The pitiful thing, Talia thought bleakly, was that whereas she was painfully aware of that bleak truth, her mother persisted in believing the fiction that he was devoted to them. She made endless excuses for him—the pressure of work, the demands of his business, he was doing it all for them. But Talia knew that her father was devoted only to one person and one cause: himself.
She and her mother were merely possessions—props to make him look good. Her mother, Maxine, was expected to be a glittering society hostess, and she was to be the decorative dutiful daughter, working for him as his interior designer, overseeing the refurbishment of his property purchases as he directed, and available on demand for the endless social functions he required her to attend. In exchange she was allowed to live rent-free in one of his many London flats, with an allowance to cover her wardrobe expenses.
Talia’s eyes shadowed again. The world saw her as a pampered princess, her daddy’s darling—but the reality was brutally different. She was a pawn in the ruthless power game at which her father excelled as he controlled every aspect of her life with an iron fist.
To get any time away from his demands was precious to her. Like tonight. On an impulse that was quite unlike her, she’d taken up a casually worded invitation from someone she knew in the world of interior design to come to this party. It was not her usual scene at all. Typically, on the rare nights she had to herself, she stayed in, or occasionally went to a concert or the theatre, either on her own or with a girlfriend.
Never with a man.
She never dated. Only once had she indulged in an affair, in her early twenties, but her father had ruthlessly used his influence to ruin the young man’s career, and then told Talia what he had done. She had learnt her lesson.
Now, at twenty-six, it was hard to accept that she could never indulge in a relationship of her own choosing. All around her partygoers were mingling with each other, dancing, flirting, hooking up. Restlessness filled her.
How long can I endure my life as it is?
Never had the gilded cage she lived in seemed more unbearable. Never had she felt so trapped, so stifled. Never had she felt more desperate to escape.
And tonight, dear God, she would escape it. She would immerse herself in the party and dance the night away. Her mother was at the Thames-side mansion, her father abroad—probably with one of his mistresses.
The longer he was away the better!
She took a breath, plunging forward. Through the crush she could see, way across the huge room, beneath the iron girder rafters of the loft apartment and the steel columns dividing up the space, an area that had been set up as a bar.
As she made her way towards it, squeezing past people, she could feel male eyes on her. It was a familiar feeling—all her life she’d known that her glorious chestnut hair, tawny eyes, fine-boned features and flawless skin were part and parcel of the image her father wanted her to present to the world, reflecting well on himself for having a beautiful ornamental daughter to show off.
Usually she dressed at his diktat, in suits and dresses that were too fussy for her own taste. But tonight she was defying his rules. She gave her head a little shake, feeling her long hair, loosened from its customary upswept style, snaking lushly down over her bare back, framing her face. She’d used more make-up than she usually did, accentuating her eyes, her cheekbones, her rich red mouth.
The strapless dark burgundy dress she was wearing—shorter than she typically wore, and far more figure-hugging—had been an impulse purchase that afternoon, bought from a second-hand designer boutique she favoured because it helped her spend less of her allowance than her father realised, and little by little she could squirrel away some funds into a personal bank account he could not monitor. Just in case one day she could make a break for freedom...
She yanked her mind from that tantalising, though as yet hopeless dream, and focussed on reaching the bar. She could feel her hips sway as she stalked forward on vertiginous five-inch heels. Reaching the bar, she paused, resting her lavishly braceleted wrists on the downlit surface. She wanted a drink. Not to get drunk, but simply to signal to herself that tonight she was going to please herself. Let go a little. Lighten the endless crushing pressure of her life.
Live a little for herself, just for once.
‘White wine spritzer, please,’ she said, and smiled at the barman.
‘And a sloe gin for me, please, while you’re at it.’
The voice that had spoken behind her was deep and very slightly accented. She found herself half turning—and then stilled.
The man standing there was tall—easily six foot plus—and without her volition Talia felt her eyes widening in raw, female appreciation. It was an instinctive, visceral response to what she was seeing.
Dark hair, dark eyes, tough jaw, a blade of a nose and a sculpted mouth, wide shoulders, a broad chest, narrow hips, and long, long legs...
The man’s gaze flicked from the barman to her, and an even more visceral reaction swept through her. In the assessing sweep of his eyes she saw instantly—felt tangibly—that he liked what he was seeing and was making no attempt to hide it. He let his dark gold-flecked eyes rest on her almost with a sense of entitlement, and she felt an answering quiver go through her that was shocking in its intensity.
It was as if he knew she would welcome his blatant approval of her appearance. As if he knew she would return it. As if he had no idea that she was Gerald Grantham’s daughter, who was never free to follow her own impulses, whatever they might be. Whatever a man like this might incite in her...
She felt a strange quiver go through her, a flush of heat rush up her body—of which she had become suddenly, vividly aware beneath his dark assessing gaze. She was conscious of the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the expanse of shoulders and throat exposed to his gaze and the wanton fall of lush hair down her naked back...
She felt her breath catch—half in shock at her own uncontrollable reaction, half in unstoppable response to the way this man was looking at her. She knew her pupils were dilating as part of her instant, overpowering reaction to his physical appeal, and there was nothing she could do to disguise it.
What is happening?
The words seared across her consciousness. This was like nothing she had ever experienced! Not even with the one lover she had ever had.
She saw him complete his appraising sweep of her, and then he was rea
ching out a hand to close it around the ice-dewed tumbler being set down for him on the bar, raising it to his mouth in a leisurely fashion.