The Dark Side of Desire (4 page)

F
LAVIA
was sitting, tight-lipped, in the back of her father’s limo. Her face was set. On the other side of her father, Anita leant forward.

‘You look
so
good, sweetie, with your hair down and some red lippy,’ she informed Flavia, sounding pleased with herself. ‘It really jazzes up that dress.’ As her false eyelashes swept up and down over Flavia, they cast a critical eye over the gown the younger woman was wearing. ‘Great style—just a shame about the draggy colour.’

Flavia’s expression changed minutely. She’d been despatched with Anita that afternoon by her father to buy herself ‘something glamorous for a change’ as he’d snapped at her, looking the worse for wear after his late night, his eyes bloodshot and his face puffy.

Flavia had objected, but her father had been adamant.

‘We’re going to a flash charity bash tonight, and just for a damn change I don’t want you dressing like a nun!’

Knowing Anita’s predilection for bling, Flavia had been on her guard, and when the other woman had picked out a clingy scarlet number she’d at least succeeded in swapping it for a pale aqua version at the counter, while Anita had been trying on the ruched and sequinned purple gown she was poured into now. Discovering the colour swap when Flavia had emerged from a bedroom before setting off had so annoyed Anita, however, that she’d managed to unpin Flavia’s
tightly knotted chignon and flash her own bright red lipstick over her mouth just as Alistair Lassiter was hurrying them out of the apartment to the waiting limo.

He was visibly on edge, Flavia could tell—but then she was as well. The moment they arrived at the Park Lane hotel where the charity event was being held she would dive into the Ladies’ and wipe Anita’s vivid lipstick off her, and repin her hair.

But her intentions were foiled. As they made their way into the hotel Anita’s hand fastened around her wrist. ‘Don’t even
think
about it!’ she breathed, and her hand remained clamped where it was.

Stiffly, feeling self-conscious enough as it was in the bias-cut gown, let alone with her hair loose and heaven only knew how much garish lipstick, Flavia had no option but to let herself be swept forward into the banqueting hall. They were, as her father had complained, running late, and everyone except a few other latecomers like themselves had already taken their seats at the appointed tables.

Threading her way towards their table, flanked by her father and Anita, Flavia could only determine a sea of people and hear a wave of chatter and the clink of glasses and rustle of gowns. Her father was greeting people here and there, and Anita was waving conspicuously at people she knew, too, while Flavia looked neither to left or right. When they reached their table, with their three places waiting for them, she slipped into the seat on her father’s right hand side with a sense of relief.

The relief lasted less than a second.

‘Ms Lassiter …’

The deep, accented voice on her right made her head whip round.

Leon Maranz was seated beside her.

Emotion sliced through her. Shock and dismay were uppermost. But beneath both another emotion stabbed. Instantly she fought to subdue it, but the physical impact was too great, and
she could feel that treacherous quickening of her blood. Feel, even more powerfully, the urge to get to her feet and bolt.

Why—why was she reacting like this to the man? It was absurd to be so … so …

So … what, exactly? She flailed around in her mind, trying to find the word she needed. Trying to blank out the way she was reacting. Trying to wipe the dismay and shock from her face. Trying to gather her composure and force herself to do what she had to do—which was simply to nod civilly, politely, courteously and nothing more than that. Nothing at all.

‘Mr … Maranz, isn’t it?’ She hesitated over his name, as if she had difficulty recalling it. Then she made a show of flicking open her linen napkin and spreading it over her knees. She was grateful, for once, for her father’s presence, as he leant across her.

‘Ah—Leon. Good to see you!’ he said effusively. ‘I’m so pleased you accepted my invitation to be my guest here tonight.’

At Flavia’s side Leon Maranz’s eyes glittered darkly, and he found himself reconsidering his decision to attend the function as Lassiter’s guest. Despite his attraction to Flavia Lassiter,
should
he have come this evening? Yes, she had made an immediate impact on him the moment he’d set eyes on her, but was it truly a good idea to pursue his interest in her? The glitter in his eyes intensified. Especially since it meant he would have to spend time in Alistair Lassiter’s over-attentive company this evening.

Even if he did decide to invest in his business, socialising with the man was not necessary—unless, of course, it was a means to an end in respect of his daughter …

On that note, it was clear from her frosty reception of his greeting that she was still very much on her guard with him. Was it truly worth his time and effort to thaw that freezing demeanour? Yet even as he considered it he knew, with a little stab of emotion, that seeing her again had in no way lessened his response to her. Indeed, it had been accentuated …

He had had time only for a moment’s appreciation, but that had been enough to confirm that the sinuous gown she was wearing, baring shoulders over which the shimmering fall of her loosened hair was cascading, not to mention the sensuous, vivid scarlet of her mouth, were a stunning enhancement of the beauty he’d seen last night. Tonight, he thought appreciatively, there was no question of her seeking to subdue her beauty with the severity of her dress or sedate maquillage. The effect was—stunning.

Decision raced through him. Yes, Flavia Lassiter, despite her father, was well worth pursuing.

As for her father—well, he would put up with him as best he could this evening, and for the moment reserve judgement on whether he would supply the bail-out that Lassiter was so desperately in need of.

Leon’s mouth pressed to a thin line. What kind of fool was Alistair Lassiter to have got himself into such an irretrievable mess? The global recession should have made him cautious, but instead Lassiter had taken unwarrantable risks—too many of them—and his spending had been lavish. Now he was teetering on the brink of complete collapse. Now he was going to have to rely on a turnaround specialist like Maranz Finance to rescue him.

Leon’s eyes were veiled.
Would
he bail out Lassiter? How much real value was there left in the company? And was it worth the trouble to secure it? Lassiter was walking on thin ice. Far too many of his assets, as Leon knew perfectly well from his own investigations, were paper-thin and his debt was punitive. For all the surface gloss he still reflected, Alistair Lassiter had precious little beneath. Even the Regent’s Park apartment was mortgaged up to the hilt, and his other personal properties had already been sold off.

While he decided whether to bail out Lassiter he would further his interest in his daughter. He levelled his veiled gaze on her as she reached for a bottle of sparkling water and poured some into her glass. Waiters were already circling
with white wine, but she’d covered her glass with her palm, giving her head a slight shake. Did she eschew all alcohol? Leon wondered.

‘You don’t drink wine?’ he enquired.

She seemed to start at his words, and her head jerked around.

‘Very seldom,’ she answered, her voice clipped. She made to turn her head away again, as if that were all she were going to say on the subject.

‘Empty calories?’ Leon’s voice was bland.

‘Yes.’

She lifted her glass of water, aware of how stiffly she had spoken. But then her spine was as stiff as a poker right now. Why on earth had her father not told her he’d invited Leon Maranz this evening? The answer was obvious, of course. He hadn’t wanted her to know because he hadn’t wanted her to be warned beforehand. And now here she was, trapped between them, wearing a dress she didn’t want to be wearing, with her hair hanging down her back and her mouth covered in vivid lipstick.

She raised her napkin and made a show of dabbing her lips after drinking, covertly attempting to dab off some of the sticky red layer. Beside her she was aware—ultra-aware—of Leon Maranz’s eyes on her.

How on earth am I going to get through the evening?

The question was uppermost in her mind. Closely followed by its companion.

Why am I being like this?

She had met plenty of men her father wanted her to take an interest in for his sake, but she had never freaked out like this before! She had always managed to be indifferent, without being so ridiculously tongue-tied and affected. So why was she being like this with this man?

But then, she acknowledged, with a hollow sensation inside her, no one her father had tried to set her up with before had been anything like Leon Maranz.

No one could be …

The words formed in her mind, shaping themselves. No one could possibly have the kind of impact he had. It hadn’t lessened in the slightest in the twenty-four hours since she had first experienced it. Instead it had intensified. She could feel it like a kind of forcefield. She was far, far too close to him for a start—hyper-aware of him only a few inches away from her at the table, knowing she only had to tilt her head slightly to see him, instead of straining forward, apparently finding the floral arrangement in the middle of the table absolutely fascinating.

But she could still sense him there sitting beside her, his powerful frame set off by the tuxedo, see from the corner of her eye his large, tanned hand reaching for his wine. Nor was sight the only sense he impinged upon. The deep, accented drawl of his voice was resonating in her head as well. And there was another sense, too, more subtle, yet there all the same. His raw, male scent assaulted her, overlaid by the slightest hint of something citrus, musky, in his aftershave.

She tried to blank it out but it was impossible. Just as blanking out his presence beside her was impossible, however doggedly she stared ahead and toyed with her water. The only mercy was that, thankfully, he seemed to have accepted her reluctance to engage in any conversation with him, however trivial, and had turned his attention to the woman on the other side of him. Flavia could hear her light tinkle of laughter, though what they were talking about she neither knew nor cared.

‘Leon! I must have your opinion!’

Anita’s piercing voice cut across her, demanding his attention. Flavia could have slapped her for it.

He turned towards her again, away from the woman on his right.

‘On what?’ he replied. His voice seemed reserved.

Anita flapped a heavily beringed hand. ‘Don’t you think
Flavia looks so much better with her hair loose rather than pinned up the way it was last night?’

Like two burning brands Flavia felt her cheeks flare. Anger and mortification warred within her. She wanted to snap viciously at Anita, but Leon Maranz was replying.

‘Very … uninhibited,’ he drawled, and Flavia could feel, like a physical touch, his eyes working over her.

The brands in her cheeks burnt fiercer.

‘You see?’ Anita’s voice was triumphant. ‘I told you, Flavia. You could look a knock-out if you tried more! I tell you, darling,’ she said, ‘if you can persuade Leon Maranz to admire you, you’ve got it made!’ She gave a gush of laughter as insincere as it was overdone.

Flavia’s expression iced over.

It remained like ice for the whole of the eternally long meal—it was the only way she could get through it.

She was given some mercy—Anita laid off her, and Leon Maranz, when he wasn’t talking to the woman on his right, or to the other guests across the table who seemed keen to engage his attention, talked to her father. Or rather, she realised, her father talked to Leon Maranz. The edginess he’d displayed earlier seemed to have vanished, and now he was in effusive mode, she could tell, mingling loud bonhomie with an eager attentiveness that told Flavia that, whatever potential use Leon Maranz was to him, it was considerable.

Was it reciprocated? she wondered as she steadily ate through the courses, despite a complete lack of appetite. Eating was easier than talking. So was being aware of what her father was doing.

But on what Leon Maranz was doing she was far less clear. There was no evidence of reciprocation, no evidence of anything except the fact that Leon Maranz seemed to prefer her father to do the talking. His laconic answers only seemed to drive her father onward. He was getting more and more exuberant—or, a sudden thought struck her, should that be more and more desperate?

She glanced sideways at her father. He’d loosened his bow tie slightly and his cheeks were reddening, his eyes becoming pouchy. His glass was frequently refilled, and Flavia wondered how much he’d had to drink. Distaste flickered in her face. Thank God she was going back home tomorrow. She couldn’t wait to get away from her father, away from the shallow, money-obsessed life he lived. However worthy the cause of this evening’s function, she didn’t want to be here in this vast ornate banqueting room, with the scent of wine and flowers and expensive perfume everywhere, the glint of jewellery on the women and the sleek, fat-cat look of the men.

She wanted to be at home, at Harford, deep in her beloved countryside. Back with her grandmother in the quiet, familiar world so very dear to her … so very precious …

But for now all she could do was tough it out—get through the evening however long it seemed.

After an interminable length of time the meal and the fund-raising presentations from the charity directors finally drew to a close, with coffeepots and
petits-fours
and an array of liqueurs being placed on the tables. At the far end of the huge room on a little stage a band had formed, and was starting to strike up.

Flavia closed her eyes, trying to shut it all out. She wanted out of here. Now. But it wasn’t going to happen. She knew that. And she also knew, with a heaviness that was tangible, that Anita and her father were going to head off to the dance floor, and she would be left with Leon Maranz. Unless—dear God,
please
, she found herself praying—he went off with someone else. But the woman on his other side had got up to dance as well, with her partner, and with a hollowing sensation Flavia realised that she was now sitting next to Leon Maranz with empty seats on either side of them.