Ryan's Revenge

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

She flinched away as though he’d struck her.

His expression pained, he protested, ‘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,’ she said hoarsely.

‘Just a glimpse before you bolted. Running away seems to be your forte.’

Biting her lip, she asked, ‘Why didn’t you say anything to Charles?’

His voice ironic, he told her, ‘I thought I’d surprise you.’

He’d certainly succeeded in doing that. Though the air was balmy, she found herself shivering. ‘How did you know I’d be in the park?’

‘I waited in the mews until I saw you leave the gallery, then I followed you.’

‘Why did you follow me?’ she demanded.

White teeth gleamed in a wolfish smile. ‘I thought it was high time we had a talk.’

‘As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to say.’ She jumped to her feet and took an unsteady step.

‘Don’t rush off.’ He reached out, and his fingers closed lightly but inexorably around her wrist.

‘Let me go,’ she said jerkily. ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’

He drew her back to the bench and, careful not to hurt her, applied just enough downward pressure to make it expedient to sit.

When she sank down onto the wooden slats, he smiled a little. ‘Well, if you really don’t want to talk, I can think of more exciting things to do.’ His eyes were fixed on her mouth.

Her voice shrill with panic, she cried, ‘No!’

‘Shame,’ he drawled. ‘Though it seems an age since I last kissed you, I can still remember how passionately you used to respond. You’d make little mewing noises in your throat, your nipples would grow firm and—’

She went hot all over and, seeing nothing else for it, threw in the towel. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

‘I want to know why you ran away. Why you left me without a word…’

Normally, he had a warm, attractive voice, a voice that had always charmed her. Now the underlying ice in it sent a chill right down her spine.

‘Why you didn’t at least tell me what was wrong.’

Feeling a deep and bitter anger, she wrenched her wrist free and rounded on him, eyes flashing. ‘How can you pretend to be so innocent? Pretend not to know “what was wrong”?’

He sighed. ‘Perhaps you could save the histrionics and just tell me?’

Unwilling to reveal the extent of her hurt, her desolation, she choked back the angry accusations, and said wearily, ‘It’s over two years ago. I can’t see that it matters now…’

Of course it mattered. It would always matter.

‘We’re different people. The girl I was then no longer exists.’

‘You’ve certainly altered,’ he admitted, studying her oval face: the pure bone structure, the long-lashed greeny-grey eyes beneath winged brows, the short straight nose, and lovely passionate mouth.

‘Then, you were young and innocent, radiantly pretty, almost incandescent…’

If she had been, love had made her that way. Happiness was a great beautifier.

‘Now you’ve—’ His voice suddenly impeded, he stopped speaking abruptly.

But she knew well enough what he’d been about to say. Each morning her mirror showed her a woman who had come up against life and lost. A woman whose sparkle had gone, and who was vulnerable, with sad eyes and, despite all her efforts to smile, a mouth that drooped a little at the corners.

She swallowed hard. ‘I’m surprised you recognised me from just that brief glimpse.’

‘I almost didn’t. That severe hairstyle and those glasses change your appearance significantly, and the “Miss Ashley” had me wondering. If I hadn’t been expecting to see you—’

‘So you knew I was there?’ she broke in sharply.

‘Oh, yes, I knew. I’ve known for some time. Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?’

Rather than answer, she chose to ask a question of her own, ‘What made you come into the gallery?’

‘I decided to check things out on a personal level.’

‘You told Charles that you wanted to buy Wednesday’s Child.’

‘So I do.’

‘Why?’

‘Surely you can guess. Will he be able to get it for me, do you think?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘But not if you can help it?’

When she made no comment, he added with a smile, ‘Though I guess I won’t need Wednesday’s Child when I’ve got the real thing.’

Afraid to ask what he meant by that, she remained silent, looking anywhere but at him.

‘From Raynor’s manner,’ Ryan went on, ‘I rather gathered you’d kept quiet about our…shall we say…relationship?’

‘It’s not something I like to talk about.’

He pulled a face at her tone. ‘So how much did you have to tell him in the end, to get him to see me in your place?’

‘I just said you were someone I’d once known and didn’t want to meet again.’

‘How very understated and cold-blooded.’

‘It happens to be the truth.’

She saw his face grow taut with anger, before a shutter came down leaving an expressionless mask.

‘I would have said I was rather more than someone you’d once known even if you’re using the word known in its biblical sense.’

She moved restlessly, desperate to get away, but knowing she stood no chance until he was willing to let her go.

‘That’s all in the past,’ she said tightly. ‘Over and done with.’

‘Hardly.’

‘It’s over and done with as far as I’m concerned.’

He shook his head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. I want you back.’

‘What?’

Though he had sworn, ‘I’ll never let you go,’ the fact that she had gone, had run away and left him, should surely have hurt his pride to the point where he wouldn’t want her back under any circumstances?

‘I want you back,’ he repeated flatly.

Stammering in her agitation, she cried, ‘I’ll never c-come back to you.’

‘Never is a long time,’ he said lightly.

‘I mean it, Ryan. There’s nothing you can do or say that will make me change my mind.’

‘I don’t think you should bet on it.’ His little crooked smile made her blood run cold.

‘Please, Ryan…’ She found she was begging. ‘I’ve made a new life for myself and I just want to be left to enjoy it.’

‘You once told me you disliked being on your own.’

‘I’m not on my own.’ The words were defiant, meant to make an impression.

‘Let’s get this straight, we are talking about merely sharing accommodation?’

‘I wasn’t,’ she said boldly. If he believed she was seriously involved with someone else he might leave her alone; she wouldn’t let herself be hurt again.

He froze into stillness, before asking quietly, ‘So, who are you sleeping with?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘I’m making it my business.’ Those indigo eyes pinning her, he repeated, ‘Who?’

‘Charles.’

Ryan laughed incredulously. ‘That middle-aged wimp?’

‘Don’t you dare call Charles a wimp. He’s nothing of the kind. He’s sweet and sensitive, and I owe him a big debt of gratitude. He gave me a job and a home when I was desperate.’

‘I’m quite aware that you share his house—my detective has followed the pair of you home often enough—but knowing you as I do, I hesitate to believe that gratitude is enough to get you into his bed.’

‘It isn’t just gratitude. I happen to love him. Passionately,’ she added for good measure.

Ryan’s mocking smile told her he didn’t believe a word of it. ‘So, when did you two become lovers?’

‘Ages ago.’

‘Then, how is it you have separate bedrooms?’

‘What makes you think we have separate bedrooms?’

‘I don’t think. I know.’

‘How could you possibly know a thing like that?’ she scoffed.

‘With a bit of encouragement, the domestic help can be an excellent source of information. Mrs Crabtree, in particular, enjoys a good gossip.’

Virginia’s heart sank. Mrs Crabtree, a cheerful, garrulous woman, came in several times a week to clean and tidy.

Seeing nothing else for it, she admitted, ‘All right, so we have separate bedrooms. Charles is conventional enough to want to keep up appearances.’

‘That’s not surprising. He’s old enough to be your father.’

‘He’s nothing of the kind.’

‘Rubbish! He must be forty-five if he’s a day.’

‘Charles is forty-three. In any case, age has nothing to do with it. He’s a wonderful lover.’

Even as she spoke she felt a stab of conscience. It was hardly fair to Charles to use him in this way; perhaps she should just tell Ryan the truth… But she’d gone much too far to back down now.

Recklessly, she added, ‘And he’s not hidebound enough to believe that lovemaking should only take place in bed.’

A dangerous light in his eyes, Ryan said, ‘I hope for everyone’s sake that you’re lying.’

‘Did you seriously expect me to be living like a nun?’

‘You were when I met you.’

‘In those days I was abysmally naive and innocent. But you taught me a lot, and it’s much more difficult to give up a known pleasure.’

Watching him weighing up her words, wondering…she struck at his ego, ‘Or did you think you were the only man who could turn me on?’

‘I certainly didn’t think Raynor was your type.’

‘That just shows how wrong you can be. Charles and I are very good together. He wants to marry me.’

A dark flush appeared along Ryan’s high cheekbones. ‘Over my dead body. I’ve no intention of letting anyone else have you.’

Rattled, she found herself catching at straws. ‘But you said yourself how much I’ve changed. I’m not even pretty any longer.’

‘No, you’re not merely pretty. Now you have the kind of poignant beauty that’s haunting.’

She half shook her head. ‘Even it that were true, the world’s full of beautiful women.’

One in particular.

‘In the past I’ve had my share of beautiful women. But I find that, after you, none of them will do. It’s you I want in my bed and in my life.’

‘I don’t understand why,’ she cried desperately.

His voice cold as steel, he said, ‘For one thing, there’s a score to settle. You owe me.’

CHAPTER TWO

WHITE to the lips, she whispered, ‘A score to settle?’

‘Why should that surprise you? You must have known that leaving me as you did would make me look a complete and utter fool?’

She couldn’t even deny it. Part of her had wanted to pay him back. Wanted to wound him as much as he’d wounded her. Wanted to destroy his world, as he’d destroyed hers.

Afraid that he might read it in her eyes, she looked away, watching a small boy in a blue T-shirt and red shorts run towards the lake. He was clutching a shining new toy yacht, obviously a birthday present, and a stick.

As he knelt on the low parapet to launch the vessel into the water, his mother, who was wheeling a baby in a pushchair, called, ‘Be careful, Thomas. Don’t fall in. The water’s deep.’

When—his will was proving stronger than hers—Virginia’s eyes were drawn irresistibly back to Ryan’s, he pursued. ‘Apart from that, when you just disappeared and I had no idea where you were or what had happened to you, I nearly went out of my mind with worry. Since then I’ve spent two-and-a-half years and a small fortune looking for you.

‘Now I’ve found you, I want you in my bed. I want to make love to you until you’re begging for mercy and I’m sated. Then I want to start all over again. Does the thought of being made love to until you’re begging for mercy turn you on?’

Heat running through her, she said thickly, ‘No! I can’t bear the thought of you touching me.’

His handsome eyes gleamed. ‘Knowing that will give me great satisfaction, and add immeasurably to my pleasure—’

A simultaneous yelp of fright, a splash, and a high-pitched scream cut through his words.

Ryan was on his feet in an instant and running towards the lake as the woman with the pushchair continued to scream hysterically.

He said something short and sharp to her that stopped the screaming, and a second later he had cleared the parapet and had plunged into the water.

Rooted to the spot, Virginia watched him haul the small dripping figure from the lake and set him on his shoulders. Judging by the roars of fright the child was letting forth, he was mercifully uninjured.

The water was somewhere in the region of three-and-a-half feet deep, and came past Ryan’s waist, as he waded a few steps to rescue the capsized yacht.

Letting go of the pushchair, the woman, now sobbing loudly with relief, hovered, arms outstretched ready to embrace her son.

Belatedly, Virginia’s brain kicked into action, and realising that no real harm had been done, she grabbed her bag and leaving Ryan to cope, bolted.

Hurrying as fast as she could to the nearest of the park’s side entrances, she made her way between the ornate metal bollards and out onto busy Kenelm Road.

A black cab was cruising past and, hailing it, she pulled open the door and jumped in, breathing hard, her heart racing.

‘Where to, lady?’

‘Sixteen Usher Street.’

Sinking back, drenched in perspiration, she glanced in the direction of the park. There was no sign of pursuit and, starting to tremble in every limb, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks. She’d escaped.

But for how long?

Ryan knew all about her. Where she worked, where she lived, her movements… He had said he wanted her back, and he wasn’t a man to give up.

Just seeing him again had shaken her to the core, but the knowledge that he wanted her back had been even more traumatic.

It had been so entirely unexpected. Never once had she considered the possibility that he might want her back again.

It was unthinkable. The very idea made her blood turn to ice in her veins. All he wanted was revenge. He didn’t even love her.

If he’d loved her, it might have been different…

But if he’d loved her she would never have left him in the first place…

Her hectic thoughts were interrupted by the taxi turning into Usher Street and coming to a halt in front of number sixteen.

It was a quiet street of cream-stuccoed town houses with basements guarded by black wrought-iron railings, and steps leading up to elegant front doors with fluted fanlights.

Charles had inherited the house from his parents, some five years previously. A confirmed bachelor, at least until Virginia had come along, he’d talked about moving somewhere smaller, easier to manage. But in truth he was comfortable there, and it was reasonably close to the gallery.

Recalling agitatedly what Ryan had said about his detective following her, Virginia suddenly felt uncomfortable.

She scrambled out of the taxi and, having reached through the window to pay the driver, ran up the steps to let herself in.

Feeling invisible eyes boring into her back, her palms grew clammy, and pointing the truth of the saying, more haste less speed, it took several attempts to turn the key in the lock.

Her heart throwing itself against her ribs, she dropped the key into her purse, slammed the door behind her, and hurried through the hall and into a large attractively furnished living-room with long windows.

Dropping her bag on the couch she crossed the room and peered cautiously from behind the curtains, half expecting to see a strange man opposite, lurking behind a newspaper.

Apart from a woman walking past whom she recognised as a neighbour, the sunny, tree-lined street was deserted.

With a feeling of anticlimax, Virginia told herself satirically that she was either getting paranoid, or had been watching too many detective series on the television.

But her attempt to josh herself out of it failed dismally. The threat to her new-found security was chillingly real and couldn’t be laughed away.

Becoming aware that her head was now throbbing fiercely, she went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and swallow a couple of painkillers.

Then, uncomfortably hot and sticky, she decided to have a shower and wash her hair. Physically, at least, that should make her feel better.

She stripped off her clothes and, removing the pins from her hair, shook it loose before stepping beneath the jet of warm water.

As she reached for the shampoo, she found herself wondering about Ryan. He must have been saturated…

Had he walked back to his hotel? Or braved it out and hailed a taxi? Was he at this precise minute also taking a shower?

In the old days, alone in his Fifth Avenue penthouse, they had enjoyed showering together…

While the scented steam rose and billowed, her own hands stilled as she recalled how his hands had roamed over her slick body, caressing her slender curves, cupping her buttocks, stroking her thighs, finding the nest of wet brown curls, while his tongue licked drops of water from her nipples…

Shuddering at the erotic memory she turned off the water and, winding a towel turban-fashion around her head, began to dry herself with unnecessary vigour, rubbing the pale gold skin until it glowed pink.

Having decided not to bother and get dressed again, she found the Christmas present Charles had given her, a chenille robe-cum-housecoat in moss green and, pulling it on, belted it.

Her feet bare, her naturally curly hair still damp and loose around her shoulders, she was descending the stairs when the phone in the hall began to chirrup.

Reaching out a hand she was about to pick up the receiver when it occurred to her that it might be Ryan, and she hesitated.

Who else was likely to be calling? Who else would know she was home before her usual time?

It kept chirruping, and its sheer persistence tearing at her nerves, she snatched it up.

‘Virginia?’ It was Charles. His well-modulated voice sounded a shade anxious.

‘Yes,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Yes, I’m here.’

‘Is anything wrong?’

She took a deep breath. ‘No, of course not.’

‘You didn’t seem to be answering.’

‘I’ve just got out of the shower.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie.

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Is there a problem?’ she asked.

‘No. Not at all… I was just ringing to make sure you were all right.’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘Certain?’ With his usual sensitivity he had picked up her jumpiness.

Resisting the impulse to tell him about Ryan and beg him to come home, she said with what cheerfulness she could muster, ‘Absolutely. Any idea what time you’ll be back?’

‘I should be home somewhere around eight-thirty. Don’t forget to save me some prawn crackers.’

‘I won’t,’ she promised. ‘Bye for now.’

As she replaced the handset, the grandmother clock whirred and began to chime six-thirty.

Might as well ring for her takeaway now, she decided. It usually took between thirty and forty minutes for an order to be delivered, and she’d only had part of a roll for lunch, the remainder having been fed to a family of sparrows who, nesting in the eaves above her office window, had learnt to line up along the sill, bright-eyed and expectant.

Not that she was hungry.

But something to eat might help to get rid of the hollow, stomach-churning feeling that had persisted since Ryan had said, ‘Guess who?’ in the park.

The number of the restaurant was written in Charles’s neat numerals in the book by the phone, but it was Ryan’s face that swam before her eyes as she tapped in the digits.

‘The Jade Garden. Good evening…’ a singsong voice responded.

Her mind still obsessed by Ryan, Virginia, who was usually clear and precise, made a mess of her order and was forced to stumble through it a second time.

Returning to the living-room, she prowled about plumping cushions and tidying magazines, far too restless to sit still.

What would Ryan do next? she wondered anxiously. There was no doubt in her mind that he wouldn’t let matters rest. He wanted her, and his sense of purpose was terrifying…

Though she had lied through her teeth about her relationship with Charles, it hadn’t had the desired effect. Ryan either hadn’t believed her, or hadn’t wanted to.

Either way, her assertions had failed to provide the anchor, the safeguard, she had been so desperate to put in place.

But even if he had believed her, would that have stopped him? Remembering the look on his face when he’d said, ‘I’ve no intention of letting anyone else have you’, she felt her skin goose-flesh.

Just seeing him again, feeling the force of his will, had made her doubt her ability to hold out against him if he kept up the seige.

No! she mustn’t think like that. If necessary she would tell Charles the whole truth, and beg for his forgiveness and support.

He was far from being the wimp that Ryan had so contemptuously called him. In fact, in a different and less obvious way he was as strong as Ryan, with a quiet determination and a tensile strength.

But how could she ask Charles for help, ask him to pretend to be her lover, when she had denied him that privilege by refusing his proposal of marriage?

All at once she was filled with a burning shame that she’d even considered involving him any further. Somehow she must manage without his help.

There was one thing in her favour. Usually a brilliant strategist, this time Ryan had made a bad mistake. He had admitted that he was out to make her pay for leaving him, and forewarned was forearmed.

Though his attraction was as powerful as ever, knowing his intentions would enable her to hold out against him, to freeze him off…

The peal of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts.

Her takeaway had come a lot quicker than usual. But of course it was still quite early. They wouldn’t yet have had a build-up of customers…

She fumbled in her bag and purse in hand, went to open the door.

Taken completely by surprise, her reactions were a trifle slow and, before she could slam the door in his face, Ryan had slipped inside.

Over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, he seemed to fill the small hall.

Closing the door behind him he stood leaning with his back to the panels. Wearing stone-coloured trousers and a two-tone, smart-casual jacket, he looked tanned and fit and dangerous.

‘Get out!’ she cried in a panic. ‘You have no right to force your way in here.’

‘I didn’t exactly force my way in,’ he objected, adding coolly, ‘Though I might well have done had it proved necessary.’

Surveying the robe, her shiny face and the wealth of ash-brown hair curling loosely around her shoulders, he remarked, ‘You look about ready for bed. But of course Raynor doesn’t take you to bed, does he? He has more…shall we say…inventive ideas.’

When, her soft lips tightening, she said nothing, he goaded, ‘Tell me, Virginia, where does he usually make love to you? In the kitchen? Lying in front of the fire? On the stairs?’

‘Stop it!’ she cried.

‘After what you told me earlier, you can’t blame me for being curious.’

Wishing fervently that she’d kept her mouth shut, she said, ‘I want you to go. Now! Before Charles gets home. He won’t be long.’

Ryan shook his head. ‘It’s no use, Virginia, my sweet, I know perfectly well that he won’t be in until much later…’

How did he know?

‘And, even if that wasn’t the case, do you seriously think the prospect of Raynor coming home would scare me into leaving?’

No, she didn’t. Lifting her chin, she threatened, ‘I could always call the police.’

‘You could,’ he agreed, ‘but somehow I don’t think you will. After all, the police have a lot more to concern themselves about than what they would undoubtedly class as a trivial domestic problem.’

In past skirmishes he had proved to be quicker witted than she was, and in any battle of words he almost invariably won. But she couldn’t allow him to win this time.

‘It isn’t “a trivial domestic problem,”’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘It’s an illegal entry into someone else’s home.’