Her heart started to pound. Stepping closer, she reached out with one trembling hand and touched the frame lightly, and then her eyes made a slow tour of the walls. She felt light-headed—as though she had woken up in dream. There were two Picassos—pink period—a delightfully exuberant Kandinsk
y, a Rembrandt portrait that would have sent Edmund into a state of near ecstasy, and a pair of exquisite Lucian Freud etchings of a sleeping whippet.
She was still in a state of moderate shock when an amused-sounding voice behind her said softly, ‘Please—take a closer look. I’m afraid the poor things get completely ignored by the rest of us.’
Prudence turned scarlet. To be caught snooping around someone’s sitting room like some sort of burglar was bad enough, but when that someone was your host, and one of the richest men in Europe, it was mortifying.
‘I’m so—so sorry,’ she stammered, turning round. ‘What must you...?’ The remainder of her apology died in her throat, the words colliding into one another with a series of shuddering jolts as her world imploded. For it was not Janos Almasy de Zsadany standing there but Laszlo Cziffra.
Laszlo Cziffra. Once his name had tasted hot and sweet in her mouth; now it was bitter on her tongue. She felt her insides twist in pain as around her the room seemed to collapse and fold in on itself like a house of cards. It couldn’t be Laszlo—it just couldn’t. But it was, and she stared at him mutely, reeling from the shock of his perfection.
With his high cheekbones, sleek black hair and burning amber eyes, he was almost the same boy she had fallen in love with seven years ago: her beautiful Romany boy. Only he most certainly wasn’t hers any more; nor was he a boy. Now he was unmistakably a man: tall, broad-shouldered, intensely male, and with a suggestion of conformity that his younger self had lacked. Prudence shivered. But it was his eyes that had changed the most. Once, on seeing her, they would have burnt with the fierce lambent fire of passion. Now they were as cold and lifeless as ash.
She felt breathless, almost faint, and her hand moved involuntarily to her throat. Laszlo had been her first love—her first lover. He had been like sunlight and storms. She had never wanted anything or anyone more than him. And he had noticed her. Chosen her with a certainty that had left her breathless, replete, exultant. She had felt immortal. The knowledge of his love had swelled inside her—an immutable truth as permanent as the sun rising and setting.
Or so she’d believed seven years ago.
Only she’d been wrong. His focus on her—for that was what it had been—had burnt white-hot, fire-bright, and then faded fast like a supernova.
Prudence swallowed. It had been the ugliest thing that had happened to her. After the fierce bliss of what she’d believed was his love, that disorientating darkness had felt like death itself. And now, like a ghost from paradise lost, here he was, defying all logic and reason.
Surely he couldn’t be real? And if he was real then what was he doing here? It didn’t make any sense. She stared at him, groping for some kind of answer. Her stomach lurched as she remembered the last time she’d seen him: being pushed into the back of a police car, his face dark and defiant.
Laszlo didn’t belong in a place like this. And yet here he was. Standing there, as though he owned the place.
She felt her stomach lurch. In the back of her mind, pushed down in the darkness, she’d always imagined that he’d drifted into bad ways. So to watch him saunter into the room was almost more than her brain could fathom. Helplessly, she racked her brain for some shred of explanation.
‘Wh—what are you doing here?’ she stammered, her voice sounding small and shrunken, like a soul facing purgatory.
Laszlo stared at Prudence, his handsome face cold and blank. But inside it was as though he was falling from a great height. His mind was racing, explanations tumbling over one another, each one more desperate and untenable than the last. And all the time, like a silent movie, the short, doomed pretence of their love played out before his eyes.
Aware that he was playing for time, he felt a rush of anger. But words had literally failed him—for he had blotted out all traces of her so completely that just looking at her made him feel dizzy.
‘I could ask you the same question,’ he murmured.
And then, with shock, he remembered that it had been only that morning that his hunger-fuelled brain had conjured up her memory. He shivered as the hairs stood up on the back of his neck and he remembered the cry of the owl he had heard earlier. Had he somehow summoned her here?
The part of his mind not numb with shock pushed the suggestion away irritably: of course he hadn’t. Clearly she hadn’t come looking for him, for her own shock was unmistakable. So what exactly was she doing here?
Eyes narrowing, he stared assessingly at her and waited for answers.
White-faced, Prudence stared back at him dazedly. She must have fallen down a rabbit hole, for what other explanation could there be? Why else was Laszlo Cziffra here in this isolated castle in the Hungarian countryside? Unless—her blood turned cold—could he be working for Mr de Zsadany?
Her mind cringed from the possibility and, remembering his blank-eyed indifference when she’d told him she was leaving him, she felt suddenly sick. But that had been seven years ago. Surely after all this time they could treat each other with at the very least a polite neutrality? But instead of cool curiosity, he was watching her with a sort of icy contempt.
‘I don’t understand—’ She broke off, the colour draining from her cheeks as he walked slowly across the faded Persian carpet towards her. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said again. ‘You can’t be here.’
Watching the shock on her face turn to horror as he approached, Laszlo felt the floor yaw beneath him like a wave-tossed ship. But he had no intention of revealing to Prudence how strongly he was affected by her presence. Or her evident dismay at seeing him again.
Breathing deeply, he steadied himself. ‘But I am,’ he said slowly. ‘Why are you trembling, pireni?’
She tried to ignore it. Just as she was trying to ignore how handsome he was and his nerve-jangling nearness. But the familiar word of endearment seemed to grow to a roar inside her head, drowning out her answer to his question.
For what felt like a lifetime they stood, staring at one another in silence, as they had done a hundred...a thousand times before.
The man’s voice, when it came, startled both of them.
‘Ah, there you are! I’m sorry I’m late. The traffic was terrible.’