Kitabı oku: «Redeemed By Her Innocence / Sheikh's Royal Baby Revelation»

CHAPTER ONE

NIKOS KARELLIS WALKED straight into the bridal suite of Maybury Hall, Wedding Venue of the Year, and slung his suit carrier down on the four-poster bed. So this is romance, he thought, frowning at the frills and flowers and buckets of girly fizz. He lifted a bottle, checked the vintage and slipped it back into the watery ice. He was a long way off celebrating yet. He’d travelled through eight time zones and three continents, and he needed something a bit harder to take the edge off.

Finally he saw what he wanted, tucked underneath a gilt mirror featuring chuckling cherubs—a tray with decanter, glasses and water jug. Perfect. He poured a generous measure, then he added a little more, skipped the water, and sank it, the burn and peaty fumes soothing as they slid down his throat.

Cheers, Martin, he thought, tipping his glass at the chandelier. At least his former brother-in-law’s taste in whisky was better than his taste in décor.

The bridal suite.

Of all the rooms in his flagship luxury hotel, Martin had chosen to put him up here. Maybe it was his idea of a joke, but it wasn’t a very funny one. Pretty much nothing about being married to Maria made him laugh any more.

Nikos reached for the decanter, pausing in the act of pouring a second. The temptation was strong, but clear-headed was the only way to be tonight, because tonight was the beginning of the end, the face-to-face to get it all out in the open. Whatever it was that Martin thought had been hidden away in Maria’s legacy, this was the night when they’d sort it out, because it was draining—and not just financially.

Despite what Martin’s lawyers and the Inland Revenue seemed to think, there were no hidden assets, no secret stash of cash, no offshore investments. She had drunk them all, or snorted them all. And that was that. It would be a hard story to tell her doting brother, but Nikos was damned sure he wasn’t going to leave anything out, because he’d had enough.

The tit-for-tat legal wrangling had gone on for too long so he’d done it the old-fashioned way; lifted the phone, and asked for a meeting. When Martin suggested this black-tie event in one of his chain of luxury hotels, Nikos didn’t hesitate. It was that or wait another six weeks until they’d even be on the same continent.

He could barely wait six more minutes now that he finally had the end in sight. Five years since Maria’s death—but it was only his wedding ring he’d tossed into the cool, blue Aegean; the pain and the memories had been much harder to shift.

Too late to stop himself, he touched his ring finger. Empty space, smooth skin. Even though House, his high-end chain of department stores, was now in the Forbes 100, with turnover almost hitting the four billion mark, that feeling of bare skin felt better than anything. It was the feeling of freedom. More than that, it was the cast-iron knowledge that he was on his own now. On his own, forging his path, no wife hanging off his arm, or around his neck, no damage to clean up after—just these final few crumbs and then he really was home free.

He filled up a fresh glass with water and walked to the window. The estate was impressive, immense, expanding off into horizons of oak trees and lawns, and willow-draped lakes. He could just see the roof of the lodge house he’d passed and the huge iron gates at the end of the road, where a car had just pulled up. Something about it made him strain forward to see better…

But just then a knock sounded on the door, and he turned.

‘I heard you’d arrived.’

Martin Lopez stood in the door and for a second they looked at each other. The same dark hair, dark eyes, sallow skin and high cheekbones as Maria—a look that he’d once found ravishing, irresistible, forging a love so strong he’d moved from delinquent eighteen-year-old biker to husband, in three years.

Looking back, which he had done all too often in the ten years they’d been together, it had been a predictable car crash of wrong place, wrong time. The minute he’d rescued her from the Bentley she’d wrapped around a lamp post on the side of the Sydney highway, they’d been inseparable—he was tennis coach, swimming coach, personal trainer, anything she could do to keep him in her life, and, after where he’d been, it had felt like arriving at the Promised Land.

Unfortunately some promises were very hard for Maria to keep.

‘Martin. Good to see you.’

He walked towards him, stretching out a hand, reading in the light press of Martin’s palm and the shifting of his gaze that he was on edge.

‘Nikos. I’m glad you came. It’s been a long time.’

‘Too long,’ said Nikos, holding the handshake a second longer, reassuring him that they were friends, no matter what had gone before.

‘Yes, and I wanted to get in touch, but it’s not been easy since Maria died.’

‘I guess not. Our lives have taken different directions.’

‘But we’ll always have her in common.’

‘I can’t deny that,’ said Nikos, staring hard at Martin, wondering what was really going on in his mind. He had done everything for the Lopez family; they were all set up for life. He had nothing left to give.

But something was eating the other man up. Martin dropped his gaze and turned back to the door.

‘Shall I show you around, before the guests start to arrive?’ he said, over his shoulder.

‘Absolutely,’ Nikos said, strolling out to the grand hallway, where the faces of various English rose aristocrats in grand gilt frames hung around the walls, no doubt wondering what the hell had happened to the old house now that the Lopez Hotel Group had transformed it.

‘Yes, it’s great to see you,’ Martin said, stepping alongside him now like a best buddy. ‘And I’m really grateful that you’ve agreed to present an award. We sold an extra fifty seats when it was announced yesterday.’

Nikos shrugged. ‘It’s no problem. I was on the way back from Sydney when I got the call.’

‘Visiting your mother? How is she?’

They were at the top of a wide sweep of carpeted stairs, no doubt a prime photo opportunity for the hundreds of brides who used Maybury Hall.

‘Ah, she’s OK. Thanks for asking. She doesn’t know me any more but she seems quite happy, and they look after her well.’

His monthly visits to Sydney were the one fixed item in his calendar. He knew they wouldn’t last for ever…

‘So how’s business?’ he asked, keen to change the subject.

They walked down the stairs, as staff carrying huge displays of flowers and cakes criss-crossed over the black-and-white floor beneath them.

‘I’m getting out soon,’ said Martin, with a mirthless laugh. ‘This is the last sponsorship I’m doing. I want to end on a high. The hotels are doing well, but the wedding industry’s being choked to death by overseas competition.’

‘China?’

Martin nodded. ‘It’s hitting the dress side worst of all. With the volume they can produce overseas, there’s just no profit margin for the little guy. Unless it’s high-end, bespoke, but even then it’s tough.’

‘People will always want to get married,’ said Nikos. People other than himself.

‘Yes, but it’s not what it was. Even the ones that have been on the go for years are feeling it. Another one of them is just about to hit the buffers, and it’s one of my old pals who once owned it. It’s his daughter’s now.’

They rounded the corner of the staircase and fell into step walking on through the lobby. All around, the paraphernalia of an industry built on hormones and fiction—love and marriage. A sham that left Nikos stone cold.

‘It’s a pity, because she is a lovely girl—at least she was last time I saw her. But she’s out of her depth.’

‘As in overinvested, or out of her depth because she doesn’t have the skill?’

‘A bit of both probably. Which makes it awkward. She’ll be here tonight and I’ve got a feeling she’s going to make a pitch. And I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s the problem.’

‘Yes, that’s a tough one,’ said Nikos, who had his own tough message to deliver to Martin, as soon as they got the chance to talk in private.

They turned the corner of the hall and stood on the threshold. Tables, heavy in white linen, spread off in all directions; the band at the side of the stage was tuning up a series of mismatched sounds.

Soon the movers and shakers of the wedding world would all be here to congratulate themselves on their achievements in this phony industry, and he, the man least likely to marry ever again, would be presenting one of them with a cube of etched Perspex that would wind up displayed on a shelf somewhere. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Suddenly screens at either side of the stage flickered to life with images of Titian-haired brides in long flowing dresses running through fields of corn. That was it—he’d had enough.

‘So what’s the schedule?’ he asked, folding his arms and facing Martin. ‘Because we’ve got our own difficult conversation to have. And I want to make sure we’ve got enough time.’

‘As soon as this is over. I promise you.’

‘I’ll wait until ten. We talk from then until this thing is finished. And then I’m leaving, Martin. And I won’t be back.’

A shadow fell across Martin’s face. His eyes darted furtively down and back up.

‘I hear you,’ he said, stepping closer. ‘But it’s not just me who’s trying to get to the bottom of this. There are some people Maria was involved with that are very unhappy, Nikos. People that you know well.’

As if he’d felt a blow, Nikos flinched. Hair stood up on the back of his neck. Someone did a microphone check and a short burst of static screeched through the space.

‘People that you know well.’

He’d thought this was all dead. Buried, with his wife. But it wasn’t. It was still there, always there. Shadows that didn’t fade in the warm afternoon sunshine or fresh summer mornings. Dreadful, dark shadows that never went away, no matter where he went or what he did.

‘OK, Martin,’ he said, dredging up his words, like hauling on armour. He stood tall, he breathed deep, he squared his shoulders. There was no option; there was never any option. But his mother was safe, so nothing else mattered.

He looked at the other man. It wasn’t his fault. There was no one to blame but himself.

‘We’ll talk later,’ he said. ‘We’ll get this sorted. They won’t bother you.’

He patted Martin’s shoulder as he passed, and made his way through the tables, scattered like giant confetti on the ground.

Two miles east of Maybury Hall, in the pretty market town of Lower Linton, Jacquelyn Jones, owner of Ariana Bridal, was also getting ready to attend the Wedding Awards, and with almost the same mix of dread and trepidation.

As designer-in-chief of the bridalwear boutique that had occupied the same spot on the main street for the past fifty years, she could have been going to collect an award. Her father had managed to do just that, scooping five top awards in the past two decades, but that was before she had taken over from him, and before the business had stopped turning such healthy profits.

No, she was going there tonight to get money. Or she was going to die trying. Because if she didn’t, the whole thing was going to fall apart, one stitch at a time.

But first she had to get rid of Barbara, who had just slipped in through the courtyard garden as Jacquelyn had been closing up for the evening. With five husbands in the bag, she was the boutique’s best, but also nosiest, customer. No doubt she had scented blood, or at least the high anxiety that Jacquelyn was trying to conquer as she arranged a vase of white arum lilies.

‘So you’re definitely going to the Wedding Awards at Maybury Hall tonight? Even though that snake-in-the-grass Tim Brinley will be there? Good for you! You go and show them all. It’s disgraceful. He should be struck off, not getting a blooming award!’

‘You can’t be struck off for being unfaithful, Barbara,’ said Jacquelyn, though goodness knew she would have done a lot worse to her ex-fiancé. ‘And he deserves the award. He’s a good photographer.’

‘Tsk. You say that. But he owes everything to you and your connections. And it’s not going to be easy on you though, no matter how hard you try to put on a brave face. After what he did! The thought of everyone whispering behind your back…’

‘No one will be giving me a second’s thought. Nikos Karellis is going to be there so they’ll all be star-struck and googly-eyed over him.’

‘What? Nikos Karellis, owner of all those House department stores? The billionaire Greek god who is now conveniently unattached?’

‘I believe he’s Greek Australian, actually, though I really don’t see the big attraction. He’s not my cup of tea at all.’

‘Oh, Jacquelyn,’ said Barbara. ‘You mustn’t judge all men badly. Tim was cruel but there are plenty more fish in the sea and it’s time you started looking.’

‘This is an awards dinner, Barbara, not a singles bar.’ She twisted a lily to the side, stood back to examine it.

‘But Nikos Karellis—you might never get another chance! Think of the doors he could open for you! And you could do with some cheering up. You’ve not been yourself at all since Tim jilted you. It’s affecting the business. Everything’s got a bit shabby, if you don’t mind me saying.’

Jacquelyn kept her face fixed on the lilies even though she couldn’t see them, her eyes crushed closed in frustration and anger.

Barbara was right. She was completely right. And that it was so obvious was even worse. There was barely enough money to pay the machinists’ wages let alone invest in a refresh of the boutique. And all avenues to borrow money had closed. The bank wanted the previous loan repaid and capturing the interest of a financier had seemed impossible.

She knew they cast her as a silly girl playing at shops, not as a serious businesswoman. She was caught in a vicious circle of stiff competition, poor profits and higher costs, and she couldn’t seem to break free.

‘I don’t know what your parents were thinking disappearing off to the south of Spain, leaving you in charge here, after what happened. No wonder the place has run into difficulties.’

‘Mum’s rheumatics are what’s taken them to Spain,’ said Jacquelyn, ‘and the last thing they need is worrying that they need to come back here. If you’ll excuse me a moment…’

She stood up, scooped up the debris from the flowers and tossed it into the bin, then kept walking through into her studio, standing in the vale of light that flooded the space, desperate for a moment of calm.

But there was no escape, because right in front of her, spread out on her work desk, were the sketches she’d been poring over for the past two days. She swept them up, bundled them into a pile and bashed them off the top of the desk. They were rubbish. She knew they were, but she had lost all feel for designing fairy-tale dresses. She had lost her feel for fairy tales too. She needed practical things—like money—to hire someone who did.

‘Oh, don’t worry on that account,’ called Barbara from the kitchen. ‘I never mention a word about Ariana when I call. We keep it strictly social now. So much goes on in Lower Linton for such a tiny little town.’

And is regurgitated every Sunday on calls to Mum, thought Jacquelyn. Nothing went unnoticed or unreported. Nothing.

She looked up and saw Barbara position herself at the doorway.

‘Barbara, it was lovely of you to drop by, but don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you’ve got loads to do tonight.’

‘Yes, I am rather busy,’ said Barbara, narrowing her critical eyes as she wandered round the studio, like a detective in some third-rate TV show.

Jacquelyn wondered what clues she had left out and too late saw the piles of dirty teacups and balled-up handkerchiefs. Clues that might even find their way muttered into the hors-d’oeuvres of wherever Barbara dined tonight.

‘Well, I hope you show that Tim Brinley what he’s missing.’

Jacquelyn did her best to smile and tidied the scattered sketches into a pile. The inky sharp-limbed figure on top seemed to flinch as she was set down and Jacquelyn cursed the stress that was flowing through her, stress that was making it harder and harder to get these sketches right. And she had to get them right. She absolutely had to.

‘I bet Nikos Karellis would happily help out. He’s definitely got an eye for the ladies. If all else fails…’ Barbara’s voice trailed off as she raised a pencilled eyebrow and stared directly at Jacquelyn’s figure.

‘If “all else fails” what, Barbara? What are you trying to suggest? That I throw myself at a total stranger? Do you really think that’s my style?’

Behind her, the row of mannequins looked on like a jury of headless Greek goddesses. She’d been baited and caught, exposing herself as easily as if she’d taken out an ad in the front page of the Lower Linton Chronicle.

‘Darling, if it was your style you wouldn’t be in this mess,’ said Barbara as she lifted her clutch and re-formed her perfectly engineered face. ‘And if I were you I’d start getting ready now. You’re looking a bit puffy around the eyes. I’ll see myself out.’

And she did, sailing past in a haze of sickly sweet scent, on through the studio to the hallway, heels clicking on the stone steps and then out into the courtyard where they faded and were finally silenced by the dull thud of the wooden door.

Jacquelyn stood tight and tense until she finally heard the car roar off, then she let out a huge sigh and felt her eyes burn—again.

‘Stop it, stop it. Pull yourself together!’ she hissed through the hot self-pitying tears that had formed.

You knew this moment would come. Five years in charge and you let it all trickle through your fingers. Well, now it’s happened. And you’ve got one chance left to stop this before it’s too late.

She’d taken the once thriving family business and run it into the ground and had no one but herself to blame. She’d taken her eye off the ball, worried herself sick about things that turned out not to have been worth worrying about at all. Like a man. Like that stupid, stupid break-up, with that stupid, weak-willed man.

She sat down again, propped her elbows on the table and bowed her head.

Before her, the blank-faced sketches said nothing. She spread them out and stared at them. Any fool could see that there was something missing, something wrong. But she just didn’t seem to know how to get them right. She’d whittled it down from twenty to twelve to this final bundle of six.

When she’d showed them to Victor, the pattern cutter, he’d been gracious and complimentary, but she’d known he’d been faking it. She’d seen the confusion in his eyes. Another dud collection. Again?

Around the studio, light was sinking into a pale mauve sunset. Through the window she could see traffic on the main road out of town that led to London. Just two miles east sat Maybury Hall, where the Wedding Awards were being held tonight.

She was running out of time. She had to get going. Everyone else could gush over Nikos Karellis, but it was Dad’s friend Martin Lopez and his millions that she needed to see. She was going to approach him tonight and ask him to finance the business. She’d offer five per cent. Twenty per cent. Whatever it took.

Outside she heard a car prowl along the lane. Surely Barbara wasn’t back again…?

She jumped up and ran out through the studio and down the stairs, then burst out into the courtyard. She slid the bolt across the wooden door and leaned back against it, breathing a deep sigh. But there was no knock, no screeching voice, just the quiet sounds and sights of a summer evening: water bubbling over the giggling cherubs in the fountain and the sun-dappled flower beds, sleepy and still.

Peace. If only she could stand still and enjoy it—but that was half her problem. Instead of busying herself out in the world, she had shut herself away, hiding in the familiar silks and satins, and beads and crystals that hung in the boutique.

She looked through the French doors of the shop.

Fairy tales were made real in there. Women were made into princesses. Dreams came true.

Once upon a time she’d believed that. She absolutely had. Happy ever after was the only ever after there was.

How wrong she’d been. Happy ever after didn’t exist.