Wicked Surrender: Ruthless Awakening / The Multi-Millionaire's Virgin Mistress / The Timber Baron's Virgin Bride

‘He says you have to.’ Carrie looked awkward. ‘It seems Uncle Ben left your mother some money in his will, but she refused to accept it. By comparison, this is a pittance, but Dad says it will make him feel much better, knowing that you’re not penniless.’

‘How lovely of him.’ Rhianna felt perilously close to tears.

Francis Seymour was such a contrast, she thought, to her aunt, who’d said curtly, ‘So you’re off, then? No doubt you’ll fall on your feet. Your sort always does.’

And Rhianna’s brief but carefully prepared speech of thanks for the home she’d been given for the past six years had died in her throat.

And that, she thought now, was the last time I saw her.

The last time I believed I would see any of them.

And, oh, God, it would have been so much better that way.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_9ab21c98-10ec-5e9f-9f3a-2008e4e0f0ba)

HER face was wet again now, Rhianna realised, raising her head at last.

Stress, she told herself. A natural reaction to finding herself in this totally unnatural situation. Certainly not an appropriate time to start remembering the unhappiness of the past.

Especially when she should be concentrating all her energies strictly on the present—getting out of this mess.

And yet the past five years had certainly not been all bad. On the contrary. There’d been good things to treasure as well, she thought. The unfailing kindness of the Jessops, who’d treated her as if she’d never been away. Her continued friendship with Carrie, who’d secured her Oxford place with ease, and had only been sorry that Rhianna wasn’t there with her.

And the wonderful Marika Fenton, the retired actress running drama classes at a local evening institute, who’d used jealously guarded contacts to get her star student into stage school, and chivvied the board of trustees into granting whatever bursaries might be going.

She’d written regularly to Aunt Kezia, but had never received a reply. Then her aunt had died very suddenly of a heart attack, before receiving the letter in which Rhianna told her she’d just won a leading role in a brand-new drama series called Castle Pride.

A clearly embarrassed communication from Francis Seymour had told her that Miss Trewint had given strict instructions that Rhianna was not to attend her funeral service or cremation, that her possessions should be sold and any money raised, together with her meagre savings, donated to the RSPCA.

Rhianna had accepted those harsh final wishes without protest.

The following day she’d begun to rehearse the role of Lady Ariadne. And the rest, as they said, was history.

She stood up, stretching. And history it had to remain. She had to deal with the here and now. Get through the pain of the next few days as efficiently as possible.

And to start with it seemed pointless to spend all night on this sofa when there was a perfectly good bed waiting, she told herself.

If she had to be miserable, then it might as well be in comfort.

So, having changed into her nightgown, performed her simple beauty routine, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair, Rhianna slipped under the covers.

But sleep proved elusive. However much her mind might twist and turn, she could see no easy way out of this present disaster, she thought. Diaz had set a trap, and she’d walked blindly, insanely, into it.

And the old anodyne about things looking better in the morning didn’t seem to apply in the current situation.

Unless she woke to find herself back in the primrose room, recovering from a particularly bad nightmare, she thought wryly. And how likely was that?

Eventually, however, the comfort of the mattress beneath her was too enticing, and the pillows too soft to resist, so that the next time she opened her eyes it was broad daylight.

She lay still for a moment. It’s here, she thought. It’s today. Carrie’s marrying Simon and I’m not there. God help me, I’m in the middle of the ocean with Diaz Penvarnon. No bad dream. It’s really happening.

There’d been some troubling moments in the night, she remembered painfully. Her mind had been invaded by disturbing images of weeping, unhappy girls, Carrie and Daisy among them, their faces blotched and swollen with emotion. And another, her expression haggard, the velvet dark of her pansy-brown eyes red-rimmed with tears.

That one most of all, she thought, moving restively.

Her reverie was interrupted by a tap on the door, and Enrique came in with a tray holding a cafetière, cup and saucer, and a cream jug.

‘Buenos dias, señorita,’ he greeted her respectfully, just as if he hadn’t had to unlock her door to gain entry. ‘It is fine today, with much sun, and the sea is calm. The señor hopes that you will join him for breakfast presently.’

A number of responses occurred to Rhianna, most of them occupying a position between fury and obscenity, but she reminded herself that Enrique was only obeying orders, and managed to confine herself to a quiet, ‘Thank you.’

Alone again, she leaned back against her pillows and considered. A fine day, she thought. Wasn’t there a saying about “Happy is the bride that the sun shines on”?

Oh, let it be true, she begged silently and passionately. Let Carrie’s happiness be unclouded, and maybe that will justify this whole hideous business.

In a few hours’ time the wedding would be over, anyway, and if there had ever been a time for intervention it was long past.

She could only hope and pray that Simon had been sincere when he’d claimed Carrie was the one he really wanted all along. But his straying could hardly be dismissed as a temporary aberration when it had left such misery in its wake.

Cape Town should be far enough away to give the pair of them a totally fresh start. No chance of embarrassing or agonised encounters in the street or at parties there. No startled recognition in theatre bars or restaurants.

London’s a village, she thought. Sooner or later you bump into everyone. As she knew to her cost…

Stop thinking like that, she adjured herself fiercely. Today’s going to be quite tricky enough, and you need to be on top of your game, so stop right now.

She turned determinedly to the coffee, which was hot, strong and aromatic, and she could almost feel it putting new life into her.

A shower helped too, even if the limitations of her wardrobe became all too apparent immediately afterwards.

With a mental shrug, she picked out the white cut-offs and the green and white striped shirt she worn on the beach at Penvarnon the previous day, and slid her feet into espadrilles.

She brushed her hair back from her face with unwonted severity, securing it at the nape of her neck with an elastic band which had begun its life round the folder containing her train ticket and seat reservation.

The return portion would now remain unused, of course, she thought. wondering ironically if the train company would deem being kidnapped as a valid excuse for a refund.

Another item, she told herself, to be added to the cost of my stupidity.

Biting her lip, she walked to the door. When she tried it this time, however, it opened easily, and, drawing a long, deep breath, she went out and up the companionway to join her captor.

She found Diaz on the sun deck, where a table and two folding chairs had been placed. He was casual, in shabby cream shorts and a faded dark red polo shirt, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses as he studied some very small item of hand-held technical gadgetry, which probably contained, she reflected, his bank statements, his address book and details of his business commitments for the next ten years.

And she thought how much she’d like to throw it overboard.

At her approach, however, he switched it off and rose courteously to his feet.

‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I hope you slept well.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But that was hardly likely—under the circumstances.’