Miss Prim and the Billionaire

Marcel had known all the time that he was Amos Falcon’s son. And he’d deceived her, pretending to be poor as a joke, because it boosted his pride to think she’d chosen him over rich men. It might have started as an innocent game, but the result had been catastrophic.

If I’d known you had a wealthy, powerful father, I wouldn’t have given in to Jake. I’d have gone to Amos Falcon, seeking his protection for you. He could have punished Jake, scared him off, and we’d have been safe. We could have been together all these years, and we lost everything because you had to play silly games with the truth. You stupid … stupid …

She pounded the pillow as though trying to release all the fury in her heart, until at last she lay still, exhausted, shocked by the discovery that she could hate him, while the tears poured down her face.

Finally she slept again, and only then did the door open and a figure stand there in silence, watching the faint light that fell from the hallway onto the bed, just touching the blonde hair that streamed across the pillow.

He moved closer to the bed, where he could see her face, relaxed in sleep and more like the face he had once known. In the first moments of their meeting he’d denied the truth to himself, refusing to admit that the evil witch who’d wrecked his life could possibly have returned.

But a witch didn’t die. She rose again to laugh over the destruction she had wrought. With every blank word and silent laugh, every look from her beautiful dead eyes, she taunted him.

A wise man would have refused to recognise her, but he’d never been wise where this woman was concerned. Fate had returned her to him, freeing him to make her suffer as he had suffered. And the man whose motto, learned from a powerful, ruthless father, was ‘seize every chance, turn everything to your advantage’ would not turn away from this opportunity until he’d made the most of it.

Suddenly the figure on the bed before him changed, becoming not her but himself, long ago, shattered with the pain of broken ribs, half blinded by his own blood, but even more by his own tears, longing every moment to see her approach and comfort him, finally realising that she would never do so.

That was when his heart had died. He’d been glad of it ever since. Life was easier without feelings. The women who could be bought were no trouble. They knew their place, did their duty, counted their reward and departed smiling. In time he might choose a wife by the same set of rules. Friends too tended to be business acquaintances. There were plenty of both men and women, there whenever he wanted them. His life was full.

His life was empty. His heart was empty. Safer that way.

He kept quite still for several long minutes, hardly daring to breathe, before closing the door and retreating, careful that she should never know he’d been there.

She awoke to the knowledge that everything had changed. As she’d told Freya, she seemed to have been several people in the last few hours, without knowing which one was really her. But now she knew. Cassie.

Somewhere in the depths of sleep the decision had been made. She was Cassie, but a different Cassie, angry, defiant, possessed by only one thought.

Make him pay.

He’d treated her with contempt, concealing his true identity because that had been his idea of fun. He hadn’t meant any harm, but his silly joke had resulted in years of pain and suffering for her. Perhaps also for him, but she was in no mood to sympathise.

Freya knocked and entered. ‘Just came to say goodbye,’ she said. ‘Marcel is waiting for you to have breakfast with him.’

She dressed hurriedly, twisted her hair into its usual bun and followed Freya out into the main room. Marcel was standing by the window with another man of about seventy, who turned and regarded her with interest.

‘Good morning, Mrs Henshaw,’ Marcel said politely. ‘I’m glad to see you looking well again. This is my father, Amos Falcon.’

‘Glad to meet you,’ the old man said, shaking her hand while giving her the searching look she guessed was automatic with him. ‘Marcel always chooses the best, so I expect great things of you.’

‘Father—’ Marcel said quickly.

‘He’s told me that your expertise is unrivalled,’ Amos went on. ‘So is your local knowledge, which he’ll need.’

Since Cassie had refused the job this might have been expected to annoy her, but things were different now. In the last few hours she’d moved to a level so different that it was like being a new person. So she merely smiled and shook Amos Falcon’s hand, replying smoothly, ‘I hope he finds that I live up to his expectations.’

A slight frisson in the air told her that she’d taken Marcel by surprise. Whatever he’d expected from her, it wasn’t this.

‘If you’d care to go and sit at the table,’ he said, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

A maid served her at the table in the large window bay. She drank her coffee absent-mindedly, her attention on Marcel, who was bidding farewell to his father and Freya.

Now she had a better view of him than the night before. The lanky boy had turned into a fine man, not only handsome but with an air of confidence, almost haughtiness, that was to be expected from a member of the great Falcon dynasty.

But then haughtiness fell away and he smiled at Freya, bidding her goodbye and taking her into a friendly hug. Cassie noticed that, despite her avowed disdain for him, Freya embraced him cheerfully, while Amos stood back and regarded them with the air of a man calculating the odds.

So it was true what Freya had said. If Amos couldn’t marry her to his eldest son, then Marcel was next in line. Doubtless she would bring a substantial dowry for which he could find good use.

Then it was over, they were gone and he was turning back into the room, joining her at the table.

‘I owe you my thanks,’ he said, ‘for not making a fool of me before my father. If you’d told him of your intention to refuse the job I offered I would have looked absurd. I’m grateful to you for your restraint.’

‘I doubt it’s in my power to make you look absurd,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m sure you’re well armoured against anything I could dream up.’

‘Now you’re making fun of me. Very well, perhaps I’ve earned it.’

‘You must admit you left yourself rather exposed by allowing your father to think I’d already agreed. Still, I dare say that’s a useful method of—shall we say—proceeding without hindrance?’

‘It’s worked in the past,’ he conceded. ‘But you’re right, it can leave me vulnerable if someone decides to be difficult.’ He saw her lips twitching. ‘Have I said something funny?’

‘How would you define “difficult”? No, on second thoughts don’t say. I think I can guess. Someone who dares to hold onto their own opinion instead of meekly obeying you.’ She struck an attitude. ‘I wonder how I knew that.’

‘Possibly because you’re much the same?’ he suggested.

‘Certainly not. I’m far more subtle. But I don’t suppose you need to bother with subtlety.’

‘Not often,’ he agreed, ‘although I flatter myself I can manage it when the occasion demands.’

‘Well, there’s no demand for it now. Plain speaking will suit us both better, so I’ll say straight out that I’ve decided it would suit me to work for you, on certain conditions.’

‘The conditions being?’

‘Double the salary I’m earning now, as we discussed.’ ‘And how much is that?’

She gave him the figure. It was a high one, but he seemed untroubled.

‘It’s a deal. Shake.’

She took the hand he held out to her, bracing herself for the feel of his flesh against hers. Even so, it took all her control not to react to the warmth of his skin. So much had changed, but not this. After ten years it was still the hand that had touched her reverently, then skilfully and with fierce joy. The sensation was so intense that she almost cried out.

From him there was no reaction.

‘I’m glad we’re agreed on that,’ he said calmly. ‘Now you can go and give in your notice. Be back here as soon as possible. Before you leave, we’d better exchange information. Email, cellphones.’

She gave him her cellphone number, but he said, ‘And the other one.’

‘What other one?’

‘You’ve given me the number you give to everyone. Now I want the one you give to only a privileged few.’ ‘And what about your “privileged” number?’ He wrote it down and handed it to her. ‘Now yours.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t have one.’ ‘Mrs Henshaw—’

‘It’s the truth. I only need one number.’