LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER ONE

      ALIX PETRAKOS stepped down carefully from the taxi and took a much needed moment to square her shoulders before mounting the flight of steps to the door of the floodlit hotel. There was a supper dance in progress, and, although on another occasion she would have been looking forward to it, tonight it was not her idea of fun. She was tired to her bones. It had been a particularly long and fruitless day after a deluge of long, fruitless days, and had not keeping up appearances demanded that she attend this glittering charity function she would have stayed at home.

      An attendant relieved her of her coat, and she took a deep breath before heading for the ballroom, a tall, slim figure who could have stepped right out of the pages of a fashion magazine. Yet, although her evening dress was a St Laurent original, her shoes handmade Italian and her jewellery courtesy of Cartier, Alix knew their days were numbered. Unless she could find the financial backing the family business needed so desperately, everything would have to go. Not that it would be a particularly unpleasant sacrifice, for she was not too enamoured of high fashion and the class structure it implied. No, the sad thing was that collectively the family possessions would do no more than dent the mountain of debts.

      Pausing just inside the doorway, she surveyed the crowded room, not surprised to find that she recognised many of the faces there. Had, in fact, spent long hours these last few weeks talking to them across desks of every shape and size. Now, those who witnessed her arrival were quick to move away, and equally quick to pass on the news of her family’s financial straits in lowered voices.

      It brought a tightness to her lips that sat uncomfortably on her delicate face, which was fine to the point of fragility—an aspect shown up by the new stylish cut of her hair, the platinum-blonde crop tapered to her nape, suiting her perfectly, yet making her grey eyes look huge and her neck vulnerable. A fact which was unknown to her as she walked inside with all the sang-froid she could muster.

      Helping herself to a glass of wine, she acknowledged the greetings of those still brave enough to meet her eyes with a faintly cynical smile. Six months ago it had been oh, so different. Everything had. Now the façade had slipped and she had to cope with the consequences of her father’s ill-advised actions. Yet, no matter what these people thought, she would never have the bad manners to importune them here.

      ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ a voice declared mockingly from beside her. ‘When you set out on a collision course with the rocks, it’s a time-honoured tradition for the rats to leave the sinking ship.’

      The low, vibrant tones strummed her nerves, and for one stomach-lurching moment Alix felt the room actually swim around her. Then her blood froze and her muscles tensed, and it seemed to take every ounce of her strength to turn her head to face the voice’s owner...because she knew whom she would see.

      ‘Leaving room for the vultures to swoop down and pick over the rotting carcass,’ she riposted swiftly, amazed at how steady her voice sounded, when the sight of the man who had come silently to stand beside her set her heart thudding sickly. ‘Why do I get the feeling that to say “fancy seeing you here” would hardly be apt? Sharks can smell blood from miles away, I hear,’ she added, not caring if she mixed her metaphors or not. Her mind held only one question: what was he doing here?

      Pierce Martineau, as handsome as the devil, and just as black-hearted, afforded her a long lazy smile. ‘You’ve developed claws, Alix, which doesn’t surprise me, but, just like a kitten, you’ve yet to learn when it’s wise to scratch.’

      The irony stung, reminding her just how weaponless she had once been. Yet those days were long gone. She had developed a wall of defences inches thick. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s always open season on Martineaus!’ She allowed her scorn to show, wanting to wither him on the spot. She was reeling with shock. He never came to England. Never.

      One black brow shot up. ‘Do you always greet an old acquaintance with guns blazing? I’ll admit it has novelty value, but it might be wiser to put up your weapon, Alix. These days the enemy doesn’t obligingly wear a black hat. For all you know, you could be firing on an ally,’ he advised her mildly.

      ‘Ally!’ The word came out thick with revulsion. ‘You were never that, and never could be. You’re the enemy, Pierce, and as such I have nothing but contempt for you,’ Alix declared vehemently. Lord, she should have known he would say such a thing. It seemed he had developed a selective memory, while hers remained clear-cut. ‘Now I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. You see, I’ve become rather more discriminating about the company I keep these days.’ With which statement she pointedly turned her back on him and walked away on legs which threatened to give way beneath her at every step.

      She had no clear idea where she was heading, just kept on walking until eventually she found herself in a small ante-room from which there was no other exit. She stopped then, discovering she was shaking in every limb. Dear God, why had he had to be here? Hadn’t he done enough? Did he need to crow over the remains? She hated him. Hated him as much as she had once loved him; with a depth of emotion that knew no bounds.

      Alix bowed her head, her stomach twisting into a painful knot. Pierce Martineau still had everything going for him, possessing the sort of looks that set women’s hearts fluttering madly. Once, her own had taken wing in the space of a single beat. She hadn’t been immune to the thick glossy blue-black hair and the penetrating blue eyes either, nor the darkly shadowed cheeks framing that beautifully sensuous mouth. His masculinity and self-assurance had shone like a beacon, drawing her, like many another moth, to dance in its dangerous heat and brilliance. He had wined her and dined her, treating her like something beloved and precious, pursuing her with an ardour which had telegraphed to her lovesick heart that he loved her too.

      Bitterness was like gall on her tongue, and unconsciously her hand tightened on the glass she still held until her knuckles grew white. He had turned that love to hate with his lies. For it had all been lies! All of it, from start to finish! The angry memory was punctuated by the sharp crack of glass, instantly followed by her soft cry of pain. The broken glass toppled from her hand, and she stared down blankly at the swift swell of blood on her palm.

      It was only then that she realised she was not alone.

      ‘Sweet heaven! Did you cut yourself? Let me look.’ Pierce must have followed her, and now he advanced on her swiftly, taking her hand and examining it before she had the chance

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