Ryan's Revenge

Without warning, hands came over her eyes and a low, slightly husky voice said close to her ear, “Guess who?”

Virginia’s heart pounding like a trip-hammer, her breath coming in shallow gasps, she stared into Ryan’s tough, hard-boned face. A face she knew as well as her own. A face she had often looked into while they made love.

He put out a hand, and with a proprietary gesture brushed a loose tendril of curly hair back from her pale cheek.

“My dear Virginia, there’s no need to act as if you’re afraid of me.”

“So you did catch sight of me in the gallery. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Ryan’s voice was ironic as he told her, “I thought I’d surprise you.”

LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a Derbyshire village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy traveling, and recently—joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law—spent a year going around the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Lee’s hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

Ryan’s Revenge

Lee Wilkinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

WARM June sunshine poured in through the open window, a beneficence after the late and miserably cold spring. In nearby Kenelm Park a dog yapped excitedly, shrill above the continuous, muted roar of London’s traffic.

Glancing from her second-floor window, Virginia saw between the trees the flash of a bright red ball being thrown, and smiled, before returning to her cataloging.

A moment later the internal phone on her desk rang. Reaching out a slender, long-fingered hand she picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?’

Helen’s voice said formally, ‘Miss Ashley, there’s a gentleman here asking if we have any paintings by either Brad or Mia Adams. I’ve explained that there are none listed, but he’d like to know if we’re able to acquire any.’

During the past ten years the Adams’ work had become widely sought after, and Virginia had grown used to the idea of her parents being well known—at least in the world of art.

‘I’ll come down,’ she said.

Helen Hutchings, a nice-looking forty-year-old widow, handled casual sales of the good contemporary art that the Charles Raynor Gallery displayed, while Virginia dealt with specialist requests or queries.

Checking that no wisps of silky ash-brown hair had escaped from her neat chignon, and donning the heavy glasses that changed her appearance and made her look considerably older than her twenty-four years, she left her office, slender and business-like in a charcoal-grey silk suit.

The long oval gallery had a balcony running around it and was open to the skylights, where today the oatmeal-coloured blinds were in place because of the bright sunshine.

Peering over the wrought-iron balcony rail, she saw that a few people, mainly tourists she judged, were browsing. At the far end, she caught a glimpse of a tall, well-built man with dark hair who was standing by the reception desk.

His stance was easy, anything but impatient, yet he had an unmistakable air of waiting.

As she reached the stairs, which at the bottom were roped off with a crimson and gold tasselled cord that held a notice saying Private, he turned to glance in her direction.

Ryan.

There was no mistaking that lean, hard-boned face, the set of the shoulders, the carriage of that dark head, the strong yet graceful physique.

Though it was much too far away to see the colour of his eyes, she knew quite well that they were midway between dark blue and violet.

Her breath caught in her throat. Virginia stopped dead, gripping the banister rail convulsively.

Even after her flight from New York and her return to London she had been afraid of seeing him, on edge and wary of every tall, dark-haired man who came into sight.

Only over the last six months or so had she started to feel relatively safe, confident that she had left the past behind her.

Now it seemed that her confidence had been premature.

Her heart was beginning to pound and, a rush of adrenalin galvanising her into action, she turned and fled back to the safety of her office.

Sinking down at her desk, her stomach churning sickeningly, she prayed that he hadn’t seen and recognised her.

If he had, Ryan wasn’t the kind of man to walk quietly away. Remembering how he’d said, ‘I’ll never let you go,’ she shuddered.

In spite of all that had been between them she had left him. Unable to bear the pain of his perfidy, afraid to confront him for fear of what damage it might do to the family, she had run without a word.

He wouldn’t easily forgive her for that.

But if he hadn’t recognised her, the situation could be saved…

Hoping against hope that Charles was back from his early afternoon appointment, she reached for the internal phone.

There was no answer from his office, which was on the ground floor, and she tried the private showroom and then, in mounting desperation, the strongroom.

When, his voice sounding abstracted, he answered, ‘Yes… What is it?’ Virginia could have wept with relief.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but could you possibly find time to see a prospective customer who’s waiting at reception?’

‘What does he or she want?’ he queried in his rather dry, precise manner.

‘He asked if we can acquire any Adams paintings.’

Sounding surprised, Charles said, ‘Surely you can deal with that?’

‘It’s someone I…once knew, and I’d rather not have to meet again.’

Though Virginia had done her best to play it down, with the perception of a man in love, he picked up the urgency. ‘Very well. Leave it to me.’

Fear darkening her grey-green eyes almost to charcoal, she wondered, why, oh, why, out of all the art galleries in London, had Ryan chanced to come into this one?

Since her return to London two-and-a-half years ago, she had used her middle name as a surname and had virtually lived in hiding. No one knew where she was. Not even her parents.

She had been staying in a cheap hotel off the Bayswater Road and, with very little money and Christmas coming up, had been badly in need of a job.

The employment agency she’d approached had sent her to the Raynor Gallery where she had been interviewed by Charles himself.

She had told him about the course on the practical and administrative side of art she had taken at college, and had explained, without giving any details, that she had just returned from the States.

After studying her thoughtfully while she spoke, he had offered her a post as his assistant.

After she had been working for him for almost a year, the gallery had started to handle the Adams’ work, and when Charles had suggested that she should be their contact she had been forced to tell him at least part of the truth.

‘Virginia, my dear,’ he protested, ‘as you’re their daughter, surely—’

‘I don’t want them to know where I am.’

They were acquainted with Ryan, and that made any communication with them potentially dangerous.

Charles frowned. ‘But won’t they worry about you?’

‘No, I’m certain they won’t. You see we’ve never been a family in the real sense of the word.’

Seeing he was unconvinced, she explained, ‘Mother was fresh out of art school when she met my father, who was over from the States.

‘They’d both been painting since they were children, and lived for art. That’s probably what drew them together.

‘After they married they lived in Greenwich Village for several years before coming back to settle in England. By the time I was born they were well into their thirties.

‘I was a mistake. Neither of them wanted me. If mother hadn’t been brought up to believe life was sacred, I think she might well have had an abortion.’

‘Oh surely not!’ Charles, a mild-mannered, conventional man, sounded shocked by her bluntness.

‘They were both so wrapped up in their work that a baby was an unlooked-for and unwelcome complication in their lives…’

Though she spoke flatly, dispassionately, he could feel her abiding sense of rejection, and his heart bled for her.

‘They were well-off financially, and their solution was a series of nannies, and a girl’s boarding school as soon as I was old enough.

‘I was on the point of leaving school and starting college when they went back to New York to live.’

‘They left you behind?’

‘I was nearly eighteen by then.’

‘But surely they helped to support you? Financially, I mean?’

‘No, I didn’t want them to. I preferred to take evening and weekend jobs and stay independent…

‘So you see, not knowing where I am now won’t worry them in the slightest. In fact I doubt if they ever give me a thought.’

‘Very well, if you’re sure?’

‘I’m quite sure.’

‘Then, I’ll deal with them personally.’

‘You won’t say anything?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Not a word. Your secret’s safe with me.’

She felt a rush of affection for him. He was a thoroughly nice man and, knowing that he would keep his promise, she breathed easier.

Until now…

The latch clicked.

She glanced up sharply, her heart in her mouth.

It was Charles, neat and conservative in a lightweight business suit, a lock of fair hair falling over his high forehead giving him a boyish air that belied his forty-three years.

Seeing her face had lost all trace of colour, he said reassuringly, ‘There’s no need to look so concerned. He’s gone.’

Perhaps, subconsciously, she had been half expecting Ryan to come bursting in, and relief was washing over her like a warm tide when a sudden thought made her query anxiously, ‘He didn’t ask about me?’

Dropping into the chair opposite, Charles raised a fair brow. ‘Why should he?’

She worried her lower lip. ‘I’d started to go down when I realised who it was. I thought he might have seen and recognised me.’

‘He made no mention of it,’ Charles assured her calmly. ‘And, as he appears to be the type who wouldn’t have hesitated to ask about anything he wanted to know, I think we can safely assume he didn’t.’

Watching Virginia relax perceptibly, he wondered what had passed between her and the powerful-looking man he’d just been talking to.

From her reactions it was clear that her feelings had been a great deal deeper than her casual ‘someone I once knew’ had implied. It might even be part of the reason she had refused his offer of marriage…

Hoping for further reassurance that Ryan’s visit had been just chance, she asked, ‘What did he actually say? How did he act?’

‘His manner was quite straightforward and purposeful. He told me his name was Ryan Falconer, and that he’d like to acquire, amongst other things, some of the earlier Adams paintings. I promised I’d put out some feelers and let him know the chances as soon as possible…’

‘Is he staying in England?’

‘For a few days, apparently. As well as his home address in Manhattan, he gave me the phone number of a Mayfair hotel.’

Mayfair. She repressed a shiver. Practically on their doorstep and much too close for comfort.

‘Though he’s primarily a businessman, a Wall Street investment banker, I understand, he’s interested in art and owns the Falconer Gallery in New York… But possibly you knew that?’

‘Yes.’

When she failed to elaborate, Charles went on, ‘However, I gather the paintings he’s hoping to buy are for his private collection. He mentioned one by Mia Adams that he’d particularly like to own, Wednesday’s Child…’

She froze.

‘Falconer believes it was painted seven or eight years ago, and is one of her best. Though I must say I’ve never heard of it… He made it clear that money’s no object, so I’ve promised to do what I can. Of course, even if I’m able to locate it, the present owner might not be willing to sell.’

Something about Virginia’s utter stillness made Charles ask, ‘Do you remember it by any chance?’

Taking a deep breath, she admitted, ‘As a matter of fact I do. I sat for it. I wasn’t quite seventeen.’

His light blue eyes glowing with interest, he exclaimed, ‘I didn’t realise your mother had ever used you as a model!’

‘It was just the once. I’d been invited to spend the summer holidays with a school friend—Jane belonged to a big happy family, and I was looking forward to it—but at the last minute the visit had to be cancelled, so I went home.

‘Mother said that as I was there she might as well make use of me. I tried hard to do just as she wanted, but for some reason she disliked the finished portrait, and she never asked me to sit again.’

‘What did you think of it?’

‘I didn’t see it,’ Virginia said flatly. ‘She told me that it needed framing, and the next time I went home, it had been sold…’

And now Ryan wanted to buy it.

That fact disturbed her almost as much as seeing him again…

But maybe it was just chance that had made him specify Wednesday’s Child? Maybe he didn’t know that she had been the sitter?

Almost before the thought was completed, a sure and certain instinct told her it was no chance. He knew all right.

She shivered.

Watching her face, Charles asked shrewdly, ‘If I am able to locate and acquire that particular painting, how do you feel about Falconer having it?’

With careful understatement, she admitted, ‘I’d rather he didn’t.’

‘Then, I’ll tell him I had no luck.’

Recalling the problems and financial losses that Charles had suffered over the past year, she swallowed hard and made herself say, ‘No, if you are able to acquire it and he’s willing to pay well, you mustn’t let my silly prejudices stand in the way of business.’

‘Well, we’ll see,’ he said noncommittally. ‘Things might well be looking up.’

Before she could question that somewhat cryptic statement, he glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost four o’clock. I’d best be getting on.’

Rising to his feet, a tall, spare figure with slightly rounded shoulders, he suggested with the solicitude he always displayed for her, ‘You’re looking a bit peaky, why don’t you go home?’

Thoroughly unsettled, her head throbbing dully, and never having felt less like work, she said gratefully, ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache, so I think I will, if you really don’t mind?’

Smiling, he shook his head. ‘As it’s Monday, I’m quite sure Helen and I can deal with anything that may crop up in the next hour or so.’

At the door, he paused to say, ‘Oh, by the way, I won’t be coming home at the usual time. I’ve agreed to have dinner with the client I saw earlier this afternoon…’

Her heart sank. Somehow, after what had happened, she needed his comforting, undemanding presence.

‘And as it’s my turn to cook—’ when Virginia had first moved into his spare room, they had reached an amicable arrangement whereby they cooked on alternate evenings ‘—I suggest you get a takeaway, on me…’

Well aware that his sensitive antennae had picked up her unspoken need, she asked with determined lightness, ‘Will you run to a Chinese?’

He grinned. ‘I might, if you promise to save me some prawn crackers.’

‘Done!’

‘I don’t expect to be late but, if by any chance I am, don’t wait up for me. You look as if you could do with an early night. Oh, and if you’re not feeling up to scratch, take a taxi home.’

Charles was so genuinely kind, so caring, Virginia thought as the door closed behind him. He would make a wonderful husband for the right woman.

He was an excellent companion, easy to talk to and good-tempered, with that rarest of gifts, the ability to see another person’s point of view.

Added to that, he was a good-looking man with a quiet charm and undeniable sex appeal. Helen, she was almost certain, was in love with him, and had been for the past year.

It was a great pity that she couldn’t love him in the way he wanted her to.

A few weeks before, as they’d washed the dishes together after their evening meal, he had broached the question of marriage, diffidently, feeling his way, afraid of scaring her off.

Until then she had thought of him as a confirmed bachelor, set in his ways. It had never occurred to her that he might propose, and he’d been skirting round the subject for several minutes before she’d had the faintest inkling of what had been in his mind.

‘I hadn’t realised how much I lacked companionship until you came along… Since you’ve been living here…well, it’s made a great difference to my life… And you seem happy with the arrangement…?’

‘Yes, I am.’ She smiled at him warmly.

Bolstered by that smile, his blue eyes serious, he finally came to the point. ‘Virginia…there’s something I want to ask you… But if the answer’s no, promise me it won’t make any difference to our friendship…’

‘I promise.’

‘You must know I love you…’

She had suspected he was getting fond of her, but had regarded it as the kind of affection he might have felt for any close friend.

‘Don’t you think it might be something to do with propinquity?’ she suggested gently.

Shaking his head, he said, ‘I’ve loved you ever since I set eyes on you…’ Then formally, he said, ‘It would make me very happy if you would agree to marry me.’

Just for an instant she was tempted. It would be lovely to have a husband, a home that was really hers and, sooner or later, children.

Though she liked her chosen career and had worked hard to gain the knowledge and the eye that had put her on the road to success, it had always taken second place to her dream of being part of a close and happy family.

But it wouldn’t be fair to Charles to marry him. He deserved a wife who would love him passionately, rather than a woman who felt merely affection for him.

In no doubt of her answer now, she took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I’m sorry…more sorry than I can say…but I can’t.’

‘Is it the age difference?’

‘No,’ she answered truthfully. If she’d loved him enough age wouldn’t have mattered.

He hung the tea towel up carefully, and pushed back the lock of fair hair that fell over his forehead. ‘I had hoped, in view of how well we get along, that you might at least consider it. But perhaps you don’t like me sufficiently?’

‘I both like and respect you, in fact I’m very fond of you, but—’

‘Surely that would be enough to make it work?’ he broke in, his blue eyes eager.

She half shook her head. ‘Fondness isn’t enough.’

‘I’m prepared to give it a try. A lot of marriages must be based on less.’

‘No, it wouldn’t be fair to you…’

Seeing the discomfort on her face, he patted her hand and said firmly, ‘Don’t worry. I promise I won’t bring it up again.

‘But don’t forget I love you. I’d do anything for you… And if you should ever change your mind, the offer’s still open.’

He was a wonderful man. A man in a million. She wanted to love him. But love was something that could neither be ordered nor controlled.

She knew that to her cost.

Seeing the dangers, she had tried not to love Ryan… Without success.

But she wouldn’t think about Ryan.

As though amused by her decision, Ryan’s dark face with those blue-violet eyes smiled back at her mockingly.

Her only coherent thought on first meeting him had been that never before had she seen eyes of such a fascinating colour on any other person…

Damn! there she was doing it.

Gritting her teeth, she closed and locked the window, then gathering up her shoulder bag, made her way down the uncarpeted rear stairs and out of the green-painted staff door onto the cobbled street.

Kenelm Mews, with the backs of buildings on one side and the iron railings of Kenelm Park on the other, was filled with slanting sunlight and the summer-in-the-city smell of dust and petrol fumes and melting tarmac.

Instead of turning the corner into the main road and either looking for a taxi or heading for the bus stop, as she usually did when Charles didn’t drive her home, she hesitated.

With its sun-dappled flower beds and shady trees Kenelm looked green and pleasant. If she walked home across the park, it might help to clear her head and relax some of the remaining tension.

Suddenly impatient with her glasses, she stuffed them into her bag and set off through wrought-iron gates that stood open invitingly.

Passing the Victorian bandstand, and the velvety smooth bowling greens where sedate cream-clad figures were standing in little groups, Virginia took a path that skirted the small boating lake.

She walked briskly as though trying to outpace her thoughts. But try as she might, they kept returning to Ryan and his reason for coming into the gallery. Why did he want Wednesday’s Child?

So he had an image of her? Something to metaphorically stick pins into?

The thought of so much pent-up anger and hatred directed towards herself, frightened her half to death. Her legs starting to tremble, she sank down on the nearest bench, staring blindly across the lake.

She had hoped that time would lessen the animosity she guessed he must feel towards her.

But why should it?

Time hadn’t lessened the way she felt.

The bewilderment, the sense of betrayal, the resentment, the hurt…

Without warning, hands came over her eyes and a low, slightly husky voice, a voice that would have made her turn back from the gates of heaven, said close to her ear, ‘Guess who?’

Her heart seemed to stop beating, robbing her brain of blood and her lungs of oxygen. Faintness washed over her, swirling her into oblivion…

As the mists began to clear, she found herself held securely against a broad chest, her head resting on a muscular shoulder, the sun warm on her face.

Gathering her senses as best she could, she tried to struggle free.

An elderly woman walking past with a liver-and-white spaniel on a lead, gave them a quick, curious glance and, deciding they were lovers, walked on.

When Virginia made a further, more determined, effort, the imprisoning arms fell away, allowing her to sit upright.

Her heart pounding like a trip hammer, her breath coming in shallow gasps, she stared into Ryan’s tough, hard-boned face. A face she knew as well as she knew her own. A face she had often looked into while they’d made love.

The thick dark hair that tried to curl was cut fairly short, but by no means the shaven-headed look she so disliked; his chiselled mouth was as beautiful as she remembered, as were those long-lashed eyes, the colour of indigo.

Eyes that would have made the most ordinary man extraordinary. Except, of course, that Ryan was far from ordinary. Even without those remarkable eyes he would have stood out in a crowd…