Jacqueline Baird - Mediterranean Tycoons

It had been her father’s studio apartment for years, but after her mum’s accident he had sold the family home in Bournemouth and bought a three-bedroomed apartment in fashionable Notting Hill.

How he had persuaded her mother to sell the house in Bournemouth—the house her mum had inherited from her parents—Sally had had no idea, but she had reluctantly agreed to go and see the new apartment, supposedly the new family home. It was a top-floor conversion of a large Georgian house, and she’d swiftly realised it was unsuitable for a wheelchair—which to her mind simply confirmed that her father had no intention of ever living with his wife again.

His excuse for selling the house was the cost of keeping his wife in the nursing home. As it was he who had put her there, it did not cut much ice with Sally, but she could not deny he did pay the fees.

Then, to her dismay, she had found herself the recipient of his studio apartment. Her mother had been delighted, and told her it was time she had a place of her own. When she’d tried to refuse her mother had insisted, and told her to listen to her father—he was the accountant, and the property was a good investment. Apparently, giving the studio to Sally was a great way of avoiding death duties in the future!

Sally had then realised how he had persuaded her mum to sell, and it had confirmed in her mind what a greedy low-life he really was…

She had reluctantly moved in ten months ago, when the lease on her old apartment ran out, mainly because her mother had kept asking her when she was going to move.

But to Sally this apartment didn’t feel like her home, and she knew it never could—because in her head she would always think of it as her dad’s sleazy love-nest. A fact that had been brought home to her the first week she’d moved in, when she’d fielded quite a few calls from present and previously discarded mistresses. She had changed the telephone number, but she could not change the fact that a string of women other than his wife had shared the king-size bed.

As a studio apartment it was a superior example, with natural wooden floors, and it was larger than most. The kitchen and bathroom were off the small entrance hall, separate from the main living area which was split-level, with a mini-staircase leading to the bedroom area. She had thrown out every piece of furniture her father had left, including his king-size bed and the mirror over it, and bought a queen-size bed for herself.

She had redecorated completely, in neutral tones, and bought the minimum of new furniture: a sofa, an occasional table, and a television for the living area. In the bedroom she had fitted interlocking beechwood units along one wall, which included drawers and shelves where she could house her books, plus a desktop that stretched the length of one unit. It held her computer and doubled as a dressing table. The other wall had a built-in wardrobe with mirrored doors. The bed had a beechwood headboard, and all her bedlinen was plain white—easily interchangeable. She didn’t need anything else, and she probably would not be there much longer.

She had mentioned to her mother a month ago that she was thinking of trying to sell the studio, telling her she would really prefer a separate bedroom. Her mum had said that would be nice, and the subject had not been mentioned again. But Sally had placed it with a local estate agent the next Monday. She had stipulated that she wanted no sign outside, as she was at work all day and away every weekend and a sign tended to encourage burglars.

She need not have bothered, as she no longer cared whether she sold it or not. Since hearing the doctor’s prognosis for her mother last week she’d recognised there were a lot worse things in life than living in an apartment one didn’t like.

She straightened up and headed for the kitchen, dropping her purse on the sofa on the way. A cup of coffee, a sandwich and a shower, in that order, and then bed.

Checking the water level in the kettle, she switched it on, and, opening a cupboard, reached for a jar of instant coffee just as the wall-mounted telephone rang.

Her heart leapt in panic. It must be the nursing home about her mother, was her first thought, and, lifting the receiver from the rest, she said quickly, ‘Sally here—what is it?’

‘Not what—who,’ a deep voice corrected her with a chuckle, before continuing, unnecessarily identifying himself. ‘Zac.’ And she nearly dropped the phone.

‘How did you get my number?’ she demanded.

‘Easy. Your father told me you lived in Kensington. I wasn’t so obvious as to ask him for your number, but you are in the telephone book.’

Of course she was. Hadn’t she changed the number and registered it under her own name? ‘You looked through all the Paxtons in the book? You must have had to ring dozens to find me.’ She couldn’t believe a man of his wealth and stature would go to so much trouble.

‘No. Surprisingly there are only a few, and yours was the first number I tried. I am just naturally lucky, Sally.’

He was naturally arrogant as well—and what was she doing, bothering to talk to him?

‘Now, about tonight,’ he continued. ‘I’ve booked a table for eight.’ He mentioned a famous Mayfair restaurant.

‘Wait a damn minute,’ Sally cut in angrily. ‘I never agreed to go out to dinner with you. So thanks, but no thanks, I am staying in to wash my hair,’ she ended sarcastically, and hung up.

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she pulled in some deep breaths to control the anger and—if she was honest—the excitement the sound of his deep-toned voice aroused so easily.

The kettle boiled, and she made a cup of coffee with a hand that was not quite steady. What was happening to her? Exhaustion—that was the problem. It had probably lowered her immune system and sent her emotions haywire. Satisfied with the explanation, she made a cheese sandwich with stale bread, but ate most of it anyway and drank her coffee.

She crossed to the bed area, slipping out of her skirt, and she hung it in the closet and headed for the bathroom. She stripped naked, and, dropping her blouse, bra and briefs into the wash basket, turned the shower on to warm. She picked up a bottle of shampoo from the vanity unit and stepped under the soothing spray.

She washed her hair and then, placing the shampoo on the chrome rack, she let her head fall back. She closed her eyes and let the water wash away the grime and hopefully the grimness of the weekend.

Her mother had been pleased to see her, and had declared she was perfectly content, but Sally knew different. No matter how good the nursing home, how great the staff were or how beautiful the gardens, it was still a nursing home. The patients were there out of necessity, because they needed constant care. She doubted anyone, given a choice, would choose it over their own home.

She shrugged off her morbid thoughts, and, switching off the shower, grabbed a large fluffy towel from the towel rail and rubbed her body dry. She towel-dried her hair, deciding not to bother with the hairdryer, and letting it hang down her back to dry naturally. She cleaned her teeth at the basin, and, taking her towelling robe off the hook on the back of the bathroom door, she slipped it on, tying the sash firmly around her waist.

The telephone rang as she walked back into the living room. Surely not Delucca again? Moving to the kitchen, she answered it with a curt, ‘Yes?’

‘My. Sally, who has rattled your cage?’ an old familiar voice demanded.

‘Al!’ She laughed. ‘I thought it was someone else.’

‘Not the guy you were having lunch with, I hope?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘Sally, be careful. I mentioned I had met Delucca to my dad. According to him the man is not the type to get involved with. Apparently, he is an extremely powerful man, admired by a few, but feared by most. He is known as the takeover king and he’s a brilliantly astute businessman. Delucca Holdings is one of the few companies that the recession has barely affected—mainly because he is ruthless at closing down failing companies and selling off their assets. But he’s equally as clever at retaining and expanding the profitable ones. He owns mines in South America and Australia, a couple of oil companies, land and a lot more besides. As my dad pointed out, all tangible assets that, unlike stocks and shares, in the long term can’t fail. As for his private life, not much is known about him except that he has dated quite a few top models.’