That Devil Love

“I can’t wait to have you in my arms, in my bed, in my life….”

Meeting Zan again was a strange enough coincidence, but that he should feel so strongly about her was incredible, almost unbelievable. Yet Annis had to believe it.

By some cruel twist of fate this man was back in her life and apparently intending to stay. Somehow she had to find a way of getting rid of him now. Tonight. Before this madness had time to grow and flourish….

LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in an English village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy traveling and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going round the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much loved German shepherd. Her hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

That Devil Love

Lee Wilkinson

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘I HOPE you didn’t mind coming?’ Stephen, sounding like an anxious schoolboy, broke into her abstraction.

Annis forced a smile. ‘Of course I didn’t. I’m enjoying it.’

He relaxed visibly, and she thought how sweet he was. Genuinely concerned about her. Easy to fool. With his light brown unruly hair and round toffee-coloured eyes, his chubby cheeks and lack of any waistline, he always reminded her of a big, cuddly teddy bear.

‘Only you’ve seemed a bit quiet,’ he pursued.

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise.’

Mentally isolated from the talk and laughter of a party to celebrate what had been described as a ‘successful merger’, she’d been thinking about Richard. Worrying about him.

‘And you didn’t eat much at dinner.’

‘I wasn’t very hungry.’ That at least was the truth.

Giving up the attempt at conversation, Stephen asked a shade hesitantly, ‘Would you like to dance?’

‘Love to,’ she assured him, getting up from her seat at the table.

She was slim and graceful, with the kind of cool yet stunning beauty that made men stare and women sigh with envy. Wanting to play down that beauty, she wore a simple black sheath, her only jewellery small gold hoops in her ears, a narrow gold bracelet circling her right wrist and a gold watch on a plain black strap on her left.

Her smooth silvery-blonde head, with its elegant chignon, held high, she preceded him on to the hotel’s highly polished floor.

The band had started a quiet, smoochy selection, and as they joined the throng of dancers she found herself asking, ‘How do you think this takeover by AP Worldwide will affect people’s jobs?’

Damn! She hadn’t meant to bring the subject up, but Richard had seemed so jumpy, so worried about his future prospects.

He’d poured out all his anxieties to her, rather than Linda, who, with fourteen-month-old twin girls to care for, was heavily pregnant with their third child.

‘No one’s quite sure yet,’ Stephen admitted. ‘But Power’s a decent bloke by all accounts. Ruthless in many ways, but respected for being scrupulously fair, even generous to his employees, so long as they’re on top of their job…’

So long as they’re on top of their job… Her clear aquamarine eyes troubled, she repressed a shiver. Richard had confessed that, as far as work went, he was often out of his depth and relied heavily on Stephen to keep him afloat.

‘It’s not the kind of job I’m suited for,’ he’d told her, miserably. ‘But there’s nothing else going at the moment so I’ve just got to grit my teeth and hope for the best. I can’t afford to get the sack. The bank are threatening to turn nasty. We’ve a huge overdraft, and we’re badly in arrears with the mortgage.’

She knew they had been having difficulties, but was shaken by the extent of them.

Making an effort, Annis thrust the memory of Richard’s haggard face away and dragged her attention back to her companion who was continuing his panegyric.

‘…He’s only in his early thirties, and you don’t get right to the top at that age without being ruthless.’ Stephen, who was so downright nice it was a miracle he knew the meaning of the word ruthless, sounded admiring.

Annis sighed inwardly. There was a dull throbbing in her temples and she longed for the evening to end. As they slowly circled the edge of the crowded floor, she rested her head against Stephen’s well-padded shoulder and made an effort to relax in his safe, undemanding embrace.

A moment later he was pulling away. Straightening.

Her back to the speaker, Annis heard a crisp, authoritative voice say, ‘Good evening. It’s Leighton, isn’t it? Won’t you introduce me to your guest?’

Surprised, flattered, childishly delighted to be noticed and have his name remembered by the great man himself, Stephen beamed and said, ‘Annis, this is Mr Power, head of AP Worldwide…Miss Warrener.’

Annis, who had dutifully turned and extended a civil hand, stood without moving or speaking, shocked into immobility at the sight of the dark, dynamic man who wore his immaculate evening dress with such panache.

In a tough, unnerving way he was strikingly handsome. Unforgettable. There was no mistaking that well-shaped head of shorn black curls, no mistaking that lean, arrogant, strong-boned face. She knew it. Hated it!

‘Zan Power,’ he said, taking her hand in a light but far from casual clasp.

Zan. It was him! There couldn’t be another man who looked like the legendary Jason and was called something as outlandish as Zan.

‘Warrener—’ He was frowning slightly, winged black brows drawing together over heavy-lidded eyes, the irises a dark green rayed with gold, brilliant against the clear, healthy whites. ‘I know that name.’

‘Richard Warrener, Annis’s brother, works for you.’ Stephen supplied the information. ‘He’s part of my team in the computer think-tank.’

There was a momentary flicker of surprise in those extraordinary eyes, which throughout the exchange had never left the perfect oval of her face. Then he was saying in his attractive, cultivated voice, ‘Ah, yes. Isn’t he here tonight?’

Once again it was Stephen who replied, ‘His wife is having a baby quite soon. He didn’t want to leave her.’

‘That’s understandable.’ Still without removing his gaze from Annis’s face, Zan Power went on with a politeness that in no way disguised the purposefulness, ‘May I dance with your charming partner, Leighton?’

Displaying an unexpected firmness which earned her admiration, Stephen answered, ‘That’s really up to Annis, sir.’

‘Well, Miss Warrener?’ He held her gaze in a long, hard glance. There was no smile in his thickly lashed, feline eyes, no attempt to cajole, just a quiet waiting.

About to curtly refuse, she hesitated, remembering all she owed Stephen, then for his sake said a reluctant, tight-lipped, ‘Of course.’

Half suffocated by the loathing that filled her, and an equally powerful feeling she was at a loss to identify, she moved into Zan Power’s arms.

She was long-legged, tall for a woman at five feet, eight inches, yet still her eyes were only on a level with the cleft in his firm chin. Tense and awkward, she concentrated on keeping her body away from any contact with his.

He held her lightly, permitting the space between them, moving with a lithe grace that seemed strange in so big a man. The kind of grace one might expect to find in a gigolo, she thought with deliberate contempt.

Not a man willing to deal in polite platitudes, he asked, ‘When you’re not with Leighton do you always dance so stiffly, and in silence?’

‘It depends who my partner is; how much I’m enjoying the occasion.’ Her voice was cool, composed, belying the red-hot hatred that seethed inside.

They completed the circuit before he attacked from a different angle. ‘Do you enjoy parties as a rule?’

‘Yes,’ she lied.

‘But you’ve disliked every minute of this one.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I’ve been watching you.’

When, repressing a shiver, she made no reply, merely continued to move her feet and stare at his black bowtie, he asked with a kind of wry curiosity, ‘Why did you come tonight?’

‘Because Stephen wanted me to.’ She was aware, without even glancing at the man who held her so lightly yet so inescapably, that he was annoyed by her answer.

‘And do you always do what Leighton wants?’

Goading the man who reminded her of a sleek black panther, she said, ‘Whenever possible.’

‘What is he to you? Friend? Lover?’

‘So long as our relationship, whether it’s merely platonic or more than that, doesn’t disturb his work, I really don’t consider that it’s any of your business.’

Tawny green eyes caught and held aquamarine, his very look a threat. ‘I intend to make it my business.’

‘You surely can’t want to control the lives of all your employees?’ she protested incredulously.

‘I don’t.’

‘Then what makes Stephen special?’

‘You do.’

A sudden shiver of something closely akin to fear ran through her.

Softly, he went on, ‘I won’t tolerate anything other than friendship between you.’

‘Won’t tolerate…!’ Anger mingled with alarm.

‘So if by any chance it is more than that—’ his face was steely, his mouth a hard line ‘—for everyone’s sake I advise you to put an end to it at once.’

‘You must be out of your mind!’

Ignoring her choked words, he added, ‘However, I don’t think it is. You have the look about you of a Snow Queen, as if no man has been able to melt the ice and turn you into a real woman.’

‘I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that a man might have caused that ice to form, made me—as you so fancifully put it—like a Snow Queen?’

‘It hadn’t,’ he admitted seriously. ‘But then I don’t know you yet—in either the everyday or the old Biblical sense of the word.’

As her aquamarine eyes widened, he added with cool certainty, ‘Though I fully intend to.’

Heart thudding against her ribs, she somehow dragged her gaze away. As well as angry, she felt scared, threatened. Which was ridiculous.

‘I don’t go in for casual affairs,’ she said haughtily.

‘A casual affair was the last thing I had in mind. I mean to have and to own you completely.’

The calm statement stopped her breath, as though a noose made of fear and fury had tightened around her slender throat.

But however much she abhorred and resented his brand of cool sexual arrogance, it could well hold a fatal fascination for some women.

Was that how he’d managed to bewitch Maya?

‘No comment?’ he queried, with a lift of one black, mobile brow.

Trying to hide how rattled she was, she said dismissively, ‘I’ve already stated that I think you’re insane, Mr Power.’

‘Zan.’

‘An unusual name.’

‘My young sister couldn’t say Alexander and, probably because it was less of a mouthful, her version stuck.’

‘I presumed you’d chosen it specially to go with the image.’ Before he could react to the taunt, she drew back and, lifting her chin, said disdainfully, ‘If you’ll excuse me now? I’m feeling rather tired.’

Turning away, she was about to leave him standing when his hand shot out and closed round her wrist like a steel fetter.

She froze into immobility.

Silkily, he said, ‘I’ll see you back to your table, Miss Warrener.’ Releasing her wrist, he put a hand at her waist, his light, cool touch burning through the thin fabric of her dress like a brand.

Stephen rose to his feet as they approached, his brown eyes a little apprehensive, as if he half expected a ticking off for his guest’s unsociability.

Instead, Alexander Power said pleasantly, ‘I’ll be in your managing director’s office tomorrow morning at half-past eight. Come and see me there. You can give me a better idea of what exactly your team are doing. Goodnight, Leighton,’ then, with a slight inclination of his black, imperious head, ‘Au revoir, Miss Warrener.’

Why that deliberate au revoir? she wondered apprehensively, as Stephen gazed with a kind of pleased awe after the tall, striking man making his unhurried way back to the top table.

Concealing her disturbed state as best she could, she asked, ‘Would you mind very much if we left now?’

Stephen, who had been waiting for her to resume her seat, said with his usual good-natured compliance, ‘Not if you want to go.’ All the same, he looked disappointed.

Feeling guilty because she knew he was human enough to want to bask in the coveted glory of being singled out by the big boss, she explained, ‘I’ve got a nasty headache.’

He peered at her. ‘You do look rather pale.’ Putting an arm around her waist—his clumsy concern in direct contrast to that other light but sure touch—he shepherded her towards the door. ‘I’ll fetch the car round while you get your coat.’

Though she refused to look in his direction, Annis felt Zan Power’s predatory green-gold eyes fixed on her and an uncontrollable shudder ran through her slender frame.

As they left the sumptuous Piccadilly hotel and drove towards Belgravia, still on a high, Stephen marvelled, ‘Fancy Mr Power remembering me! He’s only seen me a couple of times, quite briefly. Of course he has a reputation for being a remarkable man…

‘You’d never think it, to meet him now and hear him speak, but he came originally from the back streets of Piraeus, with a Greek mother and an English father.’

So he was half Greek… That accounted not only for Zan Power’s looks but also for the almost imperceptible foreignness that lent such dark sorcery to his low-pitched voice.

But Stephen was going on, ‘His mother died when he was about eleven and his father returned to England with the five children of the marriage. When he was barely eighteen his father was killed in an accident. The Social Services were going to split the family up, but he fought like a demon to keep them together.

‘His brothers and sisters were all younger than him, but somehow he managed to support and educate them while he clawed his way to the top.’

Disturbed and agitated, unwilling to hear anything good about a man she detested, and aggravated by the open admiration, almost reverence, in Stephen’s voice, Annis said sharply, ‘If you’ve only met him twice, and briefly, I’m surprised he had time to tell you all that.’

Startled by her unusual irritability, Stephen explained sheepishly, ‘He didn’t tell me. One of the papers got hold of his life story. Zena Talgarth, the journalist who wrote it, described him as “a man’s man but a woman’s darling”.’

She was probably in bed with him at the time, Annis thought acidly. Aloud, she remarked, ‘I suppose cheap publicity and women fawning over him gives someone like Zan Power a kick… I feel sorry for his poor wife.’

Stephen shook his shaggy head. ‘He’s not married and never has been…’

Not married… Annis’s silky brows, several shades darker than her hair, drew together in a frown. She could have sworn that Maya, in one of her last incoherent ramblings, had talked about a wife and family…

‘…And according to the grapevine,’ Stephen went on, ‘he was furious about that newspaper article. He’s a man who guards and values his privacy.’ With a puzzled frown he added, ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’

‘My, aren’t you quick?’ she said sarcastically.

Seeing Stephen’s hurt expression, she was ashamed of herself. ‘I’m sorry, please forgive me.’ Then with magnificent understatement, ‘No, I don’t like him much.’

‘You must have been the only woman at that party who wouldn’t have willingly sacrificed her eye-teeth to dance with him.’

‘If that’s so, it’s a pity he gave me the privilege.’ Her tone was caustic.

‘What don’t you like about him?’

Unused to searching questions from Stephen, she hesitated before saying lamely, ‘He isn’t my type.’

‘I should have thought he was any woman’s type.’ Stephen sounded envious.

She shook her head decidedly. ‘He’s too good-looking, too sure of himself. Far too brash for my taste.’ Her voice rose a little. ‘I hate the Don Juan type who—’

‘He doesn’t have that kind of image.’ Looking a bit surprised by her vehemence, Stephen rushed to defend his hero. ‘Matt Gilvary, his right-hand man, does, or rather did, before he became Mr Power’s brother-in-law. They say he’s steadied down since he was married… But though Zan Power’s no saint,’ doggedly Stephen returned to the point he was making, ‘he’s certainly no Don Juan…’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake can we stop talking about the man?’ Annis burst out.

‘I’m sorry…’

Instantly contrite, she said, ‘No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight.’

Then, wanting to make up for blighting her companion’s happy mood, his pleasure in the evening, she added impulsively, ‘It’s just that I much prefer someone sweet and kind, like you.’

Thrilled at being compared favourably with a man of Zan Power’s ilk, Stephen was still preening himself when, a few minutes later, they stopped in front of Fairfield Court, the three-storey brick building that housed Annis’s ground-floor flat.

Knowing it gave him a kick, made him feel manly to cosset her, she unfastened her safety belt and waited until he opened her door and helped her alight.

As she stepped out on to the pavement a stylish silver BMW, which had been cruising a couple of cars behind them, drew up in a patch of shadow outside the block opposite.

Having crossed Fairfield’s narrow, open frontage with its pair of leafless weeping willows, she opened the door while Stephen hovered by her elbow, his burgundy silk evening scarf hanging loosely around his neck.

Politeness forcing her, she asked, ‘Would you like a quick coffee?’

‘Love one,’ he accepted cheerfully.

Ashamed, because she’d been hoping he would refuse, she switched on the light and led the way into a pastel-walled living-room which held the minimum of modern furniture.

In no mood for him to linger, she made a single mug of instant coffee, strong and milky and sweet, just how he liked it, and carried it through.

He looked surprised. ‘Aren’t you having one?’

‘When I’m headachy, coffee only makes it worse. I’ll have some cocoa when I go to bed.’ And please let it be soon, she prayed silently.

Patting the empty place beside him, he invited, ‘Why don’t you come and sit by me and relax for a while? It isn’t eleven yet.’

Carefully, she said, ‘I know it’s not late, but I’m feeling rotten…’

‘I’m sorry… I wasn’t thinking.’ He downed his coffee in a few gulps and, scrambling hurriedly to his feet, made for the door. ‘I’m nothing but a stupid oaf.’

‘You’re a dear.’ In the open doorway she stood on tiptoe to touch her lips to his cheek.

His ears turning bright red, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her with clumsy fervour.

Though awkward, his kiss wasn’t unpleasant, and she stood quietly in his embrace for a few seconds before gently freeing herself.

‘I’ll call you some time tomorrow,’ he promised, and shambled to his car.

With the utmost relief, Annis closed the door and locked up.

Wanting only the oblivion of sleep, she hurried to get ready for bed, trying not to think of Zan Power. But, filling her mind with an overwhelming hatred, his powerful presence was there, all invasive, his darkly handsome face printed indelibly on her retinas.

As it had been since the first moment she’d set eyes on him more than three years ago.

Then he’d been responsible for destroying almost everything she’d held dear.

For months she’d been obsessed with thoughts of him and, harbouring a fierce need for revenge, had wanted him to suffer as he’d caused her and her family to suffer.

Her anger, her bitter animosity towards the man she’d caught only the one fleeting glimpse of had been so strong, so all-consuming, that it had taken her a long time to wake up to the fact that if she allowed such feelings to go on he’d end up destroying her too.

Making a valiant effort, she’d pushed him to the back of her mind, caused his image to fade, started to win the struggle to put the past behind her.

Until tonight.

Coming face to face with him again out of the blue had brought all the old torment and bitterness flooding back. Undone, in a split-second, everything she’d achieved in the preceding months.

It had also brought her a new and frightening anxiety. Was his stated intention to own her just some macho game? Or had she reason to feel afraid, menaced?

Her head was aching to such an extent that it was difficult to think clearly. But surely in the cold light of day his threat would just seem ridiculous?

She was brushing out the heavy silk hair which fell almost to her waist, gripping the brush until her knuckles showed white, when the doorbell pealed, startling her.

The thought that maybe Linda had gone into labour and Richard needed her to look after the twins sent her hurrying into the living-room.

Though surely he’d have rung her?

As she hesitated, she spotted Stephen’s burgundy scarf lying on the settee, and picked it up with an exasperated sigh. The light was still on so he would know she wasn’t yet in bed. Though why on earth he’d bothered to come back for it…!

A quick glance through the central peephole proved her conjecture right, providing a glimpse of white evening shirt-front and black bow-tie.

She pressed up the catch and unfastened the safety chain, but what she’d been about to say died on her lips as, shock exploding inside her, she gaped at the man filling her threshold.

Before she could make any attempt to collect her scattered wits he’d walked past her as if he owned the place and closed the door behind him.

Looming tall and decidedly dangerous, those amazing green-gold eyes with their thick sooty lashes fixed on her, Zan Power dominated the small room.

Tossing the scarf aside, she asked jerkily, ‘What are you doing here? What do you want?’

His eyes holding hers, he smiled without answering. The irresistible allure of that smile and the certain knowledge that what he wanted was her threw her totally.

Panic-stricken, she cried, ‘Get out! Go on, get out before I call the police.’

Raising narrow black brows, he stood aside so she could get to the phone. ‘Call them, by all means. But what will you tell them? How will you justify such an extreme course of action?’

She stood, trembling in every limb, while her common sense told her she had lost her head and behaved stupidly, given him an added advantage.

Somehow she reined in the runaway panic and, slowly unclenching her hands, admitted, ‘I’m afraid I over-reacted. But you took me by surprise.’

When he made no comment, just continued to stand and look at her, she added awkwardly, ‘It’s getting late and I was about to go to bed.’

She wished she hadn’t said that when his eyes travelled assessingly over her fine Victorian-style cotton nightdress with its long sleeves and high neck, the smooth hair tumbling down her back like pale silk, the bare feet.

His inspection completed, he smiled mockingly. ‘Don’t worry, you’re quite decent.’ Then, briskly, ‘I want to talk to you.’

Zan Power’s voice, clear and low-pitched, with that very faint accent which lent it such devilish charm, sent shivers running up and down her spine.