Reluctant Prisoner Read online

  Her father shifted in his chair and paused to take a deep breath before he spoke. 'I see,' he said at last. 'And I am most grateful to you, Signor Cabrini. I have no hesitation in accepting your fair and generous offer.'

  'Generous!' The exclamation shot from her. 'I would hardly call Signor Cabrini's offer generous!'

  The dark figure in the chair next to hers swivelled round to look at her. The eyes held hers with an expression of cool superiority. He's actually enjoying this, Tanya thought disgustedly as she struggled to meet steel with steel. It appeals to his sense of power to bring people to their knees.

  'Is that so?' His eyes travelled insolently over her body as he spoke and, automatically, she winced away from him. 'And how would you describe it, signorina?' he enquired.

  She glared at him. 'Hard, and a little soulless—like yourself.'

  To her surprise, he smiled at that. 'And what were you hoping for, signorina? A handout? Did you expect me just to sign a cheque and hand it over on a silver plate?' The expression in his eyes was pure contempt.

  'Of course not!' Tanya started to defend. 'My father would never have accepted such a thing!'

  'That I know.' He swept her argument aside. 'But perhaps his daughter might not have been averse to it. You're used to having things easy, signorina, are you not? To snapping your fingers and being given exactly what you want? Correct me if I'm wrong.' He paused.

  The coolly delivered insult caused Tanya to catch her breath. 'That's not true,' she bristled. It seemed as though the wretched man had done nothing but censure her from the moment she had walked in the door! And she turned to her father, hoping he would back her up. But he wasn't even listening. His head was bent over the sheet of rough calculations that Cabrini had sketched out. He seemed totally absorbed, oblivious. Angrily she swivelled round again to meet the dark, censorious eyes. 'I don't know where you get your information from, but I can assure you your sources are far from reliable. I am not in the habit of accepting handouts. I work for my living, just like you.'

  He gave a low, derisive little laugh. 'I doubt if you even know what real work is. You strike me, signorina, as the type who takes a fairly leisurely and self-indulgent attitude to life. Somehow, I can't see you over-stretching yourself.' A generous sprinkling of sarcasm was in his voice as he pointed out, 'Any daughter who is incapable of returning from a walk to be on time for an appointment as important as this one is to your father today, I would say is not in the habit of putting herself out.'

  Stung, Tanya blinked at him. 'I didn't mean to be late,' she lied. He would only scorn her even more if she tried to explain the reason why.

  He smiled an irritating smile. 'I think,' he said, 'I've made my point.' Then he surprised her by adding, 'I understand you dabble in interior design? Perhaps you were seeking inspiration in the great outdoors?'

  That was unfair as well. Aside from all the other faults he saw in her, he was branding her a mindless dilettante, a gadfly professional beneath his dignity to take seriously. And her professional reputation was something that Tanya held extremely dear. She straightened abruptly in her chair and met his gaze with cool hostility. 'No—but I am a designer, if that's what you want to know. Trained in London and Milan—though, unfortunately, I was unable to complete my studies.'

  She broke off, unwilling to reveal the reasons why. Even now she found it painful to recall that time, that dark day now almost two years ago when Devlin had phoned her in Italy to tell her that her mother, his beloved Natasha, was dead. Killed instantly when a lorry had hit her car just a couple of miles from home. That was when everything had started to go wrong, when her father had started to fall apart.

  But her voice was steady as she went on, 'Regrettably, I haven't been able to develop my career to the extent I'd have liked. You see, for the past two years I've been working with my father, helping him to run the office side of things.' She adjusted the wool dress over her knees and sat back squarely in her seat. She had given a fairly good account of herself, she felt, though the very notion of having to justify herself to this arrogant man was nothing less than preposterous.

  The dark gaze met hers, unimpressed. 'How unfortunate that your filial endeavours have resulted in such a resounding lack of success.' The cruel observation hung between them for a moment like an icy draught. Then he added very pointedly, 'A couple of months with me and you would really know what running a business was all about.'

  It sounded remarkably like a threat. Tanya glared across at him with furiously narrowed eyes. 'I think I'd rather die!' she spat.

  The dark eyes scanned her face, expressionless. Then his lips curved in a chillingly enigmatic smile. 'Tough words, signorina,' he observed. 'Let's hope you will not be required to eat them at some later date. They might prove somewhat indigestible.'

  Precisely at that moment, Devlin chose to raise his head. 'There's one thing that bothers me,' he began, carefully laying the sheet of figures he had been studying to one side, apparently quite unaware that he was interrupting anything. His attention was focused solely on Cabrini now. 'The money that you have offered to lend me. You have no guarantee that I will ever pay it back.'

  A faint smile played at the corners of the firm, well moulded lips and there was not a hint of malice now in the deep, smooth voice. 'I believe you to be a man of honour, Mr Sinclair. I trust you and I have every confidence that you will pay me back.'

  But Devlin straightened in his chair and faced the younger man with dignity. 'I'm flattered by the compliment, but trust and confidence are not enough— not in such matters where large sums of money are involved. I have few really valuable possessions left, Signor Cabrini, mostly paintings and other works of art. But, from what there is, I would ask you to take some piece, or pieces, of your choice as a kind of pledge on my part, a surety against my possible failure to repay your loan.' He paused and regarded Cabrini quizzically. 'Would that be acceptable to you?'

  The dark head nodded. 'Perfectly acceptable—but quite unnecessary, I assure you.'

  'I'm afraid I insist. Before we keep our appointment with my solicitors, I shall show you my little collection. It's mostly in the drawing-room.'

  'No need. The piece I would choose is right here in this very room.' Fausto Cabrini paused and turned to Tanya with an unfathomable smile, and she winced away as he seemed to claim possession of her body with his eyes. Then his gaze slid away and she felt the muscles in her stomach slacken with irrational relief. For one ghastly, giddy moment she had feared he was about to make an outrageous demand! But her relief was painfully short-lived. Cabrini had leaned forward in his seat and was pointing to the little Russian icon that hung on the wall behind Devlin's head. 'That is the piece I would choose,' he said.

  Tanya started forward, eyes flashing determinedly. 'You can't have that!' she burst out. 'That belonged to Grandpa Boris. It's a family heirloom. I'm sorry, Signor Cabrini,' she added, catching her breath. 'You'll have to choose something else.'

  The dark eyes never moved from the little painting. 'It's a very fine example of eighteenth-century Russian iconography,' he offered in a mild voice, as though he hadn't heard a single word she had said. 'It will fit in very well with my collection at home.' And he turned to Tanya with a triumphant smile.

  'I'm afraid you haven't understood.' The tawny eyes flashed a warning at him. 'You can't have it.'

  'And why might that be?' The dark gaze held hers levelly, a hint of mocking amusement in their inky depths.

  'I told you, it's a family heirloom.' She paused and glanced across at the little work of art. Painted on wood in shades of gold and midnight-blue, it was probably Devlin's most prized possession and it had hung there on the wall behind his desk for the entire twenty-four years of her life. It had been a wedding present to her parents from her Russian-born grandfather Boris Karansky— one of the few family treasures the old man had managed to smuggle out of his homeland at the time of the Bolshevik revolution, and a sacred symbol for all these years of Devlin's union wit
h his beloved Natasha. The very idea of allowing it to fall into the hands of someone like Fausto Cabrini was utterly unthinkable!

  Her eyes swept back to the dark-suited figure seated next to her. 'Its value to my family is sentimental more than anything,' she offered, aware of the faintly pleading note that had crept into her tone of voice. 'Nothing could ever replace it. But you're more than welcome to take anything else.' Then, when he simply went on staring at her, granite-eyed, she anxiously turned towards her father for support. 'Tell him he can't have it, Father,' she implored.

  Devlin looked uncomfortable and fumbled vaguely with the papers on his desk. 'I'd really rather you chose something else,' he said, carefully avoiding Tanya's gaze. 'As I said, there are several pieces in the drawing-room that you might like.'

  But Fausto Cabrini shook his head decisively. 'I'm sorry, Mr Sinclair. The icon is what I choose.'

  Devlin pursed his lips unhappily. 'An unfortunate choice, but if you insist…'

  'I do.' Cabrini's coldly implacable expression never changed.

  'In that case…' With a defeated sigh, Devlin rose stiffly from his chair and lifted the little icon from the wall. '… It is yours.'

  Cabrini accepted the little masterpiece without a word, glanced at it only briefly before laying it to one side. And when he raised his eyes again their expression was as detached and businesslike as it had been before. 'Now I suggest we get back to the matter in hand,' he rapped. 'There are one or two points that need clarifying before we keep that appointment with your solicitors.'

  Tanya eyed him with fierce dislike. How could a man like that ever begin to understand what the icon meant to her father? He was undoubtedly capable of assessing most things, and people, in terms of what they were worth in dollars and cents, but sentimental value, she guessed, would be a concept entirely alien to him. And, as she watched the dark brows knit in concentration as he bent over the sheet of figures on her father's desk again, she felt an icy shiver run through her bones. She had been right to call him soulless. That was exactly what he was.

  Be that as it may, she had to admit the man was efficient. In less than a week all the legal loose ends of the agreement had been tied up and the bulk of Devlin's creditors paid off. Arrangements had also been made for Devlin to be flown to a private clinic near Lugano in Switzerland where Cabrini had insisted he would receive the best possible medical care. Tanya had smiled wryly to herself at that. He was prepared to go to any lengths, it seemed, to get her father on his feet again and paying back his wretched loan.

  But at least the insufferable man was out of her hair. Two days after Renata's departure for New York, her brother had flown back to his base in northern Italy, with Tanya's blessing—and the fervent prayer that their paths would never cross again. Once had already been more than enough.

  Now that her father's affairs were settled—at least as far as they could be—she planned to take a much-needed holiday. Perhaps to Austria, where some of her mother's relatives now lived. She had no desire to stay on in the Sussex house alone, and she had been promising to visit her Viennese relations for years. Now was as good a time as any and the break, she felt, would do her good.

  Less than a week after her father had been flown to Switzerland, all her holiday arrangements had been made. Her clutch of cousins and aunts and uncles were all dying to see her, she had been assured, and she was welcome to stay in Austria all summer if she chose. For the first time in months Tanya felt her spirits rise. Her father was still far from out of the woods yet—but the worst of the crisis appeared to be past and she was determined to put her worries behind her for a while.

  On the eve of her departure, as she settled down at home with a frozen pizza and a glass of wine to watch her favourite TV soap, she was feeling more optimistic than she had for quite some time. Tomorrow by lunch time she would be on her way. Free for a couple of months or so of all the recent sad events this house had seen. Free, too, to take some time to sort out in her mind exactly where she went from here. And perhaps, into the bargain, she might even manage to enjoy herself!

  She laid down her plate impatiently as, suddenly, the doorbell rang. Who on earth could be visiting at this late hour? Reluctantly she hurried out into the hall, feeling her temper start to rise as the bell continued to clamour like a fire alarm. Whoever it was had simply stuck their finger on the bell and left it there!

  Suspicious, she paused to peer through the spyhole before opening up—then in instant, angry recognition flung the door wide. 'What the hell do you want?' she demanded between clenched teeth.

  Fausto Cabrini swept past her into the hall with a grim expression on his face. Then swung round to confront her with steely, dark eyes. 'You, signorina,' he informed her with an unpleasant smile. 'I'm afraid your presence is required in Italy.'

  Instinctively Tanya found herself backing away. He had the look of a man whose temper was held on a very short leash. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' she spat at him. 'What the hell do you think you're doing, barging in here, demanding…?'

  'I've already told you why I'm here,' he cut in on a menacing note. 'Just be grateful that I didn't smash the damned door down. I'm not in the mood for bandying words, signorina, so I'll get straight to the point.' He came towards her, the sides of his dark grey jacket flung back as he rested his hands belligerently on his hips. 'There's been an unexpected development, you see— one that demands a slight change in procedure on my part.' He paused less than a foot away from her, his face a smouldering mask of fury as he went on, 'You will recall that your father offered me a pledge to seal the contract that we made? Well, I intend you to be the token of that pledge.'

  Tanya's eyes rounded in disbelief. 'But he gave you the icon,' she protested, wondering wildly if it was all a joke.

  But Fausto Cabrini didn't laugh. The dark eyes narrowed in the harsh lines of his face and his voice held not the slightest trace of humour when he spoke. 'Yes, as you say, signorina, your father gave me the icon. And I, in good faith, accepted it.' He paused significantly before going on. 'But the icon, signorina, as you probably already know—is a fake.'

  Tanya paled. 'A fake?'

  'That's what I said, signorina. A beautiful, cleverly crafted and totally worthless fake.'

  'But it can't be!' Tanya felt her blood grow cold.

  'I'm afraid it is.' For a moment he just stood there, tight-lipped, and raked her face contemptuously with his stone-hard eyes. And a brief panic seized her as it seemed he might step forward and imprison her against the wall. But instead he stepped back and started to move towards the door. 'I have some business to attend to in London,' he rasped, 'but I shall be going back to Italy in two days' time.' He paused with one hand on the handle and spoke the final words of his dictum slowly so there was no danger of her misunderstanding him. 'I shall deny myself the pleasure of personally accompanying you—but make no mistake about it, signorina, when I get back to Italy I shall expect to find you there.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  The sleek, black limousine slowed just a fraction as it turned off the main road and swept smoothly up to the tall, wrought-iron portals that guarded the entrance to the Cabrini estate. The chauffeur touched a button on the instrument panel in front of him and, in an almost imperious response, the huge gates swung silently open to let them pass.

  Tanya felt a little knot of apprehension tighten in her breast. She leaned forward from the rich, deep comfort of the car's rear seat and addressed the back of the chauffeur's head. 'Are we here?' she enquired, managing to sound a lot more casual than she felt.

  The peak-capped head nodded politely in response. 'Si, signorina, siamo arrivati.' He touched the remote control button again and the big gates swung shut behind them with an almost chilling finality. Just like the gates of some prison, Tanya reflected drily to herself.

  She sat back in her seat with a resigned sigh and smoothed the skirt of her cotton dress over her knees. Yes, from the look of things, they had most definitely arrived. And s
he tossed a stray gold curl from her shoulder and smiled a wry smile as she wondered what further little displays of ostentation lay in store for her.

  The wide, gravel driveway was lined with shady poplars, but between the trees Tanya caught glimpses of bright, massed flowerbeds and broad expanses of sunlit lawn. It looked quite beautiful, she acknowledged grudgingly. But then, not even the unscrupulous hand of Fausto Cabrini could despoil the God-given beauty of nature, she reflected philosophically. His powers were mercifully confined to earthly matters.

  At last the Villa Cabrini itself came into view and, in spite of herself, Tanya let out a gasp of pleasure at the sight of it. It was not at all what she had been expecting. Big, yes—but, to her amazement, not in the least grandiose or showy. In fact, there was an almost rustic feel to it with its red-tiled roof and shimmering, pale-stuccoed walls. As though it had stood there on the lakeside as long as the surrounding trees and hills themselves, and belonged there just as naturally.

  The big car drew to a silent halt in a cobbled forecourt lined with earthenware pots full of geraniums. She waited as the chauffeur slid from his seat and came round to open the rear door for her. 'Thank you,' she murmured, stepping outside and stretching her cramped limbs gratefully. The warm June sun felt welcome on her arms after the air-conditioned coolness of the Mercedes.

  A grey-haired woman in an immaculately starched apron had appeared on the steps of the open front door. Fausto Cabrini's housekeeper, Tanya guessed—and obviously innocently primed for the arrival of her unwilling guest. She came bustling up to Tanya now, a broad smile of welcome lighting her plump, cheerful face. 'Signorina Sinclair, at last you are here!' she effused in remarkably fluent English. 'You must be tired after your journey. Come inside and let me show you to your room. Beppe will bring your bags.'

  The woman made a signal to the chauffeur, then led the way into a high-beamed hall whose floor was paved with rosy-coloured marble tiles and strewn with fabulously beautiful silk Persian rugs.