Master of Passion

CHAPTER ONE

Parisa stealthily wriggled her slender body through the bathroom window, feet first. The window-ledge dug into her flat stomach as she felt around with one foot for the security of the bathroom floor.

Damn! she swore under her breath as water seeped into one trainer. She would kill her friend Moya, if she ever got her foot out of the toilet bowl and herself out of this escapade in one piece.

She must have been off her trolley to agree with Moya's hare-brained scheme to burgle a third-floor apartment in the heart of Mayfair. So what if her friend was being blackmailed? The stupid girl should have had more sense than to pose for some Latin man on a beach in the south of France, wearing only a thong. When Moya's engagement was announced in The Times to the son of a high-court judge whose brother was a bishop, no less, the Latin rat had got in touch with her and demanded money.

With an inward sigh of relief, Parisa felt her feet finally find the floor, and she slipped into the dark room. She stood quietly, allowing her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom and trying to get her bearings. Yesterday, in the cool grey light of a February morning, the plan had seemed simple. Moya had arranged to meet the Italian this morning at his apartment, supposedly to negotiate the return of the photographs, and then she had contrived to leave the lavatory window open. Luckily the man hadn't noticed the open window before leaving for work. As manager of a London casino, there was no fear of him being at home on a Friday evening.

So far everything had gone according to plan. All Parisa had to do was walk across the hall to the sitting-room, and, according to Moya, locked in a drawer of a leather-topped desk were the incriminating photographs. Moya had watched the man put them there that very morning while fearfully promising to pay him the following day. So why now, ten o'clock at night and pitch-black outside, did Parisa have very grave doubts?

Still, the place seemed empty, she told herself reassuringly, and as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark she could see the outline of a door on the far wall. She stepped forward, and froze in horror.

A stream of light beamed across the bathroom from a partially open door at her side. She had almost walked into it. She swore violently under her breath, but the voices she heard were all too audible... Heart pounding with fear, she cowered behind the half-open door. On the opposite wall was a mirror, and in it she saw the reflection of a man. His back was towards her, but the woman standing to one side of him, her arms outstretched, was instantly recognizable to Parisa. It was Margot Mey, a stunning petite redhead and a famous, if not infamous, cabaret singer.

God! What a mess. Parisa's mouth was dry with fear. She was sure she would be discovered any second. She did not dare move a muscle.

'I assure you, Margot, I intended calling you tomorrow, but tonight I had and still have business to attend to.'

The deep, slightly accented voice sent a shiver of horror down Parisa's spine. So this was the 'sleazy little slime- ball', to quote her friend. She might have guessed Moya, in her near frantic state, would get it all wrong. There was nothing small about the man. He must be well over six feet—about six-four, she guessed—and, judging by the breadth of his back, big with it, and he certainly wasn't at any casino, but standing in the bedroom...

'Luc, darling, don't be angry.' Two slender hands curved around the back of the man's neck. 'I couldn't wait to see you. It's been so long; I've missed you.'

Parisa could feel the colour flood up her face. Luc- she had heard that name before, but it couldn't be. She shook her head, dismissing the thought, but felt the sweat break out on her brow beneath the thick black Balaclava hat she had pulled over her fine platinum hair. She had to get out of here, and quick. The couple were kissing, and it was obviously only a matter of time before they fell on the bed behind them. But to her amazement the man deftly removed the clinging hands from his neck and stepped back.

'Not tonight, Margot. I told you I'm busy. I'll see you home,' he said coolly.

'But Luc...

'No.'

Parisa almost felt sorry for the woman, her beautiful face flushed with anger at the man's arrogant rejection, but the fury was quickly masked behind a sensuous smile. 'Turned down by the master of passion himself!' she husked throatily. 'Why, Luc? You know how good we can be, and it's been so long.'

Parisa just managed to stifle a snort of disgust. 'Master of passion'—what a joke! Master of pornography, more like. Couldn't the woman see what a jerk the chap was?

'Maybe, but not at the moment. I will make it up to you tomorrow, I promise. But now you must leave.'

'Does that mean you've reconsidered and will take me to Italy next week for your mother's party? After all, Luc darling, we have been together for almost a year. A very wonderful year,' she breathed throatily.

Parisa almost choked. Had the woman no pride?

'Margot, let's get one thing straight. There is no way I can introduce you to my mother, and you know that. Your affairs have been legion and very public,' he chuckled. 'The whole of Italy, including my mother, saw the picture of you dancing naked on the table in the best restaurant in Rome, with a member of the government as your companion.'

'You mean I am good enough to sleep with, but not to marry,' the woman cut in bitterly.