Her Greek Groom: The Tycoon's Mistress / Smokescreen Marriage / His Forbidden Bride - Sara Craven

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bank?’

      She shook her head. ‘They put me off with polite noises. Why—have you heard something?’

      ‘I was contacted this morning.’ Charles Lawrence was speaking. ‘It’s an extraordinary business, Cressida. They’ve had an offer to pay off the mortgage on this house, and your father’s other debts. Someone’s prepared to—take them over.’

      ‘Just like that?’ Cressy stared at both men. ‘But that’s impossible.’

      Mr Lawrence nodded. ‘So I thought. But I’ve since spoken to the other party, and the offer has been confirmed.’

      Cressy mentally reviewed her father’s close friends. There were several millionaires among them, but she wouldn’t have credited any of them with that level of generosity.

      She said doubtfully, ‘Is it Dad’s old company—have they put together a rescue package for him?’

      ‘Nothing like that, I fear. The offer has come from the Standard Trust Bank. They are based in New York, but they’re owned by the Ximenes Corporation. I expect you’ve heard of it.’

      ‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded odd, suddenly, almost distorted. ‘Yes—it was mentioned to me quite recently.’

      ‘Well, I don’t understand any of it,’ Sir Robert said bluntly. ‘Who are these people, and what on earth have they to do with James? I wasn’t aware he’d had any dealings with them.’

      ‘I’m sure he didn’t.’ Charles Lawrence shook his head. ‘It’s a complete mystery, but I hope Cressida may be able to solve it.’ He gave her a bleak smile. ‘It seems they wish to negotiate with you personally, my dear.’

      ‘Did they give any particular reason?’ Cressy felt hollow as weird, incredible suspicions continued to ferment in her mind.

      No, she thought. It’s not true. It can’t be. It’s just an odd coincidence. It has to be—has to…

      ‘No, but I got the impression that the chairman—a chap called Viannis—is a law unto himself.’ He consulted some notes. ‘He’s staying in London at the Grand Imperial—occupies the penthouse, apparently. You’re to phone for an appointment.’

      ‘Well, I don’t like the sound of it,’ Sir Robert said restively. ‘You’re James’s solicitor. He should be talking to you.’

      ‘I suggested as much, but they were adamant. It has to be Cressida. Although she can always refuse,’ he added quickly.

      ‘No,’ Cressy said. ‘If this Viannis is prepared to throw my father a lifeline, then I’ll talk to him, or anyone. I’ll call tomorrow and fix up a meeting.’

      ‘Well,’ Sir Robert said dubiously, ‘if you’re quite sure, my dear.’

      After their departure Cressy sat for a while, staring into space. Then she rose and went over to the desk and her laptop.

      The e-mail icon was waiting for her, as she’d suspected it would be.

      Swallowing, she clicked on to the message.

      ‘Sid,’ she read. ‘I am waiting for you. Come to me.’

      And that meant there could no longer be any doubt at all.

      ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered, her clenched fist pressed against her mouth. ‘What am I going to do?’

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      AS THE gates closed and the lift began its smooth rush to the penthouse, Cressy drew a deep breath.

      Whatever—whoever—was waiting for her, it was essential that she appear composed and in control. She couldn’t afford to let the mask slip for a moment and reveal the turmoil of emotion inside her.

      She had dressed carefully for this meeting. Her navy blue suit was immaculate, the skirt cut decorously to the knee. The heavy cream silk blouse buttoned to the throat, and she wore neat navy pumps with a medium heel and carried a briefcase. Her hair had been brushed severely back from her face and confined at the nape of her neck with a gilt clip.

      Her make-up had been meticulously applied to cover up the tell-tale signs of another sleepless night.

      She looked, she thought, cool and businesslike. She hoped she was going to be treated accordingly.

      She thought, not for the first time, her throat tightening uncontrollably, Oh, let him be a stranger. Please—please let me be wrong about this…

      She was met on the top floor by a tall blonde man with a transatlantic accent, who greeted her unsmilingly and introduced himself as Paul Nixon, Mr Viannis’s personal assistant.

      He led her down the thickly carpeted corridor and knocked at the double doors at the end.

      He said, ‘Miss Fielding is here, sir,’ and stood aside to allow Cressy to go in.

      The room was full of light. There were huge windows on three sides, permitting panoramic views all over London.

      But Cressy was only aware of the tall, dark figure silhouetted against the brightness. For a moment she was scarcely able to breathe, and she halted abruptly, feeling as if a giant fist had clenched in her stomach, all her worst fears finally and inevitably confirmed.

      He was very still, but with the tension of a coiled spring. Across the room, his anger reached out and touched her, and she had to fight an impulse to flinch. Or even run…

      He said softly, ‘So, you have come to me at last— Cressida, my faithless one.’

      There was a note in his voice which sent a shiver between her shoulder blades, but it was vital not to seem afraid.

      She lifted her chin. ‘Mr Viannis?’

      ‘What charming formality.’ The mockery in his tone was savage. ‘You feel it’s appropriate—under the circumstances? After all, how do you address your ex-fiancé—someone you’ve so signally betrayed?’

      She said steadily, ‘I came here to negotiate a deal for my father, not indulge in useless recriminations.’

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘You came here to accept my terms. There is nothing to negotiate.’

      She’d hoped to find a stranger and in some ways her wish had been granted, because this wasn’t Draco. This man had never worn scruffy denims or danced in the sunlight. Had never kissed her, or smiled at her with lazy desire. Could never, even for a few breathless moments, have held her naked in his arms.

      This man looked thinner—older, she thought, her eyes scanning him with sudden bewilderment. His charcoal suit with its faint pinstripe was exquisitely cut, his tie a paler grey silk.

      The tumbled black hair had been tamed and trimmed. And there was no golden light in the dark eyes that met hers. They were cold—impenetrable.

      Even his voice was different. Now he spoke with hardly any accent at all.

      She thought, How could I not have seen it—the ruthlessness behind the golden sunlit charm?

      He walked over to the big desk in the centre of the room and sat down, curtly indicating that she should occupy the chair set at the opposite side.

      She obeyed reluctantly. Her legs were shaking and her heart was thudding unevenly.

      She said, struggling to keep her voice level, ‘How did you find me?’

      ‘You were staying in one of my hotels, so that provided the basic information.’ He shrugged. ‘After that, I had enquiries made.’

      ‘You checked up on me?’ Her voice was taut. ‘Was this before or after you asked me to marry you?’

      His smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Oh, long before. When we first

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