for her until she turned twenty-five, less than a year from now.
Her sanctuary. Her private bolthole. The one place she could be herself without hundreds of cameras flashing in her face.
Gone. Lost. Gambled away.
Now it was in the hands of her mortal enemy.
Oh, how Remy would be gloating! She could picture him in her mind: that cocky smirk of victory on his sensual mouth; those dark espresso-brown eyes glinting.
Oh, how her blood boiled!
He would be strutting around the whole of Europe telling everyone how he had finally got the better of Henri Marchand.
The bitter rivalry between her father and the Caffarellis went back a decade. Remy’s grandfather Vittorio had been best friends and business partners with her father, but something had soured the relationship and at the last minute Henri had pulled out of a major business development he had been bankrolling for Vittorio. The Caffarellis’ financial empire had been severely compromised, and the two men hadn’t spoken a word to each other since.
Angelique had long expected it would be Remy who would pursue her father for revenge and not one of his brothers. Of the three Caffarelli brothers, Remy had had the most to do with his grandfather, but their relationship wasn’t affectionate or even close. She suspected Remy was after his grandfather’s approval, to win his respect, something neither of his older brothers had been able to do in spite of creating their own massive fortunes independent of the family empire.
But Angelique had clashed with Remy even before the fallout between their families and his dealings with her father. She thought him spoilt and reckless. He thought her attention-seeking. The eight-year difference in their ages hadn’t helped, although she was the first to admit she hadn’t been an easy person to be around, particularly after her mother had died.
Angelique turned back to her father who was washing the bitter taste of defeat down with a generous tumbler of brandy. ‘Mum’s probably spinning in her grave—and her parents and grandparents along with her. How could you be so...so stupid?’
Henri’s eyes hardened and his thin lips thinned and whitened. ‘Watch your mouth, young lady. I am your father. You will not speak to me as if I am an imbecile.’
She squared her shoulders and steeled her spine. ‘What are you going to do? Call me a whole lot of nasty names like you did to Mum? Verbally and emotionally abuse me until I take an overdose just to get away from you?’
The silence was thick, pulsing, almost vibrating with menace.
Angelique knew it was dangerous to upset her father.
To mention what must never be mentioned.
She had spent her childhood walking around on tiptoe to avoid triggering his ire. His temper could be vicious. As a young child she had witnessed how her mother’s self-esteem had been eroded away, leaving her a wilted shadow of her former self.
But, while her father had never raised a hand either to her mother or to Angelique, the potential threat of it was there all the same. It hovered in the atmosphere. It crawled along her skin like a nasty, prickly-footed insect.
In the early years Angelique had tried hard to please him but nothing she had ever done had been good enough, or at least not good enough for his impossibly exacting standards.
In the end she had decided to do the opposite. Since the age of seventeen she had deliberately set out to embarrass him. To shock him. That was why she had pursued her career as a swimsuit model so determinedly. She knew how much it annoyed and embarrassed him that his little girl’s body was displayed in magazines, catalogues and billboards all over Europe. She had even deliberately courted scandals in the press, not caring that they further cemented her reputation as a wild, spoilt little rich girl who loved nothing more than to party, and to party hard.
‘If you’re not careful I will disinherit you.’ Her father issued the threat through clenched teeth. ‘I will give every penny away to a dog’s home.’
Angelique would have said, “Go on. Do it,” but the fortune he threatened to give away had actually belonged to her mother. And she was going to do her darned hardest to get back what was rightfully hers.
Starting now.
* * *
The desert of Dharbiri was one of Remy’s favourite places. One of his friends from his boarding-school days, Talib Firas Muhtadi, was a crown prince of the ancient province. The golden stretch of endless wind-rippled sands, the lonely sound of the whistling, pizza-oven-hot air; the vibrant colours of the sunset; the sense of isolation and the almost feudal laws and customs were such a stark change from his thoroughly modern twenty-first-century life.
No alcohol. No gambling. No unchaperoned women.
He loved his fast-paced life—there was absolutely no doubt about that—it was just that now and again he felt the need to unplug himself from it and recharge his batteries.
The hot, dry air was such a contrast to the chill of autumn that had come early back in Italy where he had spent a couple of days with his grandfather. No matter the season, Vittorio was a difficult person to be around, bitter and even at times violent. But Remy liked the sense of power it gave him to drop in without notice—which he knew annoyed the hell out of his grandfather—stay a couple of days and then breeze off without saying goodbye.
But while Remy loved Italy it was hard to decide where he felt most at home. His French-Italian heritage, on top of his English boarding-school education, had more or less made him a citizen of the world. Up until now he hadn’t really had a base to call home. He’d lived in and out of suitcases and hotel suites. He liked that he didn’t know where he was going to be from one week to the next. He would pick up a scent like a foxhound and go after a good deal. And nail it.
He liked to move around the globe, picking up business here and there, wheeling and dealing, winning the unwinnable.
He grinned.
Like winning that winner-takes-all hand with Henri Marchand in Vegas. It had been a masterstroke of genius on his part. He didn’t like to be too smug about it but, truth be told, he did actually feel a little bit proud of himself.
He’d hit Henri Marchand where it hurt: he had taken that double-crossing cheat’s Scottish castle off him.
Victory was more than sweet—it was ambrosial.
Remy had come out to Dharbiri so he could reflect on his prize. Tarrantloch was one of the most beautiful and prestigious estates in Scotland. It was isolated and private. It would make a fabulous base for him—a place he could call home. It would be the perfect haven to hunt, shoot, fish and hang out with his friends during his infamous week-long parties. He could have gone straight there to take ownership but he didn’t want to appear too eager to take possession.
No, it was better to let Henri Marchand—and his spoilt little brattish daughter Angelique—think this was just like any other deal done and dusted.
There would be plenty of time to rub her retroussé little nose in it.
He couldn’t wait.
* * *
Getting a flight to Dharbiri was hard enough. Getting access to where Remy Caffarelli was staying was like trying to get through an airport security check-in with a fistful of grenades or an AK47 in her hand luggage.
Angelique ground her teeth for the tenth time. Did she look like a security threat?
‘I need to speak to Monsieur Caffarelli. It’s a matter of great urgency. A family...er, crisis.’
Her family crisis.
The attendant on the reception desk was cool and disbelieving. Angelique could only suppose he was used to fielding off droves of female wannabes who would give an arm or a leg—or both—to have a few minutes with the staggeringly rich, heart-stoppingly gorgeous Remy Caffarelli.
As if she would