Rich As Sin

Mrs Maxwell shook her head. ‘Well, you watch out, Sam. These people aren’t like us, you know, and you being an attractive girl and everything—just watch your step.’

Samantha smiled. ‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Well, you can laugh. But it’s true. Some people think money can buy anything.’

Samantha’s expression softened. ‘I know,’ she said, recognising her mother’s very real fears on her behalf. ‘But I am twenty-four, you know. I know what I’m doing.’

After popping her head round the living-room door to offer a belated greeting to her father and her younger sister Penny, Samantha trudged up the stairs to her room. She was tired. She freely admitted it. But it was more a mental tiredness, born of the arguments she had had with both Paul and her mother, than any physical weakness on her part. It was so hard to make them understand how she felt about this latest development in her career. When she left university, it was true, she had no serious plans for her future. Oh, she had always liked messing about in the kitchen, and trying new recipes on the family, but she had just regarded that as a hobby, until her father had put the idea of starting a sandwich-round into her head.

As the manager of a jeweller’s in the High Street, Mr Maxwell had got into the habit of going into the local pub for a sandwich at lunchtime, but, as he said, he didn’t always want the beer that went with it. He had encouraged Samantha when she had put forward her idea of using her car to deliver home-made sandwiches all over town, and Paul’s offer of the lease on what had previously been a rather sleazy café had just been an extension of that. She had still provided sandwiches, but her clients had had to come to her for them, and pretty soon she had branched out into quiches, and salads, and home-made cakes and scones. The Honey Pot had taken off, and during the past two years it had gone from strength to strength. She even employed a full-time assistant now, and her account books were beginning to show a healthy profit. But this latest development was something else, and it was hard to be enthusiastic when everyone else thought she was getting out of her depth.

Standing in the shower, she avoided looking at her reflection in the walls of the Perspex stall. She was half afraid of what she might see in the dark-fringed depths of her eyes, eyes that could change from green to grey, according to her mood. Was she being too ambitious? she wondered, scooping gel from the bottle and lathering her damp hair. Was that what Paul was afraid of? She had never thought of herself as being so, but she couldn’t deny she was excited. She would have to think of a name for the new service, she thought, determinedly putting all negative thoughts aside. Not the Honey Pot again. That belonged to the café. So how about ‘Honey Homemaker’, just to keep the connection?

The buffet looked perfect, even if Samantha had had a few small set-backs at the beginning. Finding that one of the smoked salmon mousses had lost its shape on the journey had been a minor disaster, but happily she had prepared more than she needed, and that obstacle had been overcome.

Then Miss Mainwaring, her employer’s fiancée, had thrown a paddy because there was no caviare. A buffet wasn’t a buffet without caviare, she had exclaimed, and it had taken a great deal of effort on her fiancé’s behalf to persuade her that it really wasn’t important.

He had been nice, Samantha reflected, as she gathered her belongings together, preparatory to leaving. A prince, moreover, although his title wasn’t one she was familiar with. But then, she wasn’t familiar with these people at all, she acknowledged ruefully. A fact that had been made clear to her by Melissa Mainwaring’s biting tongue.

All the same, it had been an edifying experience, and she had learned one or two salutory lessons. She had discovered, for instance, that it was far harder to organise a buffet than it was to arrange a formal sit-down dinner. And luck had played a part in saving her from ruining this unique opportunity. It hadn’t occurred to her, until she was unloading the pizza, that it was no use providing hot food when you couldn’t be assured the guests would eat to order. But thankfully her pizzas tasted just as good cold as hot, and instead of offering them in slices, as she had originally intended, she cut the juicy wedges into bite-sized squares, easily handled on the end of a cocktail spear.

Happily, the rest of the food offered no problems. Her tarts and quiches looked appetisingly rich against the backcloth of finely embossed damask. And Samantha threaded strands of asparagus fern between the plates of meats and salads, adding scarlet rosebuds to enhance the luscious trifles. When she left the tables to go downstairs and pack up, there was already a satisfying group of guests admiring her efforts. She just hoped everything tasted as good as it looked. One other difference between the buffet and a formal dinner was that she didn’t stay around long enough to find out.

Which was a pity, because she’d enjoyed working in this kitchen. With its quarry-tiled floor, and solid mahogany fittings, it reminded her of pictures she had seen of Victorian kitchens. However, no Victorian kitchen had ever had its standards of cleanliness, or provided such a wealth of gadgets to make cooking here a pleasure.

Upstairs had been impressive, too. Dividing doors had been rolled back to create a huge reception area, and although Samantha had only had a glimpse of the linen-hung walls and high carved ceilings as she and the waiters, hired for the occasion, carried the food up from the kitchen, it had been enough. Evidently, whatever else he was, Prince Georgio was not a member of some impoverished aristocracy. On the contrary, he must be extremely rich—and Miss Mainwaring probably knew it.

An unkind conclusion, Samantha reproved herself severely, as she packed plates and dishes back into the cold-boxes she had brought them in. Afer all, she knew nothing about Melissa Mainwaring, except that she was a friend of Jenny’s, and she was fond of caviare. And if she, Samantha, wanted to make a success of this business, she had to try and get on with everybody. Even spoilt little rich girls who enjoyed making scenes!

She was so intent on what she was doing, so absorbed with her thoughts, that when she turned and saw the man leaning against the tall freezer she started violently. She had thought she was alone, all the waiters hired for the evening busy circulating the champagne upstairs. But in the next instant she realised that this man was no waiter, and in the same breath she saw the half-open door behind him.

Until then, she hadn’t noticed the rear entry. The house, one of a row of terraced Georgian properties, had been designed to provide living accommodation on its three upper floors. The lower ground floor, where Samantha was now, was entered by means of area steps at the front of the house, and it had never occurred to her that there might be a back entrance on this level. Or that it might be unlocked.

Her mouth drying, she looked at the man with anxious eyes. Who was he? she wondered. A servant? A thief? He didn’t look entirely English, and although he wasn’t heavily built, like Paul, there was a muscular hardness to his lean body. She supposed he was about six feet; again, not as tall as Paul, but more powerfully masculine. His dark hair needed cutting, and there was a film of stubble on his chin. It added to the air of toughness and alienation that exuded from him, an aura that was strengthened by the fact that he was dressed totally in black.

Swallowing, Samantha decided she had no choice but to bluff it out. There was no way she could get round the table and make it to either of the other two doors without him catching her. Something told her he would move just as swiftly as the predator he resembled, but perhaps he would leave her alone if he thought she was no threat to him.

‘I—er—the party’s not down here,’ she said, stifling an exclamation as her shaking hands clattered two quiche plates together. God! She was trying not to do anything to agitate him. At this rate, he’d soon guess that she was scared rigid.

But, ‘I know,’ he remarked, in a laconic voice, making no move to budge from his lounging position. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he added. ‘I assumed everyone would be upstairs. I imagine Ivanov’s guests have arrived by now, haven’t they?’

Samantha blinked. Ivanov’s guests! So he knew whose house it was, then. Did that make it better or worse? She was too shocked to make a decision.

And his voice disturbed her. It had a low gravelly edge that scraped across her nerves. Yet it was a cultivated voice, as well. Hoarse, but not the broad London accent she would have expected.

He moved then and, in spite of herself, she flinched. She didn’t quite know what she expected him to do, but when her eyes alighted on the knife she had used to cut the pizza lying on the table beside her, her fingers flexed automatically.

‘I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here,’ he began, his lips twisting half sardonically, and Samantha took a choking breath. His upper lip was quite thin, she noticed inconsequently, but the lower one was full and sensual. The mark of a sensitive nature, she wondered wildly, or simply an indication of brute strength?

‘I—it’s nothing to do with me,’ she said, aware that her voice had risen half an octave. She edged one of the cold-boxes forward so that it hid the knife from his view. Then, as her fingers closed around the handle, ‘Is—is Mr Ivanov expecting you?’

A faint smile touched his mouth. His lips parted to reveal even white teeth, and his tongue appeared to dampen a corner in a decidedly amused gesture. ‘Mr Ivanov?’ he echoed, as Samantha’s scattered senses registered the powerful attraction of that smile. ‘I gather you don’t know him very well.’

Samantha’s lips tightened. Did he mean because she hadn’t addressed him as Prince Ivanov? Or simply because she had said Mr Ivanov?

‘I—don’t,’ she declared, realising he hadn’t answered her question. Her fingers took a firmer hold on the knife. ‘Wh-why don’t you go up and see him?’

It was a calculated risk she was taking. She had no idea what he might do when confronted with a roomful of Prince Georgio’s guests, but at least it would give her a chance to call the police. And there was no point in trying to be a hero—a heroine—when he was so much taller and stronger than she was. She might find the courage to use the knife to defend herself, but she couldn’t see herself using it to stop him from invading the party. Indeed, the very idea of sinking its cruel blade into his yielding flesh was enough to bring her out in a cold sweat.

‘Yes,’ he said now, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, ‘why don’t I do that?’ But then, dispelling the feeling of relief that his words had kindled, his heavy lids narrowed the penetration of eyes so dark, they seemed as black as his outfit. ‘So what are you doing down here?’

‘Me?’ It was almost a squeak, and Samantha cleared her throat before continuing. ‘I—–’ It was still too high, and she consciously tried to lower her tone. ‘I—I’m just the ca-caterer.’

‘The caterer?’ he echoed, half disbelievingly, and she realised that in her hip-length sweater and black leggings she didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a waitress. But she had changed out of the neat white blouse and short black skirt she had worn to set out the buffet tables. In here, five minutes ago, she remembered, in horror. God! She should be grateful he hadn’t surprised her in her bra and panties!

‘I—yes, the caterer,’ she confirmed, the memory of what could have happened giving her a momentary respite. ‘That—that’s what I’m doing. Packing up my things.’

His frown was thoughtful, drawing his straight black brows together. He had nice eyebrows, she thought, dark and vital, like his hair, and his nose was straight and well-formed, between bones that accentuated the hollows of his cheeks. Altogether, it was a disturbingly attractive face, she acknowledged, and then inwardly flayed herself for thinking so. For pity’s sake, the man was an intruder, or worse! How could she find him attractive? She must be losing her mind!

He moved again, approaching the table this time, and all thoughts of his appearance fled. All her old fears flooded back in full measure, and when he put out a hand to examine the nearest cold-box her nerve snapped. Snatching up the knife, she positioned it against her midriff, holding it with both hands, the handle towards her stomach, the blade pointing viciously outwards.

‘Don’t touch anything!’ she cried, unable to hold down her panic any longer. ‘Get—get away from the table. Or—or I’ll use this. Believe me, I know how.’

His expression was ludicrous. If she hadn’t known better, she might almost have believed he was as shocked as she was. He stared at her as if she had really lost her senses, and his hands came out of his pockets to perform a soothing gesture.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘calm down—–’

‘Keep away from me!’ Samantha was shaking like a leaf, and her hold on the knife was desperate. Her palms were sweating with the knowledge that she had really burned her boats now. She had shown him she didn’t trust him, and there was no turning back.

‘Please,’ he protested, ‘put the knife down. You’re making a terrible mistake—–’

‘You made the mistake in coming here,’ she retorted, glancing behind her, measuring the distance to the stairs. ‘If—if you have any sense you’ll get out of here. If you’re still here when I get back, the police will—ouch!’

Her words were brought to an abrupt halt when he lunged forward and grabbed her arm. Taking advantage of her momentary lapse in concentration, he grasped her wrist and twisted sharply. The knife fell to the floor with a loud clatter, and before she could turn away he jerked her hard against him.

Her first crazy thought was that she had been right: his body was much harder and tougher than Paul’s. And the second was that he was no gentleman. A gentleman wouldn’t twist her arm up behind her back until it felt as if it might break, or hold her as if there was some danger of her laying a karate chop across the back of his neck. The only kind of chops she knew about were lamb, and pork, and if it weren’t so serious she could almost find it funny.

A sob escaped her, but it was as much a suppression of the hysterical laughter that was bubbling inside her as an expression of pain. Nevertheless, he heard it, and his hold on her arm eased ever so slightly, as he drew back to look down at her.

‘Are you crazy, or what?’ he demanded, and she was relieved to see he looked no more menacing than he had done a few moments ago. But he had been drinking. She could smell it on his breath.

‘You—you ask me that!’ she got out, trying to free her other arm that was imprisoned by her side. ‘After—after breaking in here!’

‘Are you kidding?’ He blinked now, and she thought what absurdly long eyelashes he had, for a man. But she was making far too many personal observations about him, and she determinedly schooled her thoughts along with her expression. ‘I didn’t break in,’ he added impatiently. ‘Believe it or not, I have an invitation!’

‘You do?’ Samantha wasn’t sure whether she should believe him or not, but as he was holding the upper hand—in more ways than one, she acknowledged painfully—what choice did she have?

‘Yes.’ He let go of the arm he had been punishing, and transferred his hold to her waist. ‘Can I trust you not to pull another stunt like that, if I let you go?’

Samantha’s lips trembled, but a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘I—I think so,’ she said, becoming conscious of the underlying intimacy of their situation. Whether he realised it or not, she was acutely aware of his lean hips inclined towards hers, and the muscled thigh that was threatening to part her legs. ‘Are you going to? Let me go, I mean,’ she appended, as the ambiguity of her words brought an embarrassed wave of colour to her cheeks.

Amazingly, the ebony eyes darkened. Samantha wouldn’t have believed they could, and it wasn’t so much an increasing definition of colour as a deepening of quality, a softening, that gave the pupils a curious lightness.

‘Do you want me to?’ he asked, and there was a distinctly husky timbre to his hoarse voice now that caused a feathering of flesh all over her body. Dear heaven, he was sexy, she thought, her senses racing out of control. It wasn’t exactly what he was saying, it was the way he was saying it, and her tongue appeared to wet her lips in unknowing invitation.

‘I—–’ she began, knowing how she ought to answer him, but hesitating none the less. And then a voice that she remembered rather too well broke over them in shrill accusation.

‘Matt! Matt, is that you? In God’s name, what are you doing down here?’

Melissa Mainwaring came down the stairs as she spoke, her short-skirted dress of crisp blue taffeta rustling as she did so. It also slipped enticingly off one white shoulder, drawing attention to the pearly quality of her skin, and the ripe, rounded shape it concealed.

The man stiffened. There was no other way to describe the sudden freezing of his body. With unhurried but nevertheless decisive movements, he released Samantha and stepped back, his expression twisting oddly in the harsh track of a spotlight. It gave her the opportunity to try and gather her own composure, though the expression in Melissa’s eyes as she looked at her was not encouraging.

She had reached the bottom of the stairs now, and her high heels rang noisily against the copper-coloured tiles. But, her attention was all on the man beside Samantha now and, although she clearly hadn’t liked their earlier closeness, his subsequent withdrawal had mollified her somewhat.

‘You came,’ she said, her expression changing to one of extreme satisfaction. ‘I hoped you would.’

‘Did you?’

His response was scarcely enthusiastic, though Samantha sensed that he was holding his real emotions in check. There was a distinct tenseness in the way he held himself, in the way he spoke. Something was going on here, something she knew nothing about, and she wished, with all her heart, that she could escape before his control snapped.

‘Yes.’ The woman’s gaze switched to the girl beside him, and Samantha thought how ironic it was that she and Melissa should have had that altercation earlier. It made the present situation so much more awkward, and she just wanted to pick up her boxes and leave. ‘I see Miss Maxwell let you in.’

‘I let myself in,’ the man contradicted her, but Melissa was not appeased.

‘But you know one another,’ she probed, crossing her arms across her midriff, and massaging her elbows with delicate hands.

‘No.’ The man—Matt?—shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘Miss—Maxwell?’ He looked briefly at Samantha, and she quickly bent her head. ‘Miss Maxwell thought I was an intruder.’

Melissa frowned. ‘Is this true?’ she asked, and Samantha sighed.

‘Yes.’

‘It was my fault for coming in the back way,’ declared Matt sardonically. He bent to pick up the knife that still lay glinting on the floor, but although he glanced at Samantha as he did so he made no mention of it. ‘So—I believe congratulations are in order. You finally got someone to take the bait.’

If Samantha was shocked by his words, Melissa was more so. ‘You—bastard!’ she choked, and the look she cast in the other woman’s direction was eloquent of the fury she felt at Samantha’s being a witness to her humiliation. There would be no useful contacts from this dinner party, not if Melissa had anything to do with it, Samantha thought ruefully. But at the same time she felt a small sense of satisfaction that whatever was going on here, the man—Matt? Matthew?—was apparently quite capable of holding his own.

‘I—if you’ll excuse me,’ she murmured, deciding not to push her luck. It was one thing to be an unwilling witness; it was quite another to become a participant in their quarrel.

Melissa took a deep breath. ‘Where are you going?’

Samantha moistened her lips. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘Like hell you are!’ Melissa shot Matthew a crippling glare. ‘People haven’t even started eating yet. It’ll be hours before the tables can be cleared. Go to the bathroom, or somewhere. Mr Putnam and I only need a few moments’ privacy.’

‘No.’ Samantha thrust the last of her belongings into the boxes, and fastened the safety clips. Right now, she didn’t particularly care if she smashed all her dishes. She just wanted to get out of there, for more reasons than she cared to consider. ‘I—your—that is, the prince knows I only—prepare the food. I don’t clean up afterwards.’

‘Why not?’ Melissa’s undoubtedly striking features were less than appealing at this moment. ‘You’re just a waitress, aren’t you? That’s what you’re doing here.’

‘No,’ said Samantha again, snatching up her jacket, and grabbing hold of two of the cold-boxes. ‘I just—deliver the food, that’s all.’ It was easier than trying to explain. ‘And now, as I say, I must be going. It—it’s getting late, and I’ve got a long way to drive.’

Melissa looked as if she would have liked to try and stop her by force, but, instead, she contented herself with a sarcastic sneer. ‘Well, you can tell your employer we weren’t very impressed with the service,’ she declared spitefully. ‘Oh, and mention the caviare, won’t you? You have heard of caviare, I assume?’

Samantha gritted her teeth, intensely aware of the man standing listening to the proceedings, with a faintly mocking expression on his dark face. ‘I’ll remember,’ she said tightly, bumping the boxes against the cupboards as she struggled to the door. Just a few more yards, she thought, wondering how she could turn the handle without wasting time putting her boxes down, and then the man intervened.

‘Allow me,’ he said, reaching past her to pull open the door, and she gave him a grateful smile. ‘Drive carefully,’ he added, as she hurriedly ascended the steps, but any response she might have made died on her lips. As she glanced behind her, Melissa came to grasp his arm, and drag him back into the kitchen. Samantha’s last glimpse was of the two of them standing very close together, and of Melissa’s scarlet-tipped fingers spread against his chest.

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