Mistress to a Millionaire

She had had to do this. She stood for some minutes more before retracing her footsteps upstairs on leaden feet. She had had no choice. The decision had been made and it was irrevocable.

‘That was a wonderful meal, Slade. Isabella is a marvellous cook. It’s going to be fantastic to be here for two whole weeks.

Rose’s voice was bright and bubbly and it was clear that Dean was a million miles from her thoughts, Daisy thought wretchedly. Her sister was four years younger than herself and at twenty had recently matured into the slender beauty her plump teenage years had hinted at. Rose looked what she was—young, carefree, happy and beautiful—there were no painful secrets in her past, or bitter memories to disturb her sleep and shadow her days. She was everything a man could want.

And she wouldn’t want it any other way, Daisy told herself quickly with a surge of very real shame. Of course she wouldn’t. She loved both her sisters, deeply, but their jaunty, untarnished vivacity made her feel decades older than her twenty-four years.

And then her gaze lifted from Rose’s cute, flirtatious face and was drawn in spite of itself across the table to Slade, and she found, with a little shock that caused a shiver down her spine, that he was watching her with the same inscrutable look he had worn of late.

She glanced away quickly, turning to make some light comment to Violet who was seated on her other side, but her pale, fragile profile was strained and his eyes did not leave her face for some moments more.

The five of them lingered over their coffee and brandy, and Daisy found it a form of refined torture to sit and chat as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

She had eaten in the formal dining room several times before when Slade had entertained, but tonight the gleaming antique furniture, the glittering crystal, the white damask tablecloth and exquisitely carved, heavy silver cutlery all served to add to the poignancy of her misery as they reminded her she’d soon be gone.

There was her mother, her round pretty face creased in glowing smiles as she sat at Slade’s side. She looked happier and more content than she had in months—in fact since her father had died, Daisy reflected soberly. And her sisters were both clearly having the time of their lives and relishing every single moment. She dared not look at Slade. Since that one time when her glance had locked with his she had studiously kept her gaze either on her mother or somewhere just above Slade’s head.

She had hoped, once the ritual of coffee was over, that the evening would draw to a natural close but she had reckoned without the animated Rose. When Slade politely suggested, at gone eleven, they retire to the drawing room in a tone that indicated he was really expecting they would call it an evening, Rose—ably backed by Violet—seized on the opportunity vigorously. There followed another couple of hours of talk and laughter, mellowed by good music, more wine and Slade playing the perfect host.

At some time in the proceedings—Daisy wasn’t sure when—he had discarded his jacket and tie and undone the first few buttons of his shirt, and he looked good enough to die for. The big muscled shoulders under the dark mulberry silk of his dinner shirt, his narrow waist, lean hips and strong legs were shown off to perfection by the expertly cut clothes, and with his jet-black hair and dark, glittering looks Rose and Violet were blatantly fascinated, hanging on to his every word like two bemused schoolgirls still in pigtails and short socks.

It made Daisy want to slap them. And Slade. It made her want to scream and snarl and spit, which was doubly shocking as she had never considered herself a jealous person. In fact she would have sworn on oath before tonight that there wasn’t a jealous bone in her body, and if anyone had had cause to be jealous she had with Ronald, she told herself stoutly.

The final straw occurred at half past one when Rose, fortified by several glasses of wine and casting all propriety to the wind, insisted on Slade dancing with her to a particular piece of music she insisted was her absolute favourite. It made no difference to Daisy’s outrage that Slade didn’t seem very enthusiastic, Rose having to practically haul him to his feet and force the issue to the point where it was embarrassing; all she could see was her sister’s slender, blonde-capped shape in his arms as the strains of ‘The Way We Were’ drifted on the air.

Right, enough was enough. The effort it took to keep her voice in neutral was painful but she managed it—just, bending down to her mother and Violet who were sitting together on one of the sofas and putting an arm round each of them as she said, ‘I’m asleep on my feet; I’m going up, but don’t let me spoil it for you.’

She felt slightly mollified by Violet’s whispered, ‘Why does Rose always have to make such a fool of herself, Daisy? It was obvious he didn’t want to dance,’ and the apologetic look on her mother’s face, but she just wanted to get out of the room before she burst into tears.

She felt lost and alone and abandoned, she admitted to herself as she called out a brigh

t goodnight to the two dancing, adding a cheerful, ‘See you in the morning; it’s been a lovely evening,’ over her shoulder for good measure as she made for the door.

Lovely evening! She grimaced to herself at the absurdity of the words as she ran quickly up the stairs. How ridiculous! And she was ridiculous too. Slade had every right to dance with whomsoever he pleased, and so did Rose. She had made it clear to Slade she wanted nothing to do with him and she had told Rose the coast was clear on the romance front. She had no one to blame but herself for any of this—if she was feeling miserable she had brought it on herself. But she still hated him! She blinked back the burning tears hovering behind her eyelids. She hated him and loved him and what she was feeling now was a million times worse than anything she had endured with Ronald.

But it didn’t change her mind about leaving Festina Lente and Slade. In fact it was confirmation of everything she had done.

She had just reached her suite when she stopped dead still, her hand on the door, staring unseeingly at the pale light oak wood as the self-knowledge reverberated like a gong.

But it was true. Slade had said he’d fallen in love with her and she believed he cared for her; whether it was the depth of emotion she had for him she didn’t know, but she did believe that he cared. He hadn’t said whether he expected it to last—he hadn’t mentioned marriage or anything like that—but just the fact that he had used the word love meant she had to get away as soon as she could. No. She opened the door slowly as the little voice in her head challenged her to face facts. No, it wasn’t that she had to—she was choosing to go; she wanted to.

She walked across the sitting room and into the bedroom but she didn’t switch on the lights; the full moon outside meant she could see clearly enough and somehow in the shadows it was easier to come to terms with what her head was telling her.

She was a coward; she was too frightened to do what her heart was longing to do and take a chance just in case she had been duped again. If she had the choice of putting herself into another man’s hands—even Slade’s—and having to trust and believe and work at a relationship again, or living life alone—even a life that would be miserable and lonely and cold, but where she was in control—there was really no contest.

She shook her head slowly; she didn’t like to think of herself as a coward but it didn’t alter her mind. Nothing would do that. She wished with all her heart it could be different but…

How long she stood in the moonlit room gazing out over the shadowed garden she didn’t know, but when the knock came at the sitting-room door she heard it immediately. Her brow wrinkled as she glanced quickly at her wristwatch, turning it to a shaft of pale white moonlight to see the time. Three o’clock. Three o’clock in the morning and someone was at the door? It had to mean her mother or one of the girls was ill. Francesco had a buzzer by the side of his bed which was directly connected to her room in case he needed her, so it wasn’t him.

She reached the door in a moment, her heart thudding, and then—in the instant before it swung wide—her intuition, born of her love, told her it wouldn’t be her mother or one of her sisters outside.

‘Hello, Daisy.’ Slade’s voice was soft and low and measured and totally non-threatening, but in spite of that Daisy began to tremble. ‘Can I come in for a moment?’

‘No.’ It was instinctive, and then she qualified quickly, her voice husky, ‘It’s…it’s late, Slade.’ He was going to Geneva in the morning and that would buy her some time—time to tighten the armour, to put more mental distance between them. He was leaving early, before eight—she had heard him discussing his departure with her mother during dinner—and she would make sure she had a late breakfast. ‘I’ll…I’ll see you in the morning,’ she lied quietly.

‘Daisy, this is important. I want—’

‘Please, Slade.’ Don’t talk to me now, she pleaded silently. Please don’t. I can’t take any more tonight and I need to be strong and calm to survive. I’ve dragged myself up from the bottom of the pit of despair and grief to this point and I can’t let it all be for nothing; I can’t collapse now.