Master of Passion

Luc smiled down at her from his great height. 'You speak my language, cam,' he mocked and, taking her arm, ushered her out of the terminal to a lethal red car.

She eyed the long, low vehicle warily. She knew very little about motors, but even she recognised the formidable lines of a Ferrari, and she knew they did not come cheap. More and more, she was convinced he must be a big-time crook. The few thousand Luc had demanded from Moya could only be a drop in the ocean to a man who flew in private planes and owned such a car. So why the blackmail? She glanced uneasily at her companion as he bowed courteously to open the passenger door and stood, back straightening to his full height. Maybe he had never wanted the money, only Moya in his bed. As a gangster, he would have no moral compunction about how he got any woman he fancied.

'Get in,' he commanded. Catching her wary eyes on him, he added, 'You will be perfectly safe. I am an excellent driver.'

She did not doubt it for a minute. This dark, arrogant, ruthless man had the uncanny ability to do anything he wanted to do. She was sure of it. Parisa shivered and slid into the car. She was completely out of her depth and she knew it. Quickly fastening the safety-belt, she flicked a wary glance at Luc as he climbed into the driving seat.

'Does your mother live in Genoa?' she asked politely, making up her mind to get through the next forty-eight hours with the least possible aggravation. It was none of her business what he did, or who with, she told herself. The less she knew about him, the better...

'Sometimes, but I have a villa along the coast at Portofino. The party is to be held there.'

'How nice. I have heard of the place—didn't Rex Harrison live there at one time?' she asked, making social conversation.

'I believe so.' Luc cast her a brief sidelong glance. 'But you have no need to pretend with me, Parisa. Save your act for when you meet my mother.'

Right, you swine, I will, she thought mutinously. So much for being polite... For the rest of the journey she stared out of the window, and eventually, as they left the city built on the hillside, she became fascinated by the rugged coastline, the colour-washed stone cottages, and the deep blue of the Mediterranean.

From the warmth of the car she could almost believe it was a summer's day. The sun was shining, the sky was a clear blue, and only the bright green shoots, the fresh buds and the soft unfurling of an occasional leaf on the passing trees told her it was barely spring. The car swung to the left between two massive stone pillars topped off with the sculpted head of lions, and they were travelling up a dark avenue of tall deep green pine trees.

Suddenly the car was in brilliant sun again, and Parisa could not help her gasp of amazement. On what looked like the top of a cliff was the most fantastic villa she had ever seen.

Luc stopped the car and turned towards her. 'You like my home?' he asked, a devilish twinkle lighting his dark eyes, and the smile on his handsome face almost boyish.

It w

as a joke, a fantasy. Parisa could not stop her lips curving in a smile. 'I don't believe it,' she said in awe. Before them was a huge circular pink-washed building with white stone trimming around long, arched windows. Halfway up the wall, at the first floor, a delicate, ornate white ironwork balcony circled the building, beneath another set of arched windows. It was a bit like a lighthouse, but squatter, with a massive arched entrance door. But it was the roof that truly caught the eye: almost white tiles rising to the centre, and another circular room with a domed copper top.

'It looks like a giant birthday cake,' she chuckled. 'I can't believe anyone would build a house like that.'

'Neither could I when I first saw it,' Luc said wryly. 'Some rock star in the sixties designed and built it. The roof-top room is an observatory. Apparently he enjoyed watching the stars as well as being one. I bought it because it is on a prime piece of land, and with the intention of pulling it down and rebuilding, but somehow I fell in love with the place; eccentric and not at all like me... but. He gave a very Latin shrug and a rather wry smile.

Parisa was still grinning as Luc helped her out of the car, and, with a hand cupping her elbow, led her up the marble steps to the great door. Before they reached the top step, the door was flung open, and a magnificent white-haired lady dressed all in black flung her arms wide and Luc, releasing Parisa, stepped into them.

Parisa stared. His little old mother in bad health was almost six feet tall and huge with it. It was obvious who Luc took after, she thought, watching the embracing couple.

'Parisa, darling, allow me to introduce you. My mother.'

Her mouth fell open at the darling, and quickly she closed it again. Taking the last step, she held out her small hand to the old lady.

'How do you do?' she said softly. Her hand was tugged, and before she knew what was happening she was folded against a more than ample bosom in a great bear-hug.

'No formality. You—you, my child, will be my daughter.' And Parisa was soundly kissed on both cheeks before being set free. She looked into the dark, sparkling eyes of the older woman and was touched to see them moist. 'Come. Come inside...'

Parisa did not know how it happened, but within minutes she was divested of her coat and seated in the curve of Luc's arm on a comfortable sofa in a beautiful room, one wall of which was curved with elegant windows. Rich blue velvet drapes, braided and tasselled, shaded the bright sunlight from the soft cream furnishings. The obviously excellent paintings and objets d'art scattered around all screamed good taste and great wealth.

'We must have champagne... a toast... Yes…

Parisa shook her head in an effort to clear her thoughts, and tensed as Luc spoke softly, his breath warm against her ear.

'Remember why you are here. Upset my mother, and I will make you pay.'

Startled by the threat in his whispered words, she glared suspiciously at him. For a moment she had forgotten he was her enemy and had found comfort in his protective arm about her shoulders.

'What do you mean?' she asked, puzzled by his anger.

'I will not allow you to dismiss my mother with a toss of your elegant head. You will accept the champagne and smile,' he hissed with sibilant softness, so only she could hear.

He was wrong about her action. It had not been a refusal, but now was not the time to argue, and, turning, she smiled at the other woman, and in a calm voice said, 'Yes, I would love some champagne.'