Sandra Marton - A Woman Accused

‘But you do, my dear. You know that I’m a friend of Ria’s, that I’m one of your most satisfied clients...’ He sighed. ‘I told Ria she was the one to explain this, but she insisted it should be me.’

‘Explain what?’ Olivia said, her expression cautious.

He sighed again. ‘Ria and I were talking one day. About investment opportunities. She knows I’m always looking for—’ He broke off as the sommelier appeared with a bottle of chilled champagne. Once it was opened and poured, Wright leaned across the table. ‘Ria understands my fascination with investing in small businesses, so when she explained how profitable a small interior decorating studio could be...’

Olivia’s breath caught with excitement. Was this what Ria had been hinting at? Had she found someone with the money to open a shop but not the knowledge? Was Wright asking her to manage such a place for him?

It was almost too good to be true. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

‘Mr Wright—Charles—let me be sure I understand. Are you asking me to manage a shop for you?’

And it was too good to be true, she thought as he shook his head.

‘No.’

Olivia nodded. ‘Sorry.’ She gave him a shaky smile. ‘I thought I must have misunderstood, but for a minute there I could have sworn you said you were going into the interior decorating business.’

‘ You’re going into the decorating business.’ Wright lifted his glass and smiled at her over its rim. ‘I’m just supplying the capital.’

She really was losing her mind, Olivia thought as the man opposite her laughed at the befuddled look that spread across her face.

‘It’s really very simple,’ he said. ‘I told you, I got lots of compliments on my flat, enough so it was very easy to sell.’

‘You sold it? But we just finished re-doing it.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. But my needs changed, Olivia. I needed something a bit quieter, with greater privacy.’ He leaned forward. ‘I didn’t ask you to decorate the new place because—because it had just been done.’

‘That’s all right,’ Olivia said, puzzled. ‘You don’t have to explain.’

‘The point is, each time someone said how handsome the flat was, Ria would think of all the clients you were losing by not having a studio of your own.’ Wright chuckled. ‘So I wasn’t all that surprised when she came up with this idea.’

Olivia put down her glass of wine very carefully. ‘What idea?’

‘She told me you’d tried to get a loan from the bank but they’d turned you down. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘I tried to get loans from several banks,’ Olivia said. Her voice was thready; she cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I don’t see—’

‘Ria suggested I finance your endeavour.’

Olivia stared at him. ‘What?’

‘I told you, I’m always looking for small investments. Well, why not invest in an interior design studio? Ria said, and I thought, Why not?’

A small investment, Olivia thought giddily. Yes, the money she needed would be that, to someone like Charles Wright. A practical gift, Ria had said. A pragmatic one. A downright sensible one...

‘So I asked my attorneys to check things out, and they came up with some figures. Just preliminary ones, naturally, until they’ve had some input from you.’

The man was serious! Olivia stared at him across the table. A studio of her very own, one where she would make the decisions, not Pierre; one where she would take the credit, not Pierre; one where the decisions and the designs would all be hers.

But it was crazy. Insane. Heaven only knew how Ria had convinced Charles Wright to make such a generous offer. She couldn’t accept it, of course; she...

‘...And if you’re thinking this is an act of lunacy that Ria talked me into...’

She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I was thinking something like that,’ she admitted.

‘Well, I assure you, it isn’t. Over the years, I’ve put money into a dry-cleaning shop, a video chain, even a haircutting establishment.’ He smiled. ‘Why not a decorating shop? My accountants tell me that the changing economy has altered people’s habits. They’re spending money on re-doing, rather than on starting afresh.’

‘Yes, but—but you barely know me...’

‘I know your work, and Ria vouches for you. That’s good enough. And it is a loan, Olivia, understand that, with interest payments and a monthly due date and all the rest.’ He smiled. ‘My accountants, and the tax people, wouldn’t have it any other way.’

Olivia blew out her breath. ‘I—I don’t know what to say,’ she whispered.

Wright laughed. ‘An astute businesswoman would simply say yes.’

She stared at him. ‘How did you get started?’ she’d asked Pierre once, and he’d shrugged his elegantly clad shoulders and answered with more honesty than she’d expected. ‘A loan from a wealthy friend,’ he’d said. ‘Without her, I’d probably still be painting peonies on silk scarves.’

Wright drew a cheque from his breast pocket and pushed it across the table. ‘Have a look at this. My people said it would get you started, but if it’s not right, say so. I’d want to see you capitalised properly. If we want the right clientele to find you, we have to set you up in the right location and with the right sort of ambience.’

The cheque was for an amount that made Olivia’s head spin. She stared at it, then at Wright.

‘I—I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘What if I fail?’ She pushed the cheque back towards him, the light glinting off her diamond and gold watch. He stopped the cheque’s progress by covering her hand with his.

‘Ria and I have every confidence in you.’

She stared at him blankly. ‘Mr Wright...’

‘Charles.’ He grinned engagingly. ‘Surely we’re on a first-name basis now.’

‘Charles,’ she said slowly, and then she fell silent. Ria, she thought, I’m going to break your neck. I’m going to hug you to death. I’m going to—I’m going to get up any minute and dance and shout and throw my arms around that stuffy head waiter...

‘Are the funds sufficient, then?’

She nodded. ‘Oh, yes, Charles. It’s more than enough. It’s just that I—I don’t know if I can accept it. I’d feel funny, letting you give me such an enormous amount of money.’

‘What a lovely sentiment. She almost sounds as if she means it.’

The voice was male, the tone soft. But there was no mistaking the coldness of it, nor the undisguised contempt. And there was certainly no mistaking its familiarity.

It was the man who’d bumped into her only moments ago. Olivia drew herself up and gave him a cold stare.

‘You’re not welcome here,’ she began, but then she stopped. The stranger wasn’t looking at her at all, he was looking at Charles—and Charles was looking back at him, his ruddy face gone pale as a sheet.

‘How nice to see you again, Charles,’ he said, but she knew that wasn’t what he meant at all. Charles knew it, too; his hand, still clutching hers over the cheque, tightened until his grip was almost painful.

Olivia cleared her throat. ‘Do you—do you know this man, Charles?’

The man laughed. ‘Do you know me, Charles?’ he said, his voice cruelly mimicking hers.

‘Edward.’ Charles’s voice was a little breathless. ‘This is a surprise.’

Edward gave a sharp laugh. ‘Yes. I can imagine.’

Olivia frowned. Something was going on here, something unpleasant, but what? The stranger was staring at her luncheon companion. She couldn’t see his eyes clearly—they were blue or black, it was hard to be certain which—but it was obvious that they were icy with what could only be described as unbridled hatred.