Rich as Sin Page 2

  Matthew’s mouth flattened. ‘You know what I think about marriage,’ he answered, after issuing further instructions to the waiter. ‘Just leave it, will you, Mama? I’ll go to hell my own way, if you don’t mind. Now—tell me why you wanted to see me. Or was it just to voice your disapproval—yet again?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Caroline uncrossed her silk-clad legs and then re-crossed them again in the other direction. Watching her, Matthew had no difficulty in understanding why his father’s brother was so willing to squire her around. At forty-eight, Caroline looked ten years younger, and Matthew was quite prepared to believe that anyone here today who didn’t know them would automatically assume he was her lover, not her son.

  ‘You know it’s your grandfather’s birthday at the end of the month, don’t you?’ she went on now, and Matthew’s dark brow ascended in disbelief.

  ‘So it is,’ he agreed, after a moment’s thought. ‘I’d forgotten. How old is the old devil? Seventy-one?’

  ‘He’s seventy-two, actually,’ declared Caroline flatly. ‘If you remember, you couldn’t come to his seventy-first birthday because it clashed with—with Melissa’s parents’ anniversary ball or something. In any event,’ she hurried on, not wanting to linger over unwelcome memories, ‘we’d like you to join the family for the celebrations. Apollo’s inviting everyone, and it will look rather odd if you’re not there.’

  Matthew regarded his mother tolerantly over the rim of his glass. ‘As it did last year, you mean?’

  ‘No.’ Caroline sighed. ‘Last year wasn’t so important to him!’ she exclaimed irritably. And then, as if regretting her candour, she added, ‘Never mind about last year. Will you come?’

  Matthew frowned. ‘What’s so special about this year?’

  ‘Well—he’s a year older, for one thing …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And—and—he’s not been well,’ admitted his mother reluctantly. ‘You know how he’s always had trouble with his chest. I think it’s been a little more troublesome than usual, and it’s made him aware of his own mortality.’

  Matthew’s mouth turned down. ‘If he stopped smoking those damned cigars, he might give his respiration system a chance. How many does he get through in a day? Fifteen? Twenty?’

  ‘Oh, not as many as that, surely!’ Caroline looked appalled. ‘In any case, Apollo would say that if he couldn’t live his life the way he wanted to live it, there wouldn’t be much point in going on.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Matthew could see the subject upset her, and decided to desist. ‘Well, I don’t know about this birthday bash. You know family parties aren’t my style.’

  Caroline snorted. ‘The way I hear it, social gatherings of any kind aren’t your style! You’ve become a hermit, Matt. A recluse. You don’t go anywhere—except into the office occasionally—you don’t see anyone—–’

  ‘And where’ve you got all this information from?’ enquired Matthew wearily. ‘No, don’t tell me. I can guess. The admirable Victor!’

  ‘I—may have had the few odd words with your major-domo when I called—–’

  ‘I’ll bet!’

  ‘—but you know Victor cares about you, too. He wouldn’t tell me anything if he didn’t think it was in your best interests.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ His mother gave a resigned sigh. ‘Matt, I don’t want to interfere—–’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  ‘—but I care about you as well. And—and I do wish you’d get this—this infatuation for Melissa Mainwaring out of your system.’

  ‘Right.’ Matthew lifted a hand to summon the waiter again. ‘Shall we look at the menu?’

  Caroline opened her mouth to make a protest, and then closed it again. What was the use? she asked herself impotently, feeling all the pangs of frustrated mother-love as her son turned to speak to the restaurant manager. Matthew was such an attractive man; he had everything to live for. Yet he was allowing a spoilt little bitch, who hadn’t got an intelligent thought in her empty little head, to tear his life to pieces.

  An hour later, as she was enjoying her second cup of coffee, Caroline risked broaching the subject again. As they ate—and she had noticed Matthew had only picked at his food—the conversation had ranged from the previous night’s gala to the preparations for the forthcoming birthday celebrations. It had been the kind of conversation she could have had with anyone. Certainly not the intimate těte-à-těte she had hoped to achieve. Which was why she decided to bring Melissa’s name back into the proceedings. Like a wound that was festering, her son’s infatuation with the woman wouldn’t heal until it had been thoroughly aired.

  ‘And—when are Melissa and her prince planning to get married?’ she enquired tensely. ‘They are going to get married, aren’t they? I’m sure I read something about it in last week’s tabloids.’

  Matthew replaced the cup he had been holding back in its saucer. He should have known better than to imagine his mother would leave well alone. And, of course, she was right. There had been a report that Brigadier Alfred Mainwaring’s daughter was going to marry the prince of some unpronounceable Eastern European country. The nuptials were planned to take place in June, and no doubt Caroline knew that as well as he did.

  ‘Soon,’ he remarked now, meeting his mother’s innocent gaze with cool deliberation. ‘Why? Do you think you’ll get an invitation? How would they describe you? Oh, yes. The mother of the best man!’

  Caroline’s lips tightened. ‘Joke if you like, but you are—or rather you would be, if you’d stop feeling sorry for yourself. I never thought a son of mine could behave so mindlessly! Perhaps you are your father’s son, after all.’

  Matthew’s mouth twisted, and with an exclamation of disgust his mother thrust back her chair and got to her feet. ‘I’m going to my room,’ she declared angrily, and then, conscious of the stir she was creating, she put a steadying hand on the edge of the table. ‘Come and see me tomorrow,’ she added in an undertone, as if regretting her hasty announcement. ‘And think about your grandfather’s birthday. Needless to say, he expects you to be there.’

  Matthew did think about what his mother had said, as he walked back to his apartment. The luxurious penthouse he had bought with his own money occupied the top floor of a tall block of apartments in Culver Mews in Knightsbridge, and although he knew Victor wouldn’t approve Matthew enjoyed the unaccustomed exercise. It reminded him it was too long since he had been to the gym, and that Victor’s obsession with his personal protection meant he had too few opportunities to walk anywhere. And, although it was a cold day, with a threat of rain in the air, the daffodils were out in the park, and the early cherry blossom was already appearing on the trees.

  It reminded him of what Greece was like at this time of the year, and most particularly Delphus, the island where his grandfather had his home. The sprawling villa where he had spent the early years of his childhood did hold some happy memories for him, and it would be good to see Yannis again, and Nicos, and all the aunts and cousins he remembered from his youth.

  But it wasn’t just the idea of obeying his finer instincts, and pleasing his mother for once, that occupied his thoughts as he strode past Hyde Park Corner. It was what his mother had said about Melissa that stuck in his mind. And, although thinking of her with Georgio Ivanov still tore his gut, he was unwillingly aware that she had a point. He should have married her when he had the chance. Goodness knew, she had been eager enough to take the plunge. It had been the one sour note in their relationship, that he had been so unwilling to make their association legal. A lack of commitment was how she had put it, on those increasingly frequent occasions when she had accused him of not loving her enough.

  Matthew pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket. Love! His lips twisted. He doubted Melissa knew the meaning of the word. No one who professed to love someone as much as she had always professed to love him could have fallen out of love so quickly. And he was cynically a
ware that Melissa’s ‘love’ was more probably available to the highest bidder. Oh, he might have been her first choice, both sexually and financially, but Ivanov was offering marriage, and that all-important ring on her finger.

  For himself, he had never felt any urgency to seek that legitimising scrap of paper. What they had had—or rather, what he had thought they had had—was far more binding than a contract that could just as easily be broken. But he was becoming aware that what Melissa had wanted from him was more than his undying devotion. She had wanted security, the kind of security she could only get if he signed on the dotted line.

  So, why should he be so surprised? he asked himself now. His parents’ marriage had fallen apart as much because his father was unambitious as through any character weakness on his part. He had long since learned how convenient his father’s sudden death had proved to be, for, although his mother might sometimes sentimentalise about his passing, she was not her father’s daughter for nothing. All his life, the great god Mammon had ruled his family’s actions. And he had been a fool to think that Melissa was any different from the rest.

  Victor was waiting when the lift doors slid back at the twenty-second floor. As Matthew stepped on to the hushed luxury of the Chinese rug that virtually filled the panelled foyer, the man came to meet him in obvious disapproval.

  ‘You walked,’ he declared, brushing drops of rain from the soft fabric of the jacket his employer slung off, with an impatient finger.

  ‘I walked,’ agreed Matthew, heading for the inner hallway that led to his study. ‘Rob didn’t call, did he? He knew I was having lunch with my mother.’

  ‘Mr Prescott didn’t call, no,’ Victor assured him tersely, and then, with a change of tone, he added, ‘But you do have some mail. The lunchtime delivery came while you were out.’ He adopted an expectant expression. ‘Would you like to see it?’

  Matthew paused, with his hand against the panels of his private sanctum. ‘Now, what’s that supposed to mean?’ he enquired shortly. ‘You know I always glance through the afternoon mail at dinnertime. It’s probably only bills, in any case.’ He hesitated. ‘Or do you know something I don’t?’

  A trace of colour invaded Victor’s bullish features. ‘Now, how would I—–?’

  ‘Victor!’

  The man sighed. ‘Well—there appears to be a letter from Miss Mainwaring,’ he admitted nervously. ‘I thought you might wish to see it. As—as—–’

  ‘As I appear to be drowning in self-pity, right?’ suggested Matthew, tamping down the unwilling thought that Melissa might have come to her senses.

  ‘No, sir!’ Victor was indignant. ‘I just thought—–’

  ‘Where is it?’

  Matthew couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. Even though his common sense told him that if Melissa wanted to come back, she would hardly write him a letter telling him so, he needed the proof. Damn her, he swore savagely. What could she want now?

  Victor riffled through the small pile of business letters and advertising material occupying a silver tray placed on a polished, semi-circular hall table. The letter, with its unmistakable scent of rose petals, was at the bottom, and although he was impatient Matthew didn’t miss the significance.

  ‘Can I get you some tea, sir?’ Victor enquired, as his employer slid his thumb beneath the seal, but Matthew shook his head.

  ‘Nothing, thanks,’ he said, heading back towards his study. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m hungry.’

  Victor looked disappointed, but Matthew couldn’t help it. He had no idea why Melissa might be writing to him, and the last thing he needed was Victor peering metaphorically over his shoulder. To emphasise this point, he went into the study and closed the door, before withdrawing the letter from its envelope. Then, noticing that his hands were shaking, he uttered another bitter oath.

  Indifferent to the somewhat austere familiarity of his surroundings, Matthew rested his shoulder-blades against the door as he scanned the hand-written missive. Melissa’s handwriting had never been particularly legible, and in his present agitated state it was difficult to read the scrawling words. But patience eventually won out over stress, and he was able to translate the gist of the message.

  Amazingly, it was an invitation. Melissa was writing to ask if he would come to a party she and her fiancé were giving, to celebrate their engagement. Apparently, although the announcement had already been made formally at the dinner her parents had given in their honour, this party was to be a much less formal affair, for close friends and acquaintances.

  The air rushed out of Matthew’s lungs in a harsh whoosh. For a few moments, he stared at the letter in his hand, as if expecting it to self-destruct in his fingers. And then, tossing it savagely on to his desk, he bent forward to grip the scarred mahogany with clenched fists. My God, he thought disbelievingly, Melissa actually thought he might attend her engagement party! The idea was ludicrous! And insensitive to the point of cruelty.

  It took him several minutes, during which time he wished he had asked Victor to fetch him a bottle of Scotch, to recover his composure. He should have known the letter was not going to be good news. Melissa wanted her revenge, and by God, she was determined to get it.

  An expletive burst from his lips, and he straightened abruptly, his jaw clenching as he examined how it made him feel. For the first time since she had walked out on him, he felt a healthy sense of resentment. She was deliberately turning the knife in the wound. And she obviously expected him to refuse.

  Poor Georgio, Matthew thought grimly. He doubted he knew Melissa had invited her ex-lover to their engagement party. What an irony! But what exactly was Melissa’s game?

  Of course, it was possible she wanted him back. Matthew’s stomach muscles tightened at the thought. But not on the old terms, he acknowledged, with strengthening cynicism. She had made that plain enough when he’d implored her to stay.

  So what was she trying to do? Play one lover off against another? He gave a bitter smile. It might be amusing to find out. There had always been a latent sense of masochism in their relationship.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘BUT why are you doing this?’ Paul Webster regarded his fiancée with impatient eyes. ‘I thought the café was doing well enough. Why do you need to supplement your income by acting as someone’s skivvy?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’ Samantha Maxwell endeavoured to keep her temper. ‘But you have to understand that this is a new departure. And one which, if it’s successful, could prove really exciting.’

  Paul snorted. ‘Exciting? Working every hour God sends!’

  ‘Not every hour,’ replied Samantha reasonably. ‘Just an odd evening here and there. And it’s not as if you’re going to miss seeing me. You have to visit your clients, and I’ll visit mine.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re crazy!’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Samantha pushed a strand of toffee-coloured hair behind her ear and tried to concentrate on the shopping list in front of her. But it wasn’t easy with Paul baulking her at every turn, persisting in regarding her job as a secondary occupation.

  ‘I mean,’ he went on, as if sensing he was pushing her too hard and attempting to be persuasive, ‘it’s not as if you’re a trained chef, or anything. You’re an English graduate, Sam. You could be a teacher. Instead of which, you’re playing at housewife in someone else’s kitchen.’

  Samantha’s nostrils flared as she looked up. ‘I am not playing at housewife,’ she retorted sharply. ‘And, whether you like it or not, I enjoy what I do. You can’t seem to understand that getting this branch of the business going is a real adventure. And it could be just the beginning of a whole new career.’

  ‘Making other people’s meals!’

  ‘Catering—for people who don’t have the time, or the inclination, to do it themselves.’

  ‘As I said, playing housewife in other people’s kitchens.’

  ‘If you want to put it that way.’ Samantha was growing tired of the argument. She looked refle
ctively around the empty café, with its Austrian blinds and gingham tablecloths. ‘I’d have thought you’d be glad I was making such a success of the business. After all, it was your idea that I open this place.’

  ‘Yes. Because you didn’t know what you wanted to do, when you left university, and the lease was available. If you hadn’t voiced some crazy notion of starting a sandwich-round, I doubt if I’d have suggested it.’

  ‘But you did,’ Samantha reminded him, straightening a silver condiment set, and adjusting a fan of scarlet napkins. ‘And I’m very grateful to you. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Only—well, Mum and Dad were keen that I went to university, and they’d worked so hard to send me there, I couldn’t disappoint them. I’m not sorry I went. It taught me a lot. Not least, what my priorities are, and what I hope to achieve.’

  ‘Success in business!’ Paul shook his head. ‘And all this time I thought you wanted to marry me.’

  ‘I do.’ Samantha turned to him then, her honey-pale features taut with worry. ‘But it’s not the only objective in my life. I need a career, Paul. I really do.’

  Paul sighed. ‘And you think branching out into personal catering is the answer?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t done enough of it yet to find out. But meeting Jenny like that was a godsend. And the contacts I made at her dinner party are priceless!’

  ‘But they’re all in the West End! I don’t like the idea of you driving all that way home in the dark!’

  ‘Oh, Paul!’ Samantha tilted her head to one side, and then, abandoning her defensive stance, she crossed to where he was sitting, and perched on his lap. ‘You don’t have to worry about my safety. I’m a perfectly good driver, and in any case the nights are getting lighter.’