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MILLS & BOON
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Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
‘NATURALLY you will not renew his contract. The Sabatino Bank has no place for inadequate fund managers.’ Lean, dark, handsome face stern, Roel Sabatino was frowning. An international banker and a very busy man, he considered this conversation a waste of his valuable time.
His HR director, Stefan, cleared his throat. ‘I thought…perhaps a little chat might put Rawlinson back on track—’
‘I don’t believe in little chats and I don’t give second chances,’ Roel incised with glacial effect. ‘Neither—you should note—do our clients. The bank’s reputation rests on profit performance.’
Stefan Weber reflected that Roel’s own world-class renown as an expert in the global economy and the field of wealth preservation carried even greater impact. A Swiss billionaire, Roel Sabatino was the descendant of nine unbroken generations of private bankers and acknowledged by all as the most brilliant. Strikingly intelligent and hugely successful as he was, however, Roel was not known for his compassion towards employees with personal problems. In fact he was as much feared as he was admired for his ruthless lack of sentimentality.
Even so, Stefan made one last effort to intervene on the unfortunate member of staff’s behalf. ‘Last month, Rawlinson’s wife walked out on him…’
‘I am his employer, not his counsellor,’ Roel countered in brusque dismissal. ‘His private life is not my concern.’
That point clarified for the benefit of his HR director, Roel left his palatial office by his private lift to travel down to the underground car park. As he swung into his Ferrari his shapely masculine mouth was still set in a grim line of disdain. What kind of a man allowed the loss of a woman to interfere with his work performance to the extent of destroying a once promising career? A weak character guilty of a shameful lack of self-discipline, Roel decided with a contemptuous shake of his proud dark head.
A male who whined about his personal problems and expected special treatment on that basis was complete anathema to Roel. After all, by its very nature life was challenging and, thanks to a childhood of austere joylessness, Roel knew that better than most. His mother had walked out on her son and her marriage when he was a toddler and any suspicion of tender loving care had vanished overnight from his upbringing. Placed in a boarding-school at the age of five, he had been allowed home visits only when his academic results had matched his father’s high expectations. Raised to be tough and unemotional, Roel had learnt when he was very young neither to ask for nor hope for favours in any form.
His car phone rang while he was stuck in Geneva’s lunchtime traffic jam and regretting his decision not to utilise his chauffeur-driven limo. The call was from his lawyer, Paul Correro. When it came to more confidential matters, he preferred to utilise Paul’s discreet services rather than those of the family legal firm.
‘I think it’s my duty as your legal representative to point out that the time has arrived for a certain connection to be quietly terminated.’ Paul’s tone was almost playful.
Roel had gone to university with Paul and he usually enjoyed the other man’s lively sense of humour for nobody else would have dared that level of familiarity with him. However, he was not in the mood to engage in a guessing game.
‘Cut to the chase, Paul,’ he urged.
‘I’ve been thinking of mentioning this for a while…’ Unusually, Paul hesitated. ‘But I was waiting for you to raise the topic first. It’s almost four years now. Isn’t it time to have your marriage of convenience dissolved?’
Taken aback by that reminder, and just when the traffic flow was finally beginning to move again, Roel lifted his foot off the clutch of his car. The Ferrari lurched to a sudden choking halt as the engine cut out and provoked a hail of impatient car horns that outraged Roel’s masculine pride. But he did not utter a single one of the vituperative curses on the tip of his tongue.
From the car speakers Paul’s well-modulated speaking voice continued in happy ignorance of the effect he had induced. ‘I was hoping we could set up an appointment some time this week because I’ll be on vacation from the following Monday.’
‘This week is impossible for me,’ Roel heard himself counter instantaneously.
‘I hope I haven’t overreached my remit in raising the issue,’ Paul remarked with a hint of discomfiture.
‘Dio mio! I had forgotten about the matter. You took me by surprise!’ Roel proclaimed with a dismissive laugh.
‘I didn’t think it was possible to do that,’ Paul commented.
‘I’ll have to call you back…the traffic’s unbelievable,’ Roel asserted and he concluded the dialogue without engaging in the usual chit-chat.
His handsome mouth was set in a taut line. Paul had been right to bring up the subject of the marriage, which Roel had felt he had little choice but to enter into almost four years earlier. How could he possibly have overlooked the necessity of breaking that slender link again with a divorce? He reminded himself that he led an incredibly busy life and thought back instead to the ridiculous situation that had persuaded him to circumvent the terms of his late grandfather’s will with a fake wife.
His grandfather, Clemente, had been a rigid workaholic well into his sixties, in every way a chip off the rock like Sabatino banker block. But after his retirement Clemente had fallen in love with a woman less than half his age and had suffered a rebellious sea change in outlook. Throwing off all restraint, he had embraced New Age philosophies and had even briefly married the youthful gold-digger. His undignified behaviour had led to years of estrangement between Clemente and his son, Roel’s conservative father. Roel himself, however, had retained his fondness for the older man and maintained contact with him.
Four years ago, Clemente had died and Roel had been incredulous when the terms of his grandfather’s will had been spelt out to him. In that most eccentric document, Clemente had stated that in the event of his grandson failing to marry within a specified time frame, Castello Sabatino, the family’s ancestral home, should devolve to the state rather than to his own flesh and blood. Certainly, Roel had lived to regret telling his grandfather that, as the chances of a happy marriage were in his own considered opinion slim to none, he would not be addressing the need to wed and father an heir until he was, at the very least, in late middle age.
Although Roel had been raised to scorn sentimentality, he had nonetheless still cherished dim childish memories of warm and happy visits to the Castello Sabatino. Although he was wealthy enough to buy a hundred ancient castles, he had learnt the hard way that the castello had an especially strong hold on his affections. Sabatinos had inhabited the castle, which stood high above a remote valley, for centuries and Roel had been appalled by the genuine threat of the property going out of the family, perhaps for ever.
A couple of months later, while he’d been in London on business, he had been using his mobile phone to discuss with Paul the almost insurmountable problems created by his grandfather’s will. Even though he had been in a public place at the time, indeed he had been getting a haircut, he had assumed that the very fact that the conversation was taking place in Italian had meant that it was almost as private as it might have been in his office. He had learnt that he was mistaken when his little hair-stylist had leapt headlong into his private conversation to first commiserate with him over his grandfather’s ‘weirder than weird’ will and, second, to offer up herself as a ‘pretend’ wife so that he could keep Castello Sabatino in the family.
Ultimately, Hilary Ross had sold her hand in marriage to him in a straight business deal. What age would she be now? Roel mused. Twenty-three years old last St Valentine’s Day, his memory supplied without hesitation. He was willing to bet that she still didn’t look much older than a teenager. She was very small but wonderfully curvaceous and back then at least her dress sense had rested on the extreme gothic edge of fashion. Black from head to foot, clumpy boots and vampire make-up, he recalled with a frowning smile rather than a shudder. It was strange how very sexy a vampire could look, he reflected abstractedly. Before the traffic lights could change, he dug out his wallet and with long, deft fingers extracted the snapshot Hilary had pressed on him. A snapshot adorned with a teasing signature, ‘Your wife, Hilary,’ and backed by her phone number.
‘Something to remember me by,’ she had said, babbling like a brook in flood because he had known and she had somehow sensed that, aside of any necessary legal need to keep tabs on her whereabouts, he would not seek any further personal contact with her.
‘Kiss me,’ those huge eyes of hers had pleaded in a silent invitation.
Resolute to the last, he had withstood temptation. They had had a business arrangement that had to remain unsullied by sex: Paul had made it clear to him that if he’d consummated what had essentially been only a marriage on paper he would have made himself liable for a substantial maintenance claim.
He must have imagined being tempted by her, Roel told himself in exasperation. What possible appeal could she have had for him? She had left school at sixteen. She was an uneducated girl from a poor working-class background. Dio mio…a hairdresser! A giggly little hairdresser, only five feet plus in height and wholly without cultural interests or sophistication! They had had only their humanity in common. Finally he allowed himself to glance down at the photograph. She wasn’t beautiful, he reminded himself, exasperated by his own disturbing absorption in such thoughts. He drew his own attention to the fact that her brows were too straight and heavy, her nose a little too large. But regardless of her flaws his brilliant dark gaze still locked to the impish look of fun in her eyes and the wide, bright smile curving her lush mulberry-painted mouth.
‘When I worked as a junior on Saturdays, I used to blow every penny I earned on shoes,’ she had once confided unasked and in much the same way he had picked up other titbits and glimpses of a lifestyle as far removed from his own as that of an alien.
‘When my grandma met my grandpa, she said she knew he was the love of her life before they even spoke…anyway, they couldn’t speak. She didn’t know a word of English and he didn’t know a word of Italian. Don’t you think that’s romantic?’
He had considered it beneath his dignity to respond. In fact he had stonewalled all her attempts to flirt with him. So he was a snob, socially and intellectually, but she had not been from his world. Furthermore he was all too well acquainted with the Sabatino male habit of marrying gold-diggers and far too clever to risk following in his father’s and his grandfather’s footsteps to make the same crucial mistake. He had suppressed what he had recognised as an inappropriate and dangerous attraction to an unsuitable woman.
Yet he still couldn’t forget the last time that he had seen his fake wife: her jaunty wave in spite of the suspicious glisten in her eyes, the gritty, defiant smile that had told him that she was going to find a guy who did believe in romance…had she found that mythical male? Discovered his feet of clay? Was that why she had yet to request a divorce on her own behalf?
In the act of wondering that while rounding a notorious bend, Roel only had a split second to react when a child ran off the pavement into the road in pursuit of a dog. Braking hard, he wrenched at the steering wheel in a ferocious attempt to avoid hitting the little girl. The Ferrari smashed nose first into the wall on the other side of the street with a bone-numbing jolt, but he would still have walked unhurt from the wreckage had he had the chance to get out of his car before another vehicle crashed into it. As that second collision followed a blinding pain burst at the base of Roel’s skull and plunged him into darkness.
The photograph still curled within fingers that refused to relinquish their grip, he was rushed into hospital. His late father’s sister, Bautista, was called to the emergency room. With haughty scorn, Bautista watched two young nurses react to Roel’s extravagant dark good looks with hungry eyes of awe.
A spoilt and imperious brunette dressed in a style that the less charitable might have judged inappropriate for a woman of sixty, Bautista was furious at the interruption to her day. Roel would be fine! Roel was indestructible; all the Sabatino men were. Aside of the blow to his head, his other injuries were minor. The following day, Bautista was due to fly to Milan to attend a gallery opening with her fiancé, Dieter, and she was determined not to change her plans.
Only ten days earlier, Roel had infuriated her with the information that the handsome young sculptor whom she was planning to marry had a history of chasing wealthy older women. How horribly insulting Roel had been! Why shouldn’t Dieter want her for herself? Bautista was confident that she was still a remarkably good-looking woman, possessed of a most engaging personality. Four staggeringly expensive divorces had failed to diminish her shining faith in love and matrimony.
When a consultant finally came to Bautista to tell her that, although Roel had recovered consciousness, he appeared to be suffering from some degree of temporary amnesia, her annoyance and subsequent frustration were intense.
‘Is Mr Sabatino’s wife on her way?’ Bautista was then asked.
‘He’s not married.’
With a look of surprise the older man extended a somewhat crumpled photograph to her. ‘Then who is this?’
In astonishment, Bautista studied the photo and its revealing inscription. Roel had married an Englishwoman? My goodness, how secretive he had been! But then was he not famed for his cold reserve and reticence? His extreme dislike of publicity? His marriage would indeed excite the kind of headlines that he would consider to be distasteful and intrusive, Bautista conceded. Exactly when had he been planning to inform his relatives that he had taken a wife? But at that point happily appreciating that Roel’s possession of a wife freed her from all further responsibility for him while he lay in his hospital bed, Bautista rushed off to phone her nephew’s mystery bride.
The instant Hilary walked into her tiny flat and saw her sister Emma’s troubled face, a cold shiver trickled down her spine.
‘What’s wrong?’ Hilary asked, hastily setting down the evening paper she had gone out to buy.
‘While you were out, a woman phoned…I want you to sit down before I pass on her news.’ Emma was a tall slender blonde with a steady look in her grey eyes that hinted at an unusual degree of maturity for a girl of seventeen.
Hilary frowned. ‘Don’t be daft. You’re here and all in one piece and the only family I’ve got. Who phoned…and with what news?’
‘I’m not the only family you’ve got,’ her sister said in a strained undertone. ‘Roel…Roel Sabatino has been involved in a car accident.’
The blood slowly draining from her cheeks, Hilary stared back at the younger woman with stricken eyes. Her legs wobbled beneath her and she swayed. ‘He’s—?’
‘Alive…yes!’ A supportive arm curving to Hilary’s slight shoulders, Emma urged her smaller sister down onto the small sofa in the kitchen that also had to serve as a sitting and dining area. ‘Roel’s aunt phoned. She spoke very little English and she only called for about two minutes max—’
‘How badly has he been hurt?’ Hilary was trembling and feeling sick. Her mind was a blank and then suddenly a frightening sea of disturbing images. Even as she strained to hear Emma’s response she was praying that that response would offer some hope.
‘He has some kind of head injury. I got the impression that it might be serious. He’s being transferred to another hospital and I did make sure that I got the details.’ Emma squeezed her sister’s hand in a bracing gesture. ‘Take a slow deep breath, Hilly. Concentrate on the fact that Roel’s alive. You’re in shock but you can be with him by tomorrow morning.’
Bowing her swimming head, Hilary was half in a world of her own. Roel, the precious secret love of her life—even if she had not been anything more than a useful means to an end for him. It was strange and terrifying how love could strike like that, Hilary reflected, gripped by a momentary agony of regret. Roel, the husband of her heart, whom she had never even kissed. Roel, so tall and dark and vitally strong, who right this minute might be fighting for his life in a hospital bed. Her skin clammy with fear for him, she prayed that he would recover but it was a big challenge for Hilary to be optimistic on such a score. Almost seven years earlier, the car crash that had killed both her mother and their father had shattered her and Emma’s lives. On that occasion, the long nerve-racking wait at the hospital concerned had not resulted in any last-minute miracle survivals.
‘Be with him?’ Hilary echoed belatedly. ‘Be…with Roel?’
Could she be with him…dared she try? Wild hope leapt up inside Hilary. She might be his wife in name only but that did not mean that she could not be concerned about his well-being. Hadn’t his aunt called to tell her about his accident? Obviously their marriage was not the secret she had assumed it would be within his family circle. It seemed evident too that his relative believed that theirs was something more than a marriage on paper.
‘I knew that every minute counted and I knew exactly what you’d want to do,’ Emma hastened to assure her. ‘This is an emergency. So, I went straight on to the Internet and booked a flight to Geneva for you. It leaves first thing tomorrow—’
With an effort, Hilary parted dry lips and strove to temper her desperate desire to rush to Roel’s side with a little common sense. ‘Of course I want to go to him but—’
‘No buts…’ Her dismay palpable and her voice betraying a sharp edge of strain, Emma leapt upright. ‘Don’t be too proud to rush over there to be with Roel. You’re his wife and I bet that what you once had together could still be mended. I’m old enough now to appreciate just how much trouble my bad attitude must’ve caused between the two of you!’
Hilary was very much taken aback by that explosive speech. Until that moment, she had had no idea that Emma might have blamed herself for the apparent breakdown of her sister’s marriage. ‘My relationship with Roel just didn’t work out. You mustn’t think that you had the slightest thing to do with that,’ she stressed in awkward protest.
‘Stop trying to protect me.’ Emma groaned. ‘I was a selfish little madam. We’d lost Mum and Dad and I was so possessive of you that you were afraid to even let me meet Roel!’
Registering with a sinking heart that every lie, even one that had once seemed like a little white harmless lie, would eventually exact its punishment, Hilary could no longer look the younger woman in the eye. ‘It wasn’t like that between Roel and me,’ she began uncomfortably.
‘Yes, it was. You put me first and let me spoil your wedding day and ruin your marriage before it even got off the ground. I was horribly rude to Roel and I threatened to run away if you tried to make me live abroad. I came between the two of you…of course I did!’ Emma sucked in a steadying breath. ‘You were so much in love with him. I still can’t believe how cruel I was to you…’
Hilary had to struggle to concentrate on the unexpected angle the dialogue had taken, for the greater percentage of her thoughts was anxiously lodged on the state of Roel’s health. Resolving to sort out her sister’s unfortunate misapprehensions at a more suitable time, she prompted, ‘What exactly did Roel’s aunt say?’
‘That he was asking for you,’ Emma lied, crossing two sets of fingers behind her back as though to apologise for a fib that she hoped would make her sister feel more confident about flying out to be with her estranged husband.
Roel was asking for her? Surprise that was overwhelmed by a surge of pure joy washed over Hilary and, suddenly, she felt equal to any challenge. She would walk on fire for him, swim lakes, climb the very mountains to reach his side. Roel needed her! That knowledge cut through every barrier like a knife through butter. If a male of Roel’s intimidating self-sufficiency could express a wish for her presence, however, he had to be very weak or seriously ill, Hilary decided worriedly. She hurried into her bedroom to pack.
‘But the salon,’ she groaned, rifling the wardrobe for essential clothes and barely able to think straight. ‘Who’ll look after it?’
‘Sally,’ her sister suggested, referring to Hilary’s second-in-command at the hair salon, Sally Witherspoon. ‘You said she was brilliant when you had the flu.’
In the dimly lit hall, Hilary snatched up the phone, eyes an abstracted but luminous grey. The silky hair that framed her oval face shone bright as a beacon. It was that gleaming shade of silvery fairness most often achieved by artificial means. Times without number, Hilary had been forced to explain to disbelieving customers that her hair was natural. Perhaps as an apology for not having had to resort to the permanents and the bleach so beloved of her clientele, she occasionally added a faint hint of another colour to the tips of her hair and this particular month she had employed a pale and delicate hue of pink.
She arranged for Sally to collect the salon keys and phoned another stylist who occasionally came in when things were busy to offer the woman full-time work during her own absence. Those practicalities dealt with, she refused to even think about how all such extra costs would eat into her already tight profit margins. She focused on her sister, Emma, and winced. ‘How can I leave you here alone in the flat?’
‘My half-term break is over tomorrow and I’ll be catching the train back to school anyway,’ her sister pointed out. ‘I hope I can manage that for myself. I’m seventeen, Hilly.’
Embarrassed by that reminder, Hilary gave the sister she adored an emotional hug.
With hindsight, she could only marvel at the difference that time and Roel’s financial rescue package had made to both their lives. She owed Roel so much. In truth, she owed him a debt she could never repay!
Four years ago, the sisters had been living in a dingy flat on a crime-ridden council estate and life had been bleak. Emma had always been clever and Hilary had been determined to ensure that the tragic early death of their parents did not prevent the younger girl from achieving her full academic potential. Hilary had been devastated by a guilty sense of failure when her kid sister had fallen in with the wrong company and started playing truant from school. At the time, Hilary had been working long hours as a junior stylist. She had been in no position to afford either a move to a better area or to spend more time supervising a rebellious teenager.