on them as he fixed the heavy clasp in place and she was aware of the dazzle of the costly gems.
‘In truth you should wear emeralds to match your eyes,’ he murmured. ‘But since diamonds were the only thing on offer they will have to do. What do you think, cara?’
Darcy couldn’t get rid of the sudden lump in her throat. It felt like a noose. The stones were heavy and the metal was cold. But there was no time to protest because cameras were flashing again and this time they were all directed at her. Sweat beaded her forehead and she felt dizzy, only able to breathe normally when the rumour went round that the Hollywood star was exiting through the kitchens and the press pack left the ballroom to follow her.
Darcy turned to Renzo, her fingertips touching the unfamiliar stones. ‘You do realise I can’t possibly accept this?’ she questioned hoarsely.
‘And you do realise that I am not going to let you give it back? Your tastes are far too modest for a woman in your position. You are the lover of a very wealthy man, Darcy, and I want you to wear it. I want you to have some pretty jewels for all the pleasure you’ve given me.’
His voice had dipped into a silken caress, which usually would have made her want to melt, but he made it sound like payment for services rendered. Was that how he saw it? Darcy’s smile felt as if someone had stitched it onto her face with a rusty needle. Shouldn’t she at least try to look as a woman should look when a man had just bought something this valuable? And wasn’t she in danger of being a hypocrite? After all, she had a key to his Belgravia home—wasn’t that just a short step to accepting his jewels? What about the designer dress she was wearing tonight, and the expensive shoes? He’d bought those for her, hadn’t he?
Something like fear clutched at her heart and she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. She was going to have to come clean about her mum and the children’s home and all the other sordid stuff.
So tell him. Explain your aversion to accepting gifts and bring this whole crazy relationship to a head, because at least that will end the uncertainty and you’ll know where you stand.
But in the car he kissed her and when they reached the apartment he kissed her some more, unclipping the diamond choker and dropping it onto a table in the sitting room as casually as if it had been made of paste. His hands were trembling as he undressed her and so were hers. He made love to her on one of the sofas and then he carried her into the bedroom and did it all over again—and who would want to talk about the past at a moment like that?
They made love most of the night and because she’d asked for a day off after the ball, Darcy slept late next morning. When she eventually woke, it was getting on for noon and Renzo had left for the office long ago. And still she hadn’t told him. She showered and dressed but her queasiness had returned and she could only manage some mint tea for breakfast. The morning papers had been delivered and, with a growing sense of nervousness, she flicked through the pages until she found the column which listed society events. And there she was in all her glory—in her mermaid dress of green sequins, the row of fiery white diamonds glittering at her throat, with Renzo standing just behind her, a hint of possessiveness in the sexy smile curving his lips.
She stood up abruptly, telling herself she was being paranoid. Who was going to see, or, more important, to care that she was in the wretched paper?
The morning slipped away. She went for a walk, bought a bag of oranges to put through the squeezer and was just nibbling on a piece of dry toast when the doorbell rang and Darcy frowned. It never rang when Renzo wasn’t here—and not just because his wasn’t a lifestyle where people made spontaneous visits. He’d meant what he said about guarding his privacy; his home really was his fortress. People just didn’t come round.
She pressed the button on the intercom.
‘Yes?’
‘Is that Darcy Denton?’ It was a male voice with a broad Manchester accent.
‘Who is this?’ she questioned sharply.
‘An old friend of yours.’ There was a pause. ‘Drake Bradley.’
For a minute Darcy thought she might pass out. She thought about pretending to be someone else—the housekeeper perhaps. Or just cutting the connection while convincing herself that she didn’t have to speak to anyone—let alone Drake Bradley. But the bully who had ruled the roost in the children’s home had never been the kind of person to take no for an answer. If she refused to speak to him she could imagine him settling down to wait until Renzo got home and she just imagined what he might have to say to him. Shivering, she stared at her pale reflection in the hall mirror. What was it they said? Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.
‘What do you want?’
‘Just a few minutes of your time. Surely you can spare that, Darcy.’
Telling herself it was better to brazen it out, Darcy pressed the buzzer, her heart beating out a primitive tattoo as she opened the door to find Drake standing there—a sly expression on his pockmarked face. A decade had made his hair recede, but she would have recognised him immediately and her blood ran cold as the sight of him took her back to a life she’d thought she’d left for ever.
‘What do you want?’ she asked again.
‘That’s not much of a welcome, is it? What’s the matter, Darcy? Aren’t you going to invite me in? Surely you’re not ashamed of me?’
But the awful thing was that she was. She’d moved on a lot since that turbulent period when their lives had merged and clashed, yet Drake looked as if he’d been frozen in time. Wearing clothes which swamped his puny frame, he had oil beneath his fingernails and on the fingers of his left hand were the letters H, A, T, E. You have no right to judge him, she told herself. He was simply another survivor from the shipwreck of their youth. Surely she owed him a little hospitality when she’d done so well for herself.
She could smell stale tobacco and the faint underlying odour of sweat as she opened the door wider and he brushed past her. He followed her into the enormous sitting room and she wondered if he was seeing the place as she had seen it the first time she’d been here, when she’d marvelled at the space and light and cleanliness. And, of course, the view.
‘Wow.’ He pursed his lips together and whistled as he stared out at the whispering treetops of Eaton Square. ‘You’ve certainly landed on your feet, Darcy.’
‘Are you going to tell me why you’re here?’
His weasel eyes narrowed. ‘Not even going to offer me a drink? It’s a hot day outside. I could murder a drink.’
Darcy licked her lips. Don’t aggravate him. Tolerate him for a few minutes and then he’ll go. ‘What would you like?’
‘Got a beer?’
‘Sure.’
Her underlying nausea seemed to intensify as Darcy went to the kitchen to fetch him a beer. When she returned he refused her offer of a glass and began to glug greedily from the bottle.
‘How did you find me?’ she asked, once he had paused long enough to take a breath.
He put the bottle down on a table. ‘Saw you on the news last night, walking into that big hotel. Yeah. On TV. Couldn’t believe my eyes at first. I thought to myself, that can’t be Darcy Denton—daughter of one of Manchester’s best known hookers. Not on the arm of some rich dude like Sabatini. So I headed along to the hotel to see for myself and hung around until your car arrived. I’m good at hanging around in the shadows, I am.’ He smiled slyly. ‘I overheard your man giving the address to the taxi driver so I thought I’d come and pay you a visit to catch up on old times. See for myself how you’ve come up in the world.’
Darcy tried to keep her voice light. To act as if her heart weren’t pounding so hard it felt as if it might burst right out of her chest. ‘You still haven’t told me what you want.’
His smile grew calculating. ‘You’ve landed on your feet, Darcy. Surely it’s no big deal to help