: coolness and shade to the full-on dazzle of his forceful presence. It was only since Bella had come, at Miles’s insistence, to live in the house in Wilton Square, following the business with Dan Nightingale, that she had begun to see the person behind the impeccable façade. And to like her.

‘It is a shame that your mama and papa cannot be here, though,’ Genevieve continued, adjusting a glossy, tropical-looking leaf. ‘I had a call from your mother this morning to say there has been more trouble overnight and the diplomatic situation is too tense for your papa to leave just now.’

Bella was slightly ashamed at the relief that leapt within her. Used to being the invisible member of the dynamic and high-achieving Lawrence family, she had felt completely smothered by the attention which had been focused on her since the Dan Nightingale thing, and she had been dreading seeing her parents for the first time since it happened. Miles’s stifling concern was quite enough to deal with.

‘They must be very disappointed,’ she said guiltily.

Genevieve gave a little lift of her narrow shoulders. ‘You know the Lawrence men, cherie. Work comes first. But we will manage without them, I dare say. Now—have you decided what you will wear tonight?’

Bella’s eyes lit up. ‘Well…I got this gorgeous little silk smock dress in Portobello Market the other day. It’s bright red with fuchsia-pink flowers around the hem, with kind of pink sequins and gold embroidery on them…’ The words came out in a rush of enthusiasm and her hands fluttered in the air, sketching fluid lines. ‘And it’s short—but not, you know, indecently short, and it’s got this deep scooped neckline and sweet little sleeves…’ The words petered out.

‘It sounds fabulous, cherie.’

‘Yes…’ Subdued again, Bella paused. ‘You know, I think maybe it would be better if I borrowed your black Balenciaga, though.’

Genevieve’s fine eyebrows rose questioningly. ‘Would it be foolish to ask why?’

‘I think that Miles would rather I—I don’t know…I think I should just keep it low key. After all that’s happened…’

Picking at the spiky leaves of a discarded palm leaf, Bella didn’t notice the concerned glance Genevieve cast her; however, she did detect the faint note of reproach in her grandmother’s voice. ‘Bella, ma chère, you cannot spend your life trying to be what your brother wants you to be.’

Bella gave a crooked smile. ‘No, but perhaps I have less chance of messing up that way. After all, I made a huge fuss about being given the chance to be myself and live my own life, and look what happened.’

‘You made a mistake,’ said Genevieve mildly. ‘Is that so bad?’

Bella’s smile faded. The huge, marble-tiled hallway felt suddenly cold. ‘Given that it could have caused a scandal which may have cost Papa and Miles their jobs, I think that’s as bad as I’d like it to get,’ she said quietly. Without realizing it she had completely stripped the palm frond, and its shredded leaves were scattered over the polished surface of the table. ‘I don’t want to make things any more difficult for Miles than I have already. It’s a pretty important time for him just now, with the election coming up and everything, and the last thing he needs is his drop-out, headcase sister mucking things up for him again.’

‘But, cherie, this is a private party for my birthday, not a political rally for Miles. You can wear what you like.’

‘I know, but you have to admit, Grandmère, that you have some pretty influential friends. I think I should stay in the background as much as possible.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘In fact it would probably be better all round if I didn’t come…’

She had been sweeping the torn leaves into a little pile, but now Genevieve stopped her, laying her hand over Bella’s quite firmly. ‘Stop this, Bella.’

‘Sorry… It’s not that I don’t want to be there for your party, it’s just that you have to admit I’m a bit of a liability,’ Bella said lightly. She gave an awkward smile. ‘Even Ashley, PR Genius and Totally Nice Person, would have her work cut out making an art school dropout, shop girl and psychiatrist’s dream ticket seem like a political asset.’

‘Oh, Bella,’ Genevieve sighed. Suddenly she seemed very sad. ‘You have such talent. If only you could see that.’

‘For art,’ said Bella soberly. ‘That’s all, and that avenue is fairly conclusively closed since—’

Genevieve cut her off. ‘Non. Not just for art. For empathy. For understanding people, and seeing through the façade to what lies beneath. For loving.’

Bella laughed, but there was a faint tinge of bitterness to it. ‘I think Miles would say that’s my problem, not my talent.’

‘Non! Don’t let him make you believe that!’

The sudden rawness in Genevieve’s voice made Bella’s heart miss a beat. Her words echoed for a moment round the grand room, seeming out of place amongst the gleaming marble and polished wood, the perfectly arranged Sèvres china and Georgian silver. The orchid she had been holding fell to the floor as Genevieve took Bella’s hands in hers.

‘I do not want to watch you throw away your happiness to appease your family. Please, cherie, tell me you won’t. Don’t make the same mistake that I made.’

As the car glided through the security cordon at the entrance to Wilton Square, the noise and activity of the city was left behind and Olivier felt as if he was entering a charmed world. Beyond the dark shapes of the trees in the central garden Genevieve Delacroix’s ivory mansion blazed with light, and music spilled from windows which had been thrown open against the sticky air. The party had been going for an hour or so, and Olivier had timed his arrival carefully to allow him to slip in relatively unnoticed.

The enormous black front door was opened by a stiff-backed butler in white tie and tails, and Olivier handed over the gold-edged invitation he had managed to procure from a contact in the Treasury who owed him a favour. The butler took it with an impassive nod, gesturing for him to leave the gift he carried on a mahogany sideboard groaning under the weight of exquisitely wrapped parcels. Placing the painting of Le Manoir St Laurien, carefully reinserted into its frame, amongst them, Olivier followed the direction of the noise.

The spacious first-floor sitting room was packed with cabinet ministers, high-powered media figures and ancient aristocrats, and their loud, almost unintelligibly well-bred voices drifted assuredly above the music of the band downstairs. So this was the world of Bella Lawrence, he thought as his eyes moved around the elegant panelled room. Luxurious, expensive, exclusive… things that she no doubt took for granted and barely noticed. It was what she’d been born to.

Without being particularly conscious of it, he found his gaze skimming over the distinguished, easily recognizable faces of politicians and TV celebrities, searching for one face in particular. But the vicious kick of desire in the pit of his stomach when he saw her caught him off guard.

She was wearing another slim-fitting, severe black dress, which disguised rather than emphasised her figure, and high heels that made her endless legs seem as gracefully unsteady as a colt’s. She carried a large plate of canapés, which she was offering to a noisy group of media types. Her face was hidden by the silken curtain of her hair, but there was a stiffness in the set of her shoulders and a downward tilt to her head that told him she wasn’t smiling.

This was her world. So why did she look so out of place?

‘Caviar blini?’ he heard her murmur to a prominent TV news journalist, who took one without glancing at her or breaking off his conversation.

Eyes narrowed, Olivier watched.

Warm waves…sandy beach…top TV newsreader lying on it while I smash a plate of caviar blinis over his head…

Bella’s smile was a painful rictus grin as she moved on, wondering how soon she could beat a hasty retreat to her room and curl up with a book. Any time now, she thought resignedly, for all the notice anyone’s taking of me.

As she moved further into the room she could hear Miles’s voice—confident, urbane, totally in command—and once again the randomness of the gene lottery was brought home to her. How could it be that he was so…assured, and she had never felt a moment’s assurance in her whole life? She kept her head bowed, her back towards him, hoping to pass by unnoticed and be spared the inevitable embarrassment of being introduced to whichever political worthy he was talking to.

‘Ah, Bella! There you are…I was just talking about you.’

If Bella had been wearing boots at that moment her heart would have sunk into the bottom of them. Fortunately, her shiny black high-heeled shoes were too tight to leave any room for anything else, so she summoned a smile and turned round.

‘This is my little sister, Bella,’ Miles said heartily to the vaguely familiar-looking man standing beside him. ‘Named after the suffragette Christabel Pankhurst.’

Taking a caviar blini, the man smiled politely. ‘Of course. And as one of the distinguished Lawrence family I imagine you’re just as much of a trailblazer as your namesake?’

Bella felt her smile falter. Oh, yes, absolutely, she wanted to say. I’m the first member of my family to fail at anything and become a dropout. Just as she was wondering how to frame this sentence slightly more positively, the slim brunette at Miles’s side stepped in.

‘Bella’s the artistic one in the family, Prime Minister. She’s incredibly talented, so although Miles needs help to match a pair of socks, I actually have hope that we might just end up having children with a glimmer of creativity…’

Prime Minister. Oh, knickers. That was why she recognised him…

Bella cast a grateful glance at the girl who had spoken. Ashley McGarry was Miles’s fiancée. She was also extremely gorgeous, owned her own incredibly successful PR firm and was just about the nicest person Bella knew. Which was good, because it would have been hard to forgive her for the gorgeousness and success otherwise.

‘So, what kind of art do you do?’ the Prime Minister asked her politely.

Bella squirmed. ‘I paint furniture.’

The PM looked surprised. He’d clearly expected something a little more cutting edge. Ashley came to the rescue again. ‘Bella has one of the most enviable jobs in London, working in a gorgeous shop in Notting Hill that sells French antiques and vintage stuff.’ She turned to Bella with an encouraging smile. ‘I went back the other day to see if that fabulous mirror was still there, but Celia had sold it. I was so disappointed.’

Don’t worry,’ said Bella. ‘Her daughter’s twins are due any minute, so she’s asked me to do the autumn buying trip to France. I’m going to take her car and tour the markets around Paris, so I can look out for another one for you then.’

Miles looked up. ‘You’re going to France, Bella? On your own?’

Suddenly the atmosphere was very tense. Ashley laid a hand on Bella’s arm but this time said nothing. Bella felt as if someone was slowly pouring cold porridge down her back. How could she be having this conversation now? In front of the Prime Minister?

‘Yes, Miles,’ she said miserably, looking at the floor. ‘I’ll be fine.’