Annie West - An Enticing Debt to Pay

For years his father had been a thorn in his side, a blot on the family—living in gaudy luxury with his scheming mistress. They’d flaunted themselves among the rich and notorious, uncaring of any hurt they’d caused. When Piers died Jonas had felt nothing—neither regret nor an easing of the tension that had gripped him since Piers’ defection had taken its ultimate toll. He’d expected to feel something. For weeks there’d been nothing, just an emptiness where emotion should have been. Yet now—

‘Not my father then.’ His voice was calm, belying the raw emotions churning in his gut. Beneath the desk his hands clenched.

‘No. We’ve traced the perpetrator. And she’s not too clever, given the obvious anomaly with the date.’ Barker spoke quickly, obviously eager to get this over. ‘It was a Ms Ruggiero. Living at this address in Paris.’

Barker handed over another paper. It bore the address of the exclusive apartment Piers Deveson had shared for the last six years with his mistress, Silvia Ruggiero.

Jonas paused before reaching out to take the paper. His fingers tingled as if it burned him.

‘So.’ Jonas sat back. ‘My father’s whore thinks she can continue to milk his family even after his death.’ His voice was devoid of emotion, but he felt it deep inside like the burn of ice on bruised flesh.

How could the woman think she’d get away with this after all she’d done to the Devesons? Surely she wasn’t stupid enough to expect mercy?

His pulse thudded as he thought of the woman who’d destroyed so much.

He remembered Silvia Ruggiero as clearly as if he’d seen her yesterday, her voluptuous figure, flashing eyes and froth of dark hair. Sex on legs, one of his friends had said the first time he’d seen Silvia, who was then the Devesons’ housekeeper. And he’d been right. Not even a drab uniform had doused the woman’s vibrant sexuality.

That had been mere weeks before Jonas’ father had turned his back on family and responsibility, let alone respectability, by running off with his housekeeper to set her up in a luxury Paris apartment.

Four months later Jonas’ mother was found dead. An accidental overdose, the coroner had said. But Jonas knew the truth. After years spurned by the man she’d loved, his public repudiation had finally been too much. His mother had taken her own life.

Jonas breathed deep, pulling oxygen into cramped lungs. Now the woman responsible for his mother’s death had struck again. She had the nerve to think she could continue to steal from him!

The paper in his hand crackled as his fist tightened slowly, inexorably. Fury surged, tensing every sinew. His jaw ached as he clenched his teeth against a rising tide of useless invective.

Jonas never wasted energy on words when actions were so much more effective.

For six years he’d spurned the idea of revenge. He’d risen above that temptation, burying himself in work and refusing any contact with Piers or his gold-digging mistress.

But now this—the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The blood raced hot and sharp in his veins as for the first time Jonas allowed himself to contemplate fully the pleasures of retribution.

‘Leave this to me, Charles.’ Jonas smiled slowly, his facial muscles pulling tight. ‘There’s no need to report the fraud. I’ll sort it out personally.’

* * *

Ravenna surveyed the apartment in despair. Most of the furnishings she knew now were fake, from the gilded Louis Quinze chairs to the china masquerading as period Limoges and Sèvres.

Mamma had always been adept at making ends meet, even through the toughest times.

A reluctant smile tugged Ravenna’s lips. Life in a swanky apartment in the Place des Vosges, one of Paris’s premier addresses, hardly counted as tough, not like the early days of Ravenna’s childhood when food had been scarce and the winters cold without enough blankets or warm clothes. But those early experiences had stood her mother in good stead. When the money began to run out she’d methodically turned to replacing the priceless antiques with copies.

Silvia Ruggiero had always made do, even if her version of ‘making do’ lately had been on a preposterously luxurious scale. But it was what Piers had wanted and in Silvia’s eyes that was all that mattered.

Ravenna tugged in a shaky breath. Her mother was far better off in Italy staying with a friend, instead of here, coping with the aftermath of Piers’ death. If only she’d told Ravenna straight away about his heart attack. Ravenna would have been here the same day. Even now she could barely believe her mother had kept that to herself, worrying instead about disturbing Ravenna with more trouble!

Mothers! Did they ever believe their children grew up?

Silvia had been barely recognisable when Ravenna had arrived in Paris from Switzerland. For the first time her gorgeous mother had looked older than her age, worn by grief. Ravenna was concerned for her. Piers might not have been Ravenna’s favourite but her mother had loved him.

No, Mamma was better off out of this. Packing up here was the least Ravenna could do, especially after Piers’ generosity when she most needed it. So what if it meant facing creditors and selling what little her mother had left?

She returned to her inventory, glad she’d organised for an expert to visit and separate any valuable items from the fakes. To Ravenna they all looked obscenely expensive and rather ostentatious. But since her home was a sparsely furnished bedsit in a nondescript London suburb, she was no judge.

* * *

Jonas pressed the security buzzer a second time, wondering if she was out and his spur of the moment trip to Paris had been an impetuous waste of time.

He didn’t do impetuous. He was methodical, measured and logical. But he also had a razor-sharp instinct for weakness, for the optimum time to strike. And surely now, mere weeks after Piers’ death, his father’s mistress would be feeling the pinch as creditors started to circle.

Static buzzed and a husky, feminine voice spoke in his ear. ‘Hello?’

Yes! His instinct had been right.

‘I’m here to see Madam Ruggiero.’

‘Monsieur Giscard? I was expecting you. Please come up.’

Jonas pushed open the security door into a marble foyer. He ignored the lift and strode up the couple of floors to what had been his father’s love nest. Suppressing a shiver of revulsion, he rapped on the door of the apartment.

It swung open almost immediately and he stepped past a slim young woman into a lavishly furnished foyer. Through an open door he glimpsed an overfull salon but no sign of the woman he’d come to see. He moved towards the inner room.

‘You’re not Monsieur Giscard.’ The accusation halted him.

He swung round to find eyes the colour of rich sherry fixed on him.

‘No. I’m not.’

For the first time he paused to survey the woman properly and something—surprise?—rushed through him.

Slim to the point of fragility, she nevertheless had curves in all the right places, even if they were obscured by ill-fitting dark clothes. But it was her face that arrested him. Wide lush mouth, strong nose, angled cheekbones that gave her a fey air, lavish dark lashes and rather straight brows framing eyes so luminous they seemed to glow. Each feature in her heart-shaped face was so definite that together they should have jarred. Instead they melded perfectly.

She was arresting. Not pretty but something much rarer. Jonas felt his pulse quicken as heat shot low in his body.

He stiffened. When was the last time the sight of a woman, even a uniquely beautiful one, had affected him?

‘And you are?’ She tilted her head, drawing his gaze from her ripe mouth to the ultra-short sable hair she wore like a chic, ruffled cap. Another few weeks and she’d have curls.