Tycoon's Ring Of Convenience

That had been his question, his demand.

Her lips had tightened. ‘You must leave,’ she’d said again, not answering his question.

He had swept a glance around the room, with its immaculate décor, its priceless seventeenth-century landscapes on the walls, the exquisite Louis Quinze furniture. This was what she had chosen. This was what she had valued. And she had been perfectly willing, to pay the price demanded for it. The price he had paid for it.

Bitterness had filled him then—and an even stronger emotion that he would not name, would deny with steely resolve that he had ever felt. It filled him again now, a sudden acid rush in his veins.

With an effort, he let it drain out of him as he drew his powerful car to a momentary halt, the better to survey the scene before him.

Yes—what he was seeing satisfied him. More than satisfied him. Greymont, the ancestral home of the St Clairs, and all that came with it would serve his purpose excellently. But it was not just the physical possession he wanted—that was not what this visit was about. Had he wished. he could easily have purchased such a place for himself, but that would not have given him what he was set upon achieving.

His smile tightened. He knew just how to achieve what he wanted. What would make Diana St Clair receptive to him. Knew exactly what she wanted most—needed most. And he would offer it to her. On a plate.

His gaze still fixed on his goal, he headed towards it.

CHAPTER THREE (#ue5223050-7f38-5c92-a2b2-65eee9465b62)

‘MR TRAMONTES?’

Diana stared blankly as Hudson conveyed the information about her totally unexpected visitor. What on earth was Nikos Tramontes doing here at Greymont?

Bemused, and with an uneasy flutter in her stomach, she walked into the library. She found her uninvited guest perusing the walls of leather-bound books, and as he turned at her entrance she felt an unwelcome jolt to her heart-rate.

It had been a week since she’d left London, but seeing his tall, commanding figure again instantly brought back the evening she’d spent at Covent Garden. Unlike on the two previous occasions she’d set eyes on him, this time he was in a suit, and the dark charcoal of the material, the pristine white of his shirt, and the discreet navy blue tie, made him every bit as eye-catching as he had been in evening dress.

It annoyed her that she should feel that sudden kick in her pulse again as she approached. She fought to suppress it, and failed.

‘Ms St Clair.’ He strode forward, reaching out his hand.

Numbly, she let him take hers and give it a quick, businesslike shake.

‘I’m sorry to call unannounced,’ he went on, his manner still businesslike, ‘but there is a matter I would like to discuss with you that will be of mutual benefit to us both.’

He looked at her, his expression expectant.

Blankly, she went and sat down on the well-worn leather sofa by the fireplace, and watched him move to do likewise. He took her father’s armchair, and a slight bristle of resentment went through her. She leant over to ring the ancient bell-pull beside the mantel and, when Hudson duly appeared, asked for coffee to be served.

When they were left alone again, she looked directly at her unexpected visitor. ‘I really can’t imagine, Mr Tramontes, that there is anything that could be of mutual benefit to us.’

Surely, for heaven’s sake, he was not going to try and proposition her again? She devoutly hoped not.

He smiled, crossing one long leg over the other. It was a proprietorial gesture, and it put her hackles up. The entrance of Hudson with the coffee tray was a welcome diversion, and she busied herself pouring them both a cup, only glancing at Nikos Tramontes to ask how he took his coffee.

‘Black, no sugar,’ he said briskly, and took the cup she proffered.

But he did not drink from it. Instead, he swept his gaze around the high-ceilinged, book-lined room, then brought it back to Diana.

‘This is an exceptionally fine house you have, Ms St Clair,’ he said. ‘I can see why you won’t sell.’

She started, whole body tensing. What on earth? How dared Nikos Tramontes make such a remark to her. It was none of his business.

He saw her expression and gave a smile that had a caustic twist to it. ‘It wasn’t that hard,’ he said gently, not letting her drop her outraged gaze, ‘to discover the circumstances of your inheritance. And I have eyes in my head. I may not be that familiar with English country houses, but a pot-holed drive, masonry that is crumbling below the roofline, grounds that could do with several more gardeners...’

He took a mouthful of coffee, setting the cup aside on the table her father had used to lay his daily newspaper on. Looked at her directly again.

‘It makes sense of your interest in Toby Masterson,’ he told her. ‘A man with a merchant bank at his disposal.’

Again, outrage seethed in Diana—even more fiercely. Her voice was icy. ‘Mr Tramontes, I really think—’

He held up a hand to silence her. As if, she thought stormily, she was some unruly office junior.

‘Hear me out,’ he said.

He paused a moment, studying her. She was dressed casually, in dark green well-cut trousers and a paler green sweater, with her hair caught back in a clip, no jewellery, and no make-up he could discern—a world away from the muted elegance of her evening dress. But her pale, breathtaking beauty still had the same immediate powerful impact on him as it had when she’d first caught his eye. Her current unconcealed outrage only accentuated his response.

‘I understand your predicament,’ he said.

There was sympathy in his voice, and it made her suspicious. Her expression was shuttered, her mouth set. Her own coffee completely ignored.

‘And I have a potential solution for you,’ he went on.

His eyes never left her face, and there was something in their long-lashed dark regard that made it difficult to meet them. But meet them she did—even if it took an effort to appear as composed as she wanted to be.

He took her silence for assent, and continued.

‘What I am about to put to you, Ms St Clair, is a solution that will be a familiar one to you, with your ancestry. I’m sure that not a few of your forebears opted for a similar solution. Though these days, fortunately, the solution can be a lot less...perhaps irreversible is the correct term.’

He reached for his coffee again. Took a leisurely mouthful and replaced the cup. Looked at her once more. She had neutralised her expression, but that was to be expected. Once he had put his cards on the table she would either have him shown the door—or she would agree to what he wanted.

‘You wish—extremely understandably—to retain your family property. However, it’s quite evident that a very substantial sum of money is going to be required—a sum that, as I’m sure you are punishingly aware, given the current level of death duties and the exceptionally high cost of conservation work on listed historic houses, is going to stretch you. Very possibly beyond your limits. Certainly beyond your comfort zone.’

Her expression was stony, giving nothing away. That didn’t bother him. It made him think how statuesque her beauty was. How much it appealed to him. The contrast of her chilly ice maiden impassivity with Nadya’s hot-blooded outbursts was entirely in Diana St Clair’s favour. She was as unlike Nadya as a woman could be—and not, he thought with satisfaction, just in respect of the ice maiden quality, but in so much more—all of which was supremely useful to him.

‘As I say, you’ve clearly already considered—and rejected—Toby Masterson as a solution to your problem, but now I invite you to consider an alternative candidate.’

He paused. A deliberate, telling pause. His eyes held hers like hooks.

‘Myself,’ he said.

Diana’s intake of breath was audible. It scraped through her throat and seemed to dry her lungs to ashes.

‘Are you mad?’ came from her.

‘Not in the least,’ was his unruffled reply. ‘This is what I propose.’ His mouth tightened a moment, then he went on. ‘I should make it clear immediately, however, that my relationship with Nadya Serensky is at an end. She was a woman I wanted two years ago—now I want something, and someone, quite different. You, Ms St Clair, suit my requirements perfectly. And I,’ he continued, ignoring the mounting look of disbelief on her face, ‘suit your requirements perfectly, too.’

She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, but no words came. What words could possibly come in response to such a brazen, unbelievable announcement? He was continuing to talk in that same cool manner, as if he were discussing the weather, and she could only listen to what he said. Even while she stared at him blankly.

‘What I want now, at this stage of my life,’ he was saying—perfectly calmly, perfectly casually, ‘is a wife. Nadya was quite unsuitable for that role. You, however...’