Master of Passion

'Positive, dearest,' she simpered, thoroughly enjoying herself. But ten minutes later, back in the car with a darkly brooding stranger at her side, she wished she had not tried to bait him.

The car drew to a halt. The chauffeur got out and opened Parisa's door. She looked across at Luc.

'Here, Monday, ten a.m., and don't forget your ring.'

'Certainly,' she murmured.

CHAPTER THREE

Parisa let herself into the apartment with the key Moya had given her. It was a ground-floor flat in a block of four converted from an old terrace house in Kensington. She went straight to the telephone and ordered a taxi to the railway station.

It had been a stroke of genius, allowing Luc Di Maggi to think she shared Moya's apartment in London. This way, when their brief sojourn on the Continent was over there was no danger of him ever finding her again. Moya was leaving next weekend for her father's house in Norfolk and after the wedding would take up residence in Sussex. If Parisa could just get through the next few days and retrieve the photographs, everything would be fine. It took a matter of minute to pack her clothes. She wrote a note to Moya, assuring her everything was under control and telling her to expect her back on Sunday evening. Then once again she left the apartment.

She breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction some three hours later as the local taxi stopped outside the massive entrance door to Hardcourt Manor. She paid the driver and swiftly ran up the stone steps and into the house. She flung her bag on the battered table in the large oak-paneled hall and shouted, 'Didi, darling, I'm back.'

A small, stooped grey-haired lady appeared from the back of the house. 'You don't need to shout. I am not deaf, my girl.'

Parisa laughed out loud and put her arms around the frail lady, giving her a brief hug. 'I'm sorry, Didi, but I'm so glad to be home.'

'You have only been gone one night. It's not right, a lovely young woman burying herself in the country. You should have stayed in London, enjoyed yourself. Joe and I are quite all right on our own.'

'I know, Didi, and spare me the lecture. I have a dinner date with David tonight.' Parisa grinned. 'And I'm going back to London tomorrow for a few more days' holiday. Your wish is answered. Satisfied?'

'Certainly, but what's this?' and, grasping Parisa's hand, she eyed the huge ring.

Parisa flushed and pulled her hand free. 'Nothing— I bought it for fun,' she mumbled.

'Hmmph. Some fun. You should get a man to buy you jewels, a lovely girl like you. I can't see David Brown exactly sweeping you off your feet.'

'Please, Didi, don't start.' David was not her housekeeper's idea of a matrimonial prospect. She considered the man far too tame. 'Be a dear, I'm gasping for tea.' Parisa, blue eyes shining, watched the little old lady disappear through the door at the back of the stairs. She knew what Didi meant, though. David was thirty years old. He lived with his mother in Battle, and Parisa had been dating him for about a year. They shared a meal together or visited the theatre in Brighton about once a month, and they both looked after the scout troop. He was tall and fair—quite handsome in fact. Parisa liked him because he was a good conversationalist and a fine friend. He was not a demonstrative man, and the goodnight kisses they shared were warm and comforting, but not in the least threatening. Nothing like Luc Di Maggi's passionate embrace... The errant thought flashed in her mind, but she quickly squashed it.

Parisa ran lightly up the stairs. God knew what Didi would say if she knew the truth! Parisa thought wryly. She was going off to Italy with a man, and a villain to boot... But hopefully Didi would never find out, and, pulling the ring from her finger, she dropped it in her bag.

Didi was the housekeeper, but more like a mother to Parisa. When her own parents died, her guardians were the family solicitor and her grandmother. After the death of her grandmother, only months after that of her parents, the solicitor had quite happily left the young girl in Didi's care. Parisa loved her dearly and would never do anything to hurt her.

Parisa's smooth brow creased in a worried frown as she reached the top of the staircase and automatically avoided the tattered part of the stair carpet. If her solicitor did not come up with a solution soon, the house was liable to fall down around her head, she mused, and what would become of Didi and Joe? Parisa loved being a sports teacher, but the salary was nowhere near enough to support the crumbling manor and its inhabitants. Mr Jarvis was a kindly old man, but she sometimes wished he hadn't waited until she was twenty-one and had finished college before explaining fully the desperate state of her finances. It was a huge responsibility, being the last living Hardcourt and custodian of the old manor house and the old couple...

Later, after sharing an evening meal with David at a small hotel in Hailsham, and with the lingering taste of his goodnight kiss on her lips, Parisa, feeling warm and reasonably content, stripped off her clothes in her bedroom. Pulling a wool nightshirt over her head, she scrambled quickly into the huge four-poster bed, and snuggled down under the layers of blankets. Experience had taught her that warmth was something to be conserved in a house where the ancient central heating went out with the fire and the blustery February winds whistled through every nook and cranny of the old building.

She closed her eyes, and for a moment an image of a dark-haired black-eyed man lingered in her mind. She touched a finger to her lips, but it wasn't David's kiss she recalled, but the fierce passion of Luc Di Maggi's lips. She shivered, but not with the cold. She wondered what Luc was doing now, and remembered Margot Mey. She knew exactly what Luc was doing, and told herself she was glad. It would make the next few days much easier for her...

She stood on the pavement: a tall, slender girl, her long blonde hair swept back and tied with a bright blue silk scarf at her nape, to fall down past her shoulder-blades in a swathe of silver gilt. The colour of the scarf matched the brilliant blue of her eyes and the crew-necked sweater that peeped from the lapels of a soft camel overcoat. The coat was wrapped firmly around her narrow waist and held with a matching belt. On her feet she wore cream leather flat-heeled boots, and over her shoulder was slung a matching handbag. On the ground at her side stood a battered but obviously good leather suitcase.

Parisa stamped her feet against the cold and also to ease the tension. She had suggested last night that Moya might like to make one last appeal to Luc Di Maggi, but her friend had flatly refused even to see the man, and after her friend's crying bout Parisa had given up pursuing the idea. Which was why she was waiting on the pavement instead of in the apartment: Moya was frantic at the thought of Luc even reaching the door.

She glanced at the slender gold watch circling her wrist. Five past ten—he was late. Her eye caught the flashing ring on her finger; it was too large for her one decent pair of kid gloves to fit over, and her hand was freezing. Served her right, she thought, smiling wryly.

'Admiring your ring, Parisa?' The deep, melodious voice made her jump with fear. She swirled around, her eyes widening as she looked up into the handsome face of Luc Di Maggi. He caught her arm, as she would have stepped back into

the road. 'Careful, Parisa,' he said curtly, pulling her back against him so that she landed flat against his broad chest. 'I don't want to see you run over; at least, not before you fulfill your part of our bargain.'

'You're late,' she said angrily, staring up at him in frustration. Why did she always seem to end up in his arms? She hadn't even noticed the car pull up a few yards away...

A brief smile curled his lips. 'Did you miss me?' He raised one eyebrow mockingly and, turning her in his arms, he caught her bare hand in his, and with fluid ease picked up her suitcase with his free hand.

She had finally run out of time and choices. With her small, cold hand quickly warming beneath the pressure of his long fingers, she meekly followed him. She cast a surreptitious glance at the man by her side. He was looking straight ahead. His handsome profile looked as though it were hewn out of granite. A dark navy overcoat fitted snugly across his wide shoulders, the collar turned up at his neck against the chill of the morning, the heavy wool falling in a smooth flow to mid calf. His black hair, his dark eyes, the tanned complexion, his smooth, arrogant stride, even his clothes all cried macho Italian male. Uneasily she recalled the rumours at school about Tina, the girl with the Mafia connections!

It was just stupid schoolgirl gossip, she told herself reassuringly, but, as she stood by the long black limousine while the chauffeur packed her case in the boot she wasn't so sure.