An Enticing Debt to Pay

Ravenna surveyed the apartment in despair. Most of the furnishings she knew now were fake, from the gilded Louis Quinze chairs to the china masquerading as period Limoges and Sèvres.

Mamma had always been adept at making ends meet, even through the toughest times.

A reluctant smile tugged Ravenna’s lips. Life in a swanky apartment in the Place des Vosges, one of Paris’s premier addresses, hardly counted as tough, not like the early days of Ravenna’s childhood when food had been scarce and the winters cold without enough blankets or warm clothes. But those early experiences had stood her mother in good stead. When the money began to run out she’d methodically turned to replacing the priceless antiques with copies.

Silvia Ruggiero had always made do, even if her version of ‘making do’ lately had been on a preposterously luxurious scale. But it was what Piers had wanted and in Silvia’s eyes that was all that mattered.

Ravenna tugged in a shaky breath. Her mother was far better off in Italy staying with a friend, instead of here, coping with the aftermath of Piers’ death. If only she’d told Ravenna straight away about his heart attack. Ravenna would have been here the same day. Even now she could barely believe her mother had kept that to herself, worrying instead about disturbing Ravenna with more trouble!

Mothers! Did they ever believe their children grew up?

Silvia had been barely recognisable when Ravenna had arrived in Paris from Switzerland. For the first time her gorgeous mother had looked older than her age, worn by grief. Ravenna was concerned for her. Piers might not have been Ravenna’s favourite but her mother had loved him.

No, Mamma was better off out of this. Packing up here was the least Ravenna could do, especially after Piers’ generosity when she most needed it. So what if it meant facing creditors and selling what little her mother had left?

She returned to her inventory, glad she’d organised for an expert to visit and separate any valuable items from the fakes. To Ravenna they all looked obscenely expensive and rather ostentatious. But since her home was a sparsely furnished bedsit in a nondescript London suburb, she was no judge.

* * *

Jonas pressed the security buzzer a second time, wondering if she was out and his spur of the moment trip to Paris had been an impetuous waste of time.

He didn’t do impetuous. He was methodical, measured and logical. But he also had a razor-sharp instinct for weakness, for the optimum time to strike. And surely now, mere weeks after Piers’ death, his father’s mistress would be feeling the pinch as creditors started to circle.

Static buzzed and a husky, feminine voice spoke in his ear. ‘Hello?’

Yes! His instinct had been right.

‘I’m here to see Madam Ruggiero.’

‘Monsieur Giscard? I was expecting you. Please come up.’

Jonas pushed open the security door into a marble foyer. He ignored the lift and strode up the couple of floors to what had been his father’s love nest. Suppressing a shiver of revulsion, he rapped on the door of the apartment.

It swung open almost immediately and he stepped past a slim young woman into a lavishly furnished foyer. Through an open door he glimpsed an overfull salon but no sign of the woman he’d come to see. He moved towards the inner room.

‘You’re not Monsieur Giscard.’ The accusation halted him.

He swung round to find eyes the colour of rich sherry fixed on him.

‘No. I’m not.’

For the first time he paused to survey the woman properly and something—surprise?—rushed through him.

Slim to the point of fragility, she nevertheless had curves in all the right places, even if they were obscured by ill-fitting dark clothes. But it was her face that arrested him. Wide lush mouth, strong nose, angled cheekbones that gave her a fey air, lavish dark lashes and rather straight brows framing eyes so luminous they seemed to glow. Each feature in her heart-shaped face was so definite that together they should have jarred. Instead they melded perfectly.

She was arresting. Not pretty but something much rarer. Jonas felt his pulse quicken as heat shot low in his body.

He stiffened. When was the last time the sight of a woman, even a uniquely beautiful one, had affected him?

‘And you are?’ She tilted her head, drawing his gaze from her ripe mouth to the ultra-short sable hair she wore like a chic, ruffled cap. Another few weeks and she’d have curls.

He frowned. Why notice that when he had more important matters on his mind?

‘Looking for Madam Ruggiero. Silvia Ruggiero.’ It surprised him how difficult it was to drag his gaze away and back to the apartment’s inner rooms.

‘You don’t have an appointment.’ There was something new in her voice. Something hard and flat.

‘No.’ His mouth curled in a smile of grim anticipation. ‘But she’ll see me.’

The young woman strode back into his line of sight, blocking his way to the salon. Jonas catalogued the lithe grace of her movements even as he told himself he didn’t have time for distractions.

She shook her head. ‘You’re the last person she’d see.’

‘You know who I am?’ His gaze sharpened as he took in her defiant stance—arms akimbo and feet planted wide, as if she could prevent him if he chose to push past! She was tall, her mouth on a level with his collarbone, and she stared up at him with complete assurance.

‘It took me a moment but of course I do.’ A flicker of expression crossed her features so swiftly Jonas couldn’t read it. But he watched her swallow and realised she wasn’t as confident as she appeared. Interesting.

‘And you are?’ Jonas was used to being recognised from press reports, but instinct told him he’d met this woman before. Something about her tugged at half-buried memory.

‘Forgettable, obviously.’ Her lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile that ridiculously drove a spike of heat through his belly.

Jonas blinked. She wasn’t smiling at him yet he reacted.

Annoyance flared. He drew himself up, watching her gaze skate across his shoulders and chest.

‘She’s not here.’ The words tumbled out in a breathless rush that belied her aggressively protective stance. ‘So you can’t see her.’

‘Then I’ll wait.’ Jonas stepped forward, only to come up against her slim frame, vibrating with tension. He’d expected her to give way. She surprised him with her determination to stand her ground. But he refused to retreat, no matter how distracting the sensation of her body against his. His business with Silvia Ruggiero was long overdue.

He looked down and her golden brown eyes widened as if in shock.

‘I’m not going away,’ he murmured, suppressing an inexplicable desire to lift his hand and see if her pale face was as soft as it appeared. The realisation threw him, making his voice emerge harshly. ‘My business won’t wait.’

Again she swallowed. He followed the movement of her slim throat with a fascination that surprised him. The scent of her skin filled his nostrils: feminine warmth and the tang of cinnamon.

Abruptly she stepped back, her chest rising and falling quickly, drawing his attention till he snapped his eyes back to her face.

‘In that case you can talk with me.’ She turned and led the way into the salon, her steps a clipped, staccato beat on the honey-coloured wood floor.

Jonas dragged his gaze from the sway of her hips in dark trousers and followed, furious to find himself distracted from his purpose even for a moment.

She settled herself on an overstuffed chair near a window framed by cloth of gold curtains. Hoping to put him at a disadvantage with her back to the light? It was such an obvious ploy. Instead of taking a seat Jonas prowled the room, knowing that with each passing moment her unease increased. Whoever she was, she was in cahoots with Silvia Ruggiero. Jonas wouldn’t trust her an inch.

‘Why should I share my business with a stranger?’ He peered at an over-decorated ormolu clock.

Was there nothing in this place that wasn’t overdone? It reeked of a nouveau riche fixation with show and quantity rather than quality. His cursory survey had revealed the best pieces in the room to be fakes. But that had been his father—all show and no substance. Especially when it came to things like love or loyalty.

‘I’m not a stranger.’ Her tone was curt. ‘Perhaps if you stopped your crude inventory you’d realise that.’