Сара Крейвен – Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction: The Virgin's Wedding Night / Kyriakis's Innocent Mistress / The Ruthless Greek's Virgin Princess (страница 8)

Her precious, foolproof plan. Now wreckage.

The rung on the corporate ladder. Broken.

Oh, the expansion scheme would go ahead, but possibly not under her direction, however hard she worked on it. And maybe if there was a glass ceiling, Gramps had ordered its installation.

I wouldn’t put it past him, she thought bleakly.

Perhaps she should have succumbed to the inevitable—picked one of the paralysingly dull but worthy young men who’d been regularly trotted out at dinner parties for her inspection. At least she’d have had the prospect of Gracemead as consolation.

But would that have been enough to reconcile her to the reality of marriage? Somehow she doubted it. She valued her independence too highly. Child as she’d been, she could remember only too well her mother’s unavailing attempts to revive relationships that had clearly exceeded their shelf lives.

Maybe it was then that she’d realised the danger of being at the mercy of her hormones, she thought wryly.

And while life could be lonely at times, especially as most of her schoolfriends now seemed to have husbands and, accordingly, other priorities, at least she was at no one’s beck and call when work was over. When her time became her own, along with her personal space.

And her time was now wasting.

She got up, and went into her bedroom, feeling her usual lift of satisfaction as she looked around her. All the furniture was built-in, and concealed behind anonymous doors, so the focal point was the bed. She’d picked the biggest she could find, with the most heavenly mattress, and dressed the whole thing in ivory linen, with olive green cushions adding the only colour note, one which she’d repeated in the shades of the lamps on the twin night tables flanking the bed.

The bathroom was equally austere in white and chrome, but she hadn’t stinted on the size of the tub, or the walk-in shower, and particularly on the pile of fluffy towels that were always waiting.

She undressed slowly, dropping her clothes into the linen basket, loosened her hair from its constricting band, and stepped under the fierce pelting of the shower, first smothering herself in her favourite scented body wash. How wonderful, she thought, as she turned herself languorously under the warm torrent, if the troubles of the day could be as easily rinsed away as this foam.

She dried herself, and put on a pair of her favourite pyjamas. She had a whole range of them, tailored in satin in cool pastel shades, and obtained from an exclusive mail order source, and tonight’s choice was pale turquoise.

She padded barefoot into her gleaming kitchen, taking a ready-cooked chicken breast from the fridge, preparing a dressing for the accompanying salad, and heating a small baguette. If she wanted dessert, there was always yoghurt.

As she ate, she pondered what she could put in tomorrow’s report for Tony. Nothing, for sure, that would sound like an excuse, or make it sound as if she wasn’t up to the job. She’d believed until today that they had a good working relationship based on mutual respect. Now it seemed as if he’d just been waiting for her to screw up.

Well, she was not so easily to be set aside, she told herself defiantly. She would fight, and fight again, and to hell with glass ceilings.

Because iron had entered her soul that afternoon, when she’d discovered what people really thought about her, and now she no longer merely wanted to take charge of the expansion plans. No, she wouldn’t be content now until she held the position her grandfather had once enjoyed—as chairman of the board.

At which point, they’d be laughing on the other side of their faces.

Her meal ended, she put on some Mozart and set to work, drafting and re-drafting the report for Tony until she was reasonably satisfied. She kept it short and pithy, maintaining the basic value of the scheme, but admitting she’d failed to gauge the level of opposition it might garner. That she felt this had been based on personalities rather than actual reasoning, and that next time she would ensure that opinion was more informed, so that there could be a genuine debate.

Then she printed it off, closed down her laptop, and sat back with a sigh, closing her eyes.

One rock shifted, hopefully, but a massive boulder still to go.

Keeping her job might be one thing. But hanging on to Gracemead was quite another, especially when her grandfather’s deadline was coming nearer by the day.

She supposed she could always try another small ad on one of the dating pages, then recalled with a grimace just how long it had taken to extract Peter from among the welter of total unsuitables who’d responded. None of whom she’d wish to encounter a second time.

Also, she had to be careful. If, by some remote but fatal chance, anyone at work found out or even suspected what she was trying to do, her life would become completely unbearable. And outside work she never met any men. Apart, of course, from today …

She sat up with a jolt, as if several hundred volts of electricity had suddenly passed through her, her mind going into overdrive.

Then stopped, as she remembered contemptuous dark eyes. A voice that dripped scorn. And took a deep breath. No, she thought, that’s nonsensical. That’s carrying the whole thing to the limits of absurdity. Don’t even consider it.

But the idea refused to go away. It nagged at her for the remainder of the evening, and even followed her to bed, where she lay, staring sleeplessly into the darkness as she continued to argue with herself.

On the face of it, she and this Roan had nothing in common, except their mutual antipathy. But he needed a boost to his career as an artist, which she might—just—be able to supply. And he was a good painter. He had a real gift. Whatever her personal opinion of him as a man, she was certain of that at least.

And if she was prepared to help him, she was surely entitled to ask for his assistance in return, even though she could guess his probable reaction when he learned the details, she thought, wincing.

But she’d simply have to stress that their dislike of each other was a positive advantage under the circumstances. And that any acceptance of her terms would be strictly business.

After all, she told herself grimly, she didn’t want that appalling male arrogance, which seemed as natural to him as breathing, to persuade him for one second that she found him even remotely attractive.

His pretty blonde might be a snag, of course, but she could hardly raise any real objections to the scheme, as she was married herself.

And as she turned over, punching the pillow into submission, a name came floating into her mind, reminding her of someone in the art world she might approach. ‘Desmond Slevin,’ she murmured with drowsy satisfaction, and closed her eyes, smiling.

The following morning brought a few misgivings, but no real second thoughts.

If he chose to co-operate, this Roan could secure Gracemead for her after all. Therefore she had to pursue the idea that had come to her last night.

At the office, having meekly handed her report to Tony, and attended to any urgent business, she did a quick computer check on her designated prey.

Desmond Slevin, an art dealer and collector, who owned the Parsifal Gallery in the West End, was a former tenant now living in Surrey.

Harriet had read a piece about him quite recently in one of the broadsheets, describing him as one of the treasure seekers of the art world, always on the look-out for new and gifted painters. If it was true, he might be just the man she needed.

Accordingly, she took an early lunch, and grabbed a passing taxi to whisk her to the gallery. And a few minutes later she was sitting in Desmond Slevin’s private office, drinking coffee.

‘So, what can I do for you, Miss Flint?’ He was a handsome middle-aged man on the verge of being elderly, with grey hair, and piercing blue eyes. ‘Are you here to persuade me to give up the commute and rent another London pad?’

Harriet returned his smile. ‘I doubt that I could. No, I read a recent article about you, and it—got me thinking.’

‘Oh.’ He pulled a face. ‘Frankly, I came to regret that interview.’ He gave her a narrow-eyed glance. ‘I trust you haven’t taken up painting as a hobby, because you were once very kind and helpful, and I’d hate to disappoint you.’

She laughed. ‘You’re quite safe, I promise.’ And paused. ‘But if I ever saw work that seemed to have real talent, might you be interested in—perhaps—taking a look?’

He said dryly, ‘And I’m wondering, in turn, if that question is quite as hypothetical as it sounds.’ He refilled her cup. ‘So, who is this undiscovered genius, Miss Flint? A boyfriend?’

‘God, no.’ Harriet sat bolt upright, nearly spilling her coffee down her skirt. Bright spots of colour burned in her face. ‘The exact opposite, in fact. Someone I barely know. I—I don’t even have his full name.’

‘Dear me,’ he said placidly. ‘All the same he seems to have made quite an impression.’ He watched her reflectively for a moment. ‘Is there a body of work involved?’

‘Yes, I suppose—I think so. He—he has a studio.’