Page 21 of His Loving Deception

“You grew up poor,” she spat, remembering the tales he’d told her when they’d been falling in love. “From the way you tell it, you had no money. Lived on air sometimes. And yet, when you speak of your mum, I see the warmth in your eyes. Those are good memories.”

“Your point?” He drawled cynically.

“All the money in the world hasn’t given me a family. Nor love.” She saw the disbelief in his face and pushed on. “I’m not telling you this to inspire your sympathy. Believe me, I don’t want that, or anything else, from you. But it’s the truth. After mum died, I was very lonely. It was a deep, gut-wrenching loneliness, and yes, it made me behave in a way I’m not proud of.” She toyed with the pendant she always wore on a thin gold chain around her neck. “The first love I’ve felt has been here, in Sydney, with Cherie and the others.” She didn’t mention that the most important love she thought she’d experienced had been his. When she’d believed their love to be genuine.

“Your father loves you,” he said, though his words lacked conviction. His brain was digesting her statement, that she’d done things she wasn’t proud of. Didn’t everyone deserve second chances? Why had he let her actions towards his cousin guide his own perception of her so completely? The theft, the bitchiness, it had all been years ago. His frown deepened.

“My father!” She repeated disbelievingly, then, tapping her fingers as if making a list, “My father sent me to boarding school one month after my mum died. The first Christmas holidays I went home, I discovered that he’d married! A woman I’d never even heard of! Every photograph of my mother had been removed, and your dear cousin told me we weren’t to speak of my mother as my father found it too upsetting.” She narrowed her gaze, and her face was contorted with hate.

“I was sixteen.” She said quietly. “Sixteen.” Then, with a shake of her head, to clear the fog of the unhappy past, “Those are not the actions of a loving father.”

She pushed past him, heaving him aside with her slender shoulder as she went. He dipped his head, hating the torrent of emotions that was swamping him. Swamping his ability to think clearly, and making him doubt his own actions.

Benedict Savarin needed to clear his head. And for the man who had built an empire from the ground up, the best place to do that was in his office.

He had hardly shown his face at Savarin Incorporated since the morning Cass had discovered his true identity, and it was high time he got back to business. The Australian headquarters of his global corporation were housed in an enormous glass and steel high rise a few blocks away. He’d bought the building five years before, and converted it into a dedicated tower for his Asia Pacific operations.

Despite its proximity, he drove, for he wanted to feel the power of his car beneath his feet. He also wanted to blast his Metallica playlist at full volume and scream along to let out the overflow of emotion he was feeling.

He rode to the top floor, not even noticing the spectacular view of the Harbour that greeted him when he stepped out of the elevator. His unflappable assistant, who at fifty eight, and a childless widow, was happy to travel the world with him to maintain the continuity he strived for, didn’t bat an eyelid when he entered after almost a week’s absence.

“Benedict,” she nodded curtly, reaching into her desk drawer and pulling out a folder. “Will you take your messages now?”

He nodded, unsmilingly, though he greatly appreciated how she never skipped a single beat. He preceded her into his enormous corner office and sat down broodingly at the glass topped conference table. “Just the urgent ones, Marilyn.” He amended, seeing the thickness of the folder.

She spent twenty minutes reading out messages and transcribing his notes, and then she made to return to her own office. “Oh, Benedict, one other matter.” She pushed her biro into the thick, silver bun she always wore. “A lady named Katherine Kline has been calling every day. She’s left her number and said that you’d know what it’s about.” At that, Marilyn frowned a little and walked back to hand him the piece of paper with the number inked on it carefully. “She sounds... desperate...to get a hold of you.”

He nodded dismissively, tucking the number into his briefcase. The last thing he needed at that point in time was to indulge the crazy ramblings of some woman who wanted to yell at him regarding the magnificent art deco building he was tearing down to make way for a modern monstrosity. He compressed his lips with frustration, making a note to speak to his PR team. After all, the building they were demolishing had been left to become derelict for decades before he purchased it. The best architects and structural engineers in the world had been consulted and all were in agreement; it was beyond salvaging.

The work that had piled up on his desk in the previous week sat untouched. Benedict Savarin simply stared out of the windows, unseeing, for hours, as his mind ticked over the mess he’d found himself in.

Alyssia was the only family he had left, and he had never doubted her telling of events. He’d heard the wrenching heartbreak in her voice when she’d recounted stories of her horrible stepdaughter, who simply refused to let Alyssia into the family.

He knew enough of family feuds to believe that this unknown girl was capable of all the hurtful behaviour Alyssia described, and he’d taken an instant and strong dislike to her. She had, by Alyssia’s retelling, reminded him of his maternal grandmother in character. His mother’s mother had likewise been born to excessive family wealth, and it had spoiled her character in just the same way Alyssia described this Lady Cassandra.

His grandmother, Mimi, had been the one responsible, ultimately, for his mother’s passing. When she’d run off to marry the struggling French painter, against her parents’ wishes, they’d disowned her. Disinherited her, and legally exiled her from the family. Secretly, his mother had kept in touch with her sister, Alyssia’s mother, and when she’d died, Alyssia’s mother had taken him in to the fold, returning him to the family and loving him like a son. But nothing could erase the fact that he’d grown up poor. Dirt poor, watching his mother work two, at times three, jobs to make ends meet. Alyssia’s childhood had, in contrast, been one of moderate comfort. Her mother had been determined to raise her well, and to keep her from becoming spoiled by social privilege. She’d attended a state school, and had been encouraged to attend university.

When his aunt had passed away two years before, it had felt to Benedict like he was losing his mother all over again. It was just him and Alyssia, then, and he was unstintingly loyal to his cousin.

Was it so wrong that he’d developed an instant dislike for the young woman who’d made, by all accounts, Alyssia’s life hellishly difficult?

He frowned. No, that was understandable. What he needed to examine was why the hell he’d indulged his lust and pursued a relationship with her.

From the first sighting, he’d wanted her.

But he’d known, even then, that she looked familiar. His suspicions had been further aroused by her accent, and her deportment. He’d never met Lady Cassandra, of course, but he’d visited Alyssia and Peter one year, whilst she had been at schoo

l, and her photograph had been proudly displayed all over the rambling manor.

She’d grown up, since then, changed her hair style and developed a deep tan, not to mention an incredibly adult figure, but those lilac eyes, rimmed with curling black lashes, were unforgettable. He shifted in his chair as an unfamiliar feeling of doubt besieged him. He’d been able to find a photograph of her easily enough on the internet. Lady Cassandra Hervey had gone through a brief but well publicised stint of extreme partying around the time she graduated high school. When he’d typed her name into the internet, he’d been rewarded with hundreds of snaps of her stumbling out of various London night clubs, always on the arm of some Sheikh or actor or other entitled little rich kid waster.

And so, it was confirmed. He had found her. Completely by accident, he’d uncovered the wayward heiress.

Why hadn’t he contacted Alyssia then? Despite what he’d told Cass, it hadn’t been out of revenge. Not even a little bit. He’d been selfish. He’d wanted to have his cake, and to eat it, too. Having met her, and been charmed by her, there was no way he wasn’t going to possess her. He sighed wearily. And he’d done so. Again and again and wonderfully again, but at what cost?

Cassandra would always hate him for forcing her back into a family situation that, he now realised, he had never fully understood. She was unlikely to make any real inroads into mending fences with Alyssia and Peter – and nor did she seem to particularly want to. And now, having spent more time with his cousin and the Duke, he had to wonder if Cass didn’t have a very fair point.

Oh, the man was kind enough. A diffident, if somewhat boring, chap, clearly born with an enormous silver spoon in his mouth. But, if what Cassandra had just told him was true, then he’d acted like an absolutely unfeeling and careless man, after his wife’s death. He had been a similar age when he’d lost his mother, and he’d felt for years like his compass had gone with her. He’d been plunged into a well of such excruciating sadness. The kindness of Alyssia’s family had helped him regain his track, and he’d plunged himself headfirst into his business. He’d taken enormous risks from the beginning, and through luck, hard work and an innate head for property, he’d amassed a ridiculous fortune in a relatively small time.

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