to pay attention to the conversation. She had no idea who the couple speaking to her were, but presumably the husband was some kind of businessman who was useful to her father, for her father, Flavia knew, only ever invited people who could be beneficial to him. That was the way he divided up the population of the world—people he could use, and people he could toss aside. She, his daughter, counted as both.
For most of her life it had been the latter—someone to be tossed aside. Ignored and discarded. The way he’d done her mother. Oh, he’d gone to the trouble of marrying her, once she’d found herself pregnant. But that had only, Flavia now knew, been because her grandparents had gifted him a substantial sum of money. Ostensibly it had been to start their married life together, but in reality, Flavia was grimly aware, it had been a bribe and an inducement to marry their pregnant daughter.
Her father had done well out of her mother financially, and the money he’d got had helped provide the capital he had needed to build his business empire. What he had not needed was a wife and child, and barely six months after Flavia had been born her father had packed them both off back to Dorset and taken up with another woman. A wealthy divorcee, as it happened. She had not lasted long, however. Once she’d provided more investment capital he’d moved on yet again.
It was a pattern he’d continued to repeat as he progressively amassed his business fortune. A cynical light glinted sourly in Flavia’s eyes. Although these days the women were getting younger and younger, and her father was the one providing the money they wanted to keep themselves looking alluring for him. Her father had got used to having the best, and his wealth had provided it lavishly.
She glanced around. This Regent’s Park apartment was worth at least a few million pounds, given its premier location and the glittering lavishness of its décor. It was only one of his properties, however. There was also a house in Surrey’s stockbroker belt, an apartment in Paris in one of the best arrondissements, a villa in Marbella’s Puerto Banus, and another on the beachfront on Barbados.
Flavia had been to none of them, and wouldn’t have wanted to. Nor did she want to be here. But three years ago her now-widowed grandmother had needed a hip replacement operation, and her father had been ruthlessly blunt.
‘The old bat can have her operation privately, but the money for it will be a loan—and you’ll repay it by turning up when I want you to chat and smile graciously at my guests. Everyone will say how charming and delightful and well-bred you are, and anyone who thought I was too nouveau bloody riche to swallow will think again!’
She’d longed to tell him to get lost, but how could she have done when the National Health Service waiting list had been so long, and her grandmother, not only in severe pain had also been frustrated by her growing incapacity. And her increasing poverty. Harford Hall, the greystone Georgian house Flavia had been brought up in, was a money pit, like all large, old houses, and maintenance and repairs swallowed her widowed grandmother’s dwindling income from stocks and shares. There were no spare thousands left over to pay for a private operation.
So, despite her deep reluctance to be indebted to her father, Flavia had succumbed to his offer, and now, three years later, she was still paying him off in the way he had demanded.
Summoned to London to play the complaisant daughter, dressed to the nines, and chit-chatting, exchanging social nothings with people she couldn’t care less about but whom her father either wanted to impress or wanted to do lucrative business with. She was playing a role just as much as if she had been an actress on a stage. A role she hated for its falseness and hypocrisy, with her father treating her in public as if she were the apple of his eye, doting and devoted, when the truth was completely different.
Now, though, it was even more of an ordeal than ever. Since her hip operation, though successful, her grandmother had started to deteriorate mentally, and for the last two years her dementia had been remorselessly worsening. It meant that leaving her even for a few days, as she was doing now, made Flavia even more anxious about her. Although one of her grandmother’s carers, who came in regularly to help relieve Flavia for an hour or two so that she could drive into the local market town to get the shopping and other essentials done, was staying with her, it didn’t stop the anxiety nagging at her. But her father had been particularly insistent she come up to London this week.
‘No bloody excuses!’ he’d fumed. ‘I don’t give a toss about the old bat. You get yourself on the next train. I’ve got people coming over tomorrow evening, and it’s got to look good!’
Flavia had frowned—and not just at the summons. There had been an edge to her father’s voice that was new. A note of strain. Cynically, Flavia had put it down to discord between her father and his latest girlfriend, Anita, whom Flavia could see across the room, wearing a fortune around her neck. She was a demanding mistress, and maybe her avarice was beginning to grate.
The impression of her father being under new tension had been intensified when Flavia had arrived at the apartment. He’d been shorter with her than ever, and clearly preoccupied.
But not so much that he had not gripped her elbow as the guests started to arrive.
‘I’ve got someone particularly important turning up tonight, and I want you to keep him smiling—got it?’ Her father’s cold eyes had flickered over her. ‘You should be able to hold his interest—he likes his women, and he likes them to be lookers. And that’s one thing you’re good for! But lose all the damn barbed wire around you—why the hell you can’t be more approachable, I don’t know!’
It was a familiar accusation, and one that Flavia always ignored. She was polite, she was civil, and she was sociable to her father’s guests, whoever they were—but never more than that. There were limits to how much of a hypocrite she would be …
‘Approachable like Anita?’ Flavia had suggested sweetly, knowing how much her father hated his girlfriend’s predilection for openly flirting with other men.
Annoyance had flared in his face, but he’d snapped back, ‘Women like her get results! They know how to make up to a man and get what they want. You don’t make the slightest effort. Well, tonight you’d better. Like I said, it’s important.’
The edge had been back in his voice, and Flavia had wondered at it. Not that it took too much wondering. Obviously one of this evening’s guests was to be someone her father intended to do some highly lucrative deal with, and when money was at stake, increasing his wealth, her father, she thought cynically, put the highest priority on it. And if that meant wanting his own daughter to smarm over some fat, ageing businessmen, it didn’t bother him in the least.
Filled with distaste at her father’s unsavoury tactics, Flavia had pulled away from him and gone forward to greet the first arrivals, a polite but remote smile on her face. She knew she came across as stand-offish, but there was no way she was going to ape the likes of Anita, and pout her lips and flutter her eyelashes at the influential businessmen her father wanted her to charm!
She glanced unenthusiastically over the chattering guests, and as she did so, she stilled. Something had caught her attention. Correction—someone had caught her attention …
He must have just arrived, for he was standing by the double doors that led out into the wide entrance hall of the huge apartment, a glass of champagne in his hand. He was looking into the crowded room, his eyes resting on someone she couldn’t see from this angle. She found she was glad of it, because what she wanted to do, she realised with some dim part of her mind, was look at him.
He drew her eye, drew her focus—made it impossible for her to look away. Impossible …
Impressions stormed in her mind.
Tall—broad-shouldered—dark-haired—strong features starkly defined.
He made her want to stare, and that sent a hollowing arrow through her, stilling the breath in her throat.
There was an air about him as he stood there, one hand thrust into his trouser pocket, the other holding his champagne glass, looking tall and lean and very, very assured.
He