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A Woman Accused
Sandra Marton
Olivia Harris was desperate! She needed money… and fast. Trouble was, the only person she could turn to for help was the last man who could offer it. Edward Archer wanted the truth behind Olivia's relationship with his stepfather, but she was determined to keep her secrets!So when Edward started taking over Olivia's life, she was worried. Instead of hating Edward, she began to like him all too much… but how could she? She was a woman accused and Edward had set himself up as prosecutor, judge and jury… and Olivia's only defense was love!



A Woman Accused
Sandra Marton


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#ubb63b3fa-b21d-5d93-b1b6-f7561456500b)
CHAPTER TWO (#uf0047709-c376-502b-8f16-fd68d7e9e45a)
CHAPTER THREE (#u3597a2ca-2b99-5722-903c-f77917eb60ed)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE
OLIVIA was running late. There was nothing unusual about that, but with summer gone and autumn on the way it seemed that everyone who’d ever given a passing thought to redecorating a living-room or a flat had suddenly decided now was the time and had come racing into Interiors by Pierre, bearing swatches of fabric or chips of paint that just had to be matched, and would it be too much to have the job done yesterday?
It made for awfully good business, Pierre said in his high-pitched voice. But it had played havoc with Olivia’s schedule. Now she was late for her lunch with Ria.
And it wasn’t just any lunch, she thought ruefully as she hurried along Fifth Avenue. It was their annual birthday lunch, and Olivia had sworn on everything that was holy that she wouldn’t be late.
Well, she had done her best. It was just that it hadn’t been quite good enough. Not that Ria would be surprised.
‘We both know you’re going to be late, Livvie,’ she’d said, tossing her thick mane of dark hair. ‘That old goat works you like a slave, even though he knows you’re the only reason he has so many customers. Honestly, Livvie, it’s time you went into business for yourself.’
Olivia smiled a little as she remembered those words. She did work hard at Interiors by Pierre, but then that, along with the talent Monsieur Pierre was so loath to admit she possessed, was why she’d gone from shop girl to design assistant in three years. As for opening her own shop—you couldn’t borrow enough money to do it right without assets to pledge as collateral.
‘But if you had collateral you wouldn’t need a loan,’ Ria had said, and they’d both laughed.
It was ridiculous, but it was reality. Olivia hadn’t really expected her friend to understand. Ria had been born into a world of privilege and wealth; her idea of hard work was her noon-to-six, three-day-a-week stretch at a trendy avant-garde art gallery—which was why it was always easy for her to be on time for lunch.
‘You won’t want to be late this time,’ she’d said with a giggle, almost as if she were still ten instead of about to turn twenty-six. ‘Just wait until you see your birthday present!’
Olivia’s senses had gone on alert as she thought of the silk scarf she’d bought for Ria.
‘Remember what we agreed?’ she’d said warningly. ‘No more expensive gifts. That watch you gave me last time was gorgeous, but—’
‘You’re so silly, Livvie. What’s the point of having money if I can’t spend it on the people I love?’
It had been a sticking point between them for years, Olivia trying to make Ria see that she couldn’t possibly match her oldest friend’s extravagance and Ria explaining that her gifts were meant to bring pleasure, and each encounter ended the same way.
‘You don’t like it?’ Ria would say, her eyes clouded, and by the time Olivia had finished assuring her that it wasn’t that at all it was always too late. ‘Good,’ Ria would declare happily. ‘Then enjoy, darling!’
Olivia sighed as she hurried towards the restaurant. Ria had teased her about this year’s gift.
‘It’s right up your alley,’ she’d said. ‘It’s practical. Pragmatic. Why, it’s downright sensible. You just get to Luigi’s on time and see if you don’t agree.’
Now, as Olivia glanced down at the expensive diamond and gold watch encircling her slender wrist—Ria’s gift of last year and one she rarely wore—she made a face. She wasn’t going to get there on time, that was certain. She was already a quarter of an hour late. Of course, she thought hopefully, the watch might not be keeping time properly. She hadn’t worn it in months, it was far too expensive to wear every day, and besides it was just a little flashy for her tastes...
Who was she kidding? A watch like this would rather die than be inaccurate. She was definitely late, and who knew how much further it was to Luigi’s?
‘It’s this darling little place just off Fifty at Fifth-sixth,’ Ria had said, but Ria’s ability to judge distances hadn’t noticeably improved any in the fifteen years they’d known each other. ‘Just off Fifth’ could mean anything from around the corner to Sutton Place—although, Olivia thought, suppressing a grin, Ria wouldn’t very likely pick a bit of real estate as far removed as that. Luigi’s would be located somewhere along this golden stretch of New York pavement, tucked between the bustle of Fifth Avenue and the quiet grandeur of Park. Its décor would be handsome, the food luscious, the wine list intimidating—and perhaps this time, Olivia thought with a twinge of guilt, she and Ria would have more to say to each other than the last. They’d known each other forever. Surely they still had things in common, now that they’d put away their toys.
Ah! Olivia’s pace quickened, her high heels tapping lightly against the pavement. There it was! A discreet black sign, just in the middle of the block, with the restaurant’s name inscribed in gold script. She’d arrived, and only twenty minutes past the appointed hour.
A uniformed doorman appeared from out of nowhere; he held open the brass-studded door, bowing grandly as if she were royalty.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, fighting back the urge to put a nervous hand to her glossy, dark brown hair. It was probably wind-tossed, the shoulder-length, almost untameable curls even wilder-looking than usual, she thought irritably, annoyed not at her hair nor the unctuously smiling doorman but at herself for still feeling such a sudden twinge of nerves at the thought of stepping inside a place that was so obviously a haven for those born to the good life.
What on earth had brought that on? It was a long time since anyone had teased her about not belonging, longer still since she’d given a damn. Her chin lifted. Besides, in the emerald-green silk suit she’d designed and made she’d look as good as any woman in this posh little café.
And it was posh, she thought as she stepped inside. The tiny entry foyer was done in black and white marble, with the scheme repeated in the dining-room that opened beyond, all of it heightened by accents of burgundy and pink. The room was dim and intimate, with a mirrored bar to the right and deep banquettes beyond. Music played softly in the background, and the air bore just the faintest hint of good wine and perfume.
She glanced at her watch again as she waited for the head waiter. Perhaps Ria was already seated. Olivia stepped forward a bit, just into the bar, and peered into the main room. Was that a dark head at a table off to the side? She stood on tiptoe, then took another step forward...
The man stepped back from the bar at just that instant. Olivia had time only to register the grey wool jacket, the flash of a highball glass in a masculine hand, and then a sudden rush of cold liquid splashed across her silk dress and down her skirt.
She cried out, almost in unison with a deep voice that muttered something far more explicit, and when she looked up she was staring first at a splattered dark silk tie, then at a face as cold and aggressively masculine as any she’d ever seen.
‘Dammit, woman, why don’t you look where you’re going?’
Olivia’s mouth dropped open. ‘Me? You’re the one who—’
‘Just look at this mess.’ He pulled a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and rubbed at the spots on his tie. ‘You’ve ruined my tie.’
She stared at him while she brushed at the fine silk of her jacket. It was wrecked, she thought unhappily, absolutely wrecked. What was a tie when compared to a suit?
‘And I’m going to smell like a bottle of Scotch for the rest of the afternoon.’
Olivia’s mouth narrowed. ‘Next time,’ she snapped, ‘stick to club soda. If nothing else, it might improve your disposition.’
His head came up. ‘Really?’ he said, and for the first time he looked straight at her.
‘Really,’ she started to say in a frigid tone, but the word stuck in her throat. The anger was draining from his face, leaving in its place a slow, easy smile. Olivia caught her breath. My God, she thought foolishly, what a handsome man.
‘Hell,’ he said pleasantly, ‘accidents happen.’
She swallowed. ‘Yes. I—I guess they do.’
Not just handsome. Wealthy. She knew the type too well. She could see it in the expensively tailored suit, hear it in the way he spoke.
She flushed as she realised how he was looking at her, his gaze moving slowly, lingering on the quick rise and fall of her breasts. His smile tilted.
‘Here.’ The hand that held the handkerchief lifted towards her bosom. ‘Let me—’
‘No.’ Olivia stepped back quickly. ‘I’ll take care of it,’ she said coldly.
‘Madame? Sir? Is there a problem?’
She spun around. The head waiter was standing beside them, a worried frown on his face.
The man smiled. ‘No problem at all.’
The head waiter’s glance went from Olivia’s jacket to the man’s tie. ‘May I get either of you something? A clean cloth, perhaps, or—?’
‘A table,’ the man said.
He took Olivia’s elbow, his fingers curling around it very lightly, far too lightly for her to feel as if his touch had scorched her skin, but that was exactly how she felt. She pulled away sharply.
‘I’m meeting someone,’ she said to the head waiter.
He laughed softly. ‘So was I. But it’s not too late to change our plans, is it?’
‘In fact,’ she said, ignoring him, ‘she might be here already. Her name is—’
‘It’s your name I’m interested in,’ the man murmured. ‘If you won’t have lunch with me, at least give me your name and phone number.’
The head waiter cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps I should return in a few minutes.’
‘No.’ Olivia shook her head. ‘No, please. I’d like to be shown to my table, whether my friend is here or not.’
‘Certainly, madame.’
‘Say goodbye, at least,’ the amused masculine voice beside her whispered as she marched off after the head waiter, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t take an easy breath, either, not until they’d safely left the bar behind.
‘The reservation is in the name of Ria Bascomb,’ she said.
The head waiter bowed his head. ‘Of course. Just follow me, please.’
Olivia sighed. Ria was here already, then. Well, that figured. The day was rapidly going downhill. Just look at how badly she’d dealt with what had been, after all, nothing but an innocent flirtation. But the stranger had dredged up memories with his easy assumption that she’d find him irresistible.
‘Here you are, madame.’
‘Thank you. I...’ Olivia blinked. There was someone in the booth waiting for her, all right, but it wasn’t Ria. It was, instead, a white-haired man with a handsome, ruddy face who was already smiling and rising to his feet.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, turning to the head waiter. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.’
The white-haired man smiled and waved his hand in dismissal. ‘That’s all right, Geoffrey. Miss Harris is at the right table.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said slowly, ‘but I don’t...’ Her voice trailed away. She’d been going to say she didn’t know this man, but she did. His face was familiar, as was his voice. Where had she seen him before?
‘Charles Wright,’ he said, as if he’d read her thoughts. ‘We met several months ago. I came into the shop where you work to enquire about draperies for my apartment.’
‘And you ended up having us redecorate the entire flat.’ Olivia smiled and took the hand he held out to her. ‘Of course, Mr Wright. Forgive me for not recognising you.’
‘That’s quite all right, Miss Harris.’ Wright’s smile grew warmer. ‘I wouldn’t expect such a beautiful young woman to remember the name and face of an old fogey like me.’
‘Oh, but you’re not an old fogey,’ Olivia said automatically. ‘I just—well, it’s the lighting in here. And then...’ She frowned as she withdrew her hand from his. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an error, Mr Wright. I’m meeting a friend for lunch—’
‘Ria Bascomb.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Yes. Yes, that’s right. But how did you know?’
‘Ria didn’t tell you that she’d asked me to join you?’ Wright sighed. ‘Ah, well, she said she was going to keep it a secret till the last, and I see that she did.’
Olivia’s frown deepened. ‘Do you and Ria know each other?’
She had, apparently, made a marvellous joke. Wright laughed with delight.
‘You might say that. In fact, we met at the shop where you work. I was in to approve the final sketches for my pied à terre, and Ria dropped by to say hello. You introduced us.’
‘Did I?’ Olivia smiled tentatively. ‘Yes, now that you mention it, I think I do remember. But that still doesn’t explain—’
‘Please, Miss Harris, won’t you sit down and have something to drink? Ria will be here soon, I assure you.’
Olivia hesitated for a few seconds, and then she shrugged her shoulders and slipped on to the cushioned seat opposite Wright while her brain whirred and tried to make sense out of what was happening. Alice at the Tea Party, she thought, and she cleared her throat.
‘I must admit,’ she said lightly, ‘I’m not sorry she’s not here yet. I’m always the one who’s late, and I promised her I’d be on time today.’ There was a silence, and she cleared her throat again. ‘Well. I hope you’re enjoying your flat, Mr Wright.’
‘Charles.’ His mouth curled up in a smile. ‘Surely the woman who decorated my flat so beautifully knows me well enough to call me by my given name.’
Olivia gave him a little smile. ‘Has it all worked out, then? As I recall, you were concerned that the colour we used in your living-room might become boring.’
Wright laughed. ‘Actually, I wasn’t in it often enough to notice. No, I’m just teasing you.’ He smiled as he signalled the waiter. ‘Everyone complimented me on the décor. We told them all it was done by the charming Miss Olivia Harris.’
Olivia flushed. ‘Thank you, but I suspect my boss would rather you gave credit to Interiors by Pierre.’
‘Nonsense.’ Wright shrugged his elegantly clad shoulders. ‘We both know that you’re the creative one in that shop.’
‘That’s very kind, but—’
‘What will you have to drink? White wine? Red? Perhaps something more substantial?’
Olivia hesitated. ‘Perrier would be just fine, thank you.’
Wright made a face. ‘On your birthday? Whatever are you thinking of?’
She stared at him. ‘You know that it’s my birthday?’
‘A bottle of Perrier-Jouet brut,’ he said to the waiter, and then he leaned forward towards Olivia. ‘Yours, and Ria’s. Of course I know. That’s the reason I’m here.’
‘To celebrate Ria’s birthday?’
Wright chuckled softly. ‘Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say I’m here to celebrate yours.’
Olivia’s head came up. ‘Mr Wright—’
‘Charles.’
‘Look, I don’t mean to seem rude, but I was expecting to meet my friend for lunch. Instead, I find you waiting for me, and, while you seem to know a great deal about me, I don’t know anything at all about you.’
‘But you do, my dear. You know that I’m a friend of Ria’s, that I’m one of your most satisfied clients...’ He sighed. ‘I told Ria she was the one to explain this, but she insisted it should be me.’
‘Explain what?’ Olivia said, her expression cautious.
He sighed again. ‘Ria and I were talking one day. About investment opportunities. She knows I’m always looking for—’ He broke off as the sommelier appeared with a bottle of chilled champagne. Once it was opened and poured, Wright leaned across the table. ‘Ria understands my fascination with investing in small businesses, so when she explained how profitable a small interior decorating studio could be...’
Olivia’s breath caught with excitement. Was this what Ria had been hinting at? Had she found someone with the money to open a shop but not the knowledge? Was Wright asking her to manage such a place for him?
It was almost too good to be true. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.
‘Mr Wright—Charles—let me be sure I understand. Are you asking me to manage a shop for you?’
And it was too good to be true, she thought as he shook his head.
‘No.’
Olivia nodded. ‘Sorry.’ She gave him a shaky smile. ‘I thought I must have misunderstood, but for a minute there I could have sworn you said you were going into the interior decorating business.’
‘You’re going into the decorating business.’ Wright lifted his glass and smiled at her over its rim. ‘I’m just supplying the capital.’
She really was losing her mind, Olivia thought as the man opposite her laughed at the befuddled look that spread across her face.
‘It’s really very simple,’ he said. ‘I told you, I got lots of compliments on my flat, enough so it was very easy to sell.’
‘You sold it? But we just finished re-doing it.’
He nodded. ‘Yes. But my needs changed, Olivia. I needed something a bit quieter, with greater privacy.’ He leaned forward. ‘I didn’t ask you to decorate the new place because—because it had just been done.’
‘That’s all right,’ Olivia said, puzzled. ‘You don’t have to explain.’
‘The point is, each time someone said how handsome the flat was, Ria would think of all the clients you were losing by not having a studio of your own.’ Wright chuckled. ‘So I wasn’t all that surprised when she came up with this idea.’
Olivia put down her glass of wine very carefully. ‘What idea?’
‘She told me you’d tried to get a loan from the bank but they’d turned you down. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘I tried to get loans from several banks,’ Olivia said. Her voice was thready; she cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I don’t see—’
‘Ria suggested I finance your endeavour.’
Olivia stared at him. ‘What?’
‘I told you, I’m always looking for small investments. Well, why not invest in an interior design studio? Ria said, and I thought, Why not?’
A small investment, Olivia thought giddily. Yes, the money she needed would be that, to someone like Charles Wright. A practical gift, Ria had said. A pragmatic one. A downright sensible one...
‘So I asked my attorneys to check things out, and they came up with some figures. Just preliminary ones, naturally, until they’ve had some input from you.’
The man was serious! Olivia stared at him across the table. A studio of her very own, one where she would make the decisions, not Pierre; one where she would take the credit, not Pierre; one where the decisions and the designs would all be hers.
But it was crazy. Insane. Heaven only knew how Ria had convinced Charles Wright to make such a generous offer. She couldn’t accept it, of course; she...
‘...And if you’re thinking this is an act of lunacy that Ria talked me into...’
She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I was thinking something like that,’ she admitted.
‘Well, I assure you, it isn’t. Over the years, I’ve put money into a dry-cleaning shop, a video chain, even a haircutting establishment.’ He smiled. ‘Why not a decorating shop? My accountants tell me that the changing economy has altered people’s habits. They’re spending money on re-doing, rather than on starting afresh.’
‘Yes, but—but you barely know me...’
‘I know your work, and Ria vouches for you. That’s good enough. And it is a loan, Olivia, understand that, with interest payments and a monthly due date and all the rest.’ He smiled. ‘My accountants, and the tax people, wouldn’t have it any other way.’
Olivia blew out her breath. ‘I—I don’t know what to say,’ she whispered.
Wright laughed. ‘An astute businesswoman would simply say yes.’
She stared at him. ‘How did you get started?’ she’d asked Pierre once, and he’d shrugged his elegantly clad shoulders and answered with more honesty than she’d expected. ‘A loan from a wealthy friend,’ he’d said. ‘Without her, I’d probably still be painting peonies on silk scarves.’
Wright drew a cheque from his breast pocket and pushed it across the table. ‘Have a look at this. My people said it would get you started, but if it’s not right, say so. I’d want to see you capitalised properly. If we want the right clientele to find you, we have to set you up in the right location and with the right sort of ambience.’
The cheque was for an amount that made Olivia’s head spin. She stared at it, then at Wright.
‘I—I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘What if I fail?’ She pushed the cheque back towards him, the light glinting off her diamond and gold watch. He stopped the cheque’s progress by covering her hand with his.
‘Ria and I have every confidence in you.’
She stared at him blankly. ‘Mr Wright...’
‘Charles.’ He grinned engagingly. ‘Surely we’re on a first-name basis now.’
‘Charles,’ she said slowly, and then she fell silent. Ria, she thought, I’m going to break your neck. I’m going to hug you to death. I’m going to—I’m going to get up any minute and dance and shout and throw my arms around that stuffy head waiter...
‘Are the funds sufficient, then?’
She nodded. ‘Oh, yes, Charles. It’s more than enough. It’s just that I—I don’t know if I can accept it. I’d feel funny, letting you give me such an enormous amount of money.’
‘What a lovely sentiment. She almost sounds as if she means it.’
The voice was male, the tone soft. But there was no mistaking the coldness of it, nor the undisguised contempt. And there was certainly no mistaking its familiarity.
It was the man who’d bumped into her only moments ago. Olivia drew herself up and gave him a cold stare.
‘You’re not welcome here,’ she began, but then she stopped. The stranger wasn’t looking at her at all, he was looking at Charles—and Charles was looking back at him, his ruddy face gone pale as a sheet.
‘How nice to see you again, Charles,’ he said, but she knew that wasn’t what he meant at all. Charles knew it, too; his hand, still clutching hers over the cheque, tightened until his grip was almost painful.
Olivia cleared her throat. ‘Do you—do you know this man, Charles?’
The man laughed. ‘Do you know me, Charles?’ he said, his voice cruelly mimicking hers.
‘Edward.’ Charles’s voice was a little breathless. ‘This is a surprise.’
Edward gave a sharp laugh. ‘Yes. I can imagine.’
Olivia frowned. Something was going on here, something unpleasant, but what? The stranger was staring at her luncheon companion. She couldn’t see his eyes clearly—they were blue or black, it was hard to be certain which—but it was obvious that they were icy with what could only be described as unbridled hatred.
A little shudder rocketed through her. Clearing her throat, she began rising to her feet.
‘I’ll just go to the ladies’ room so you gentlemen can—’
‘No.’ Charles’s fingers clasped hers more tightly, and Olivia winced as she fell back into her seat. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘Edward’s not—he’s not staying. Are you, Edward?’
The other man smiled, although Olivia wasn’t quite sure that was the correct word to describe the way his lips drew back over his teeth.
‘I’ve a lunch with some business associates,’ he said softly. His gaze swept across the table, where Olivia’s hand, still clutching the cheque, lay trapped by Charles’s. The terrible smile came again, swift and chill, and his eyes lifted to Olivia’s. ‘You had an appointment, you said. But I’d no idea who the lucky man was.’
Charles swallowed convulsively. ‘Do you—do you know Miss Harris, Edward?’
The man’s lips drew back from his teeth. ‘Not half as well as you do,’ he said.
‘Now, wait just a minute,’ Olivia began, and Charles’s fingers squeezed hers again.
‘Miss Harris and I were just—’
‘Don’t tell me.’ The stranger’s gaze drifted with slow insolence from Olivia’s face to her breasts. She felt a rush of crimson suffuse her cheeks; when his gaze finally met hers again, he laughed softly, as if he and she were sharing some awful joke. ‘You were discussing business,’ he said. ‘Any man with half a brain could figure that out.’
The words were innocent, but the insult had been blatant none the less. Olivia snatched her hand from Wright’s and got to her feet. She forced herself to look straight at the man blocking her way.
‘Excuse me,’ she said coldly.
‘Don’t leave on my account, darling. I’m sure you and Charles still have lots of “business” to discuss.’
‘Would you please step aside?’
‘So well-mannered.’ His teeth flashed in that awful smile again. ‘And so lovely. I must admit, Charles, your taste is impeccable.’
‘Just who in hell do you think you are?’ Olivia demanded in quiet fury.
‘Why don’t you tell her, Charles?’ the man said softly, his eyes never leaving Olivia’s face.
‘Edward.’ Charles’s voice was low and tense. ‘You’ve made an error. I told you, Miss Harris is—’
‘A business associate. Of course.’ He reached out suddenly and caught hold of Olivia’s arm. His hand curved tightly around it, the fingers long and tanned against the green silk. ‘That’s a lovely bauble, darling.’ She grimaced as he twisted her wrist upwards. Light gleamed on Ria’s last birthday gift, the diamond and gold watch. ‘You must be pretty good to have gotten such a bonus from old Charlie.’
Olivia twisted her hand free of his. ‘Let go of me!’ she demanded, her voice thrumming with barely suppressed rage. ‘Let go, or I’ll...’
‘You’ll what?’ he asked, so softly that only she could hear him. ‘Struggle? Fight me?’ He shifted his weight so that they stood as close together as if they were lovers. His smile grew lazy, almost sensual; she could feel the heat coming off his taut body. ‘Go on,’ he said quietly, ‘why don’t you try it?’
Her eyes narrowed with anger, and almost of its own volition her hand flashed up to strike his face, but he caught her wrist effortlessly and held it immobile in a strong, harsh grasp. The smile fled, and his eyes changed from cold pools of blue light to black winter ice.
‘Enjoy your lunch, Miss Harris,’ he said, and before she could collect herself enough to think of a response he’d turned on his heel and marched away.
‘Olivia. Olivia!’ She blinked and swung towards the banquette. Charles Wright was motioning to her. Tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead. ‘Sit down, Olivia,’ he hissed. ‘Everyone’s looking at us.’
But he was wrong. The dimness of the lighting and the location of the booth had protected them; no one was looking at them at all.
Leave, she told herself, just head for the door and keep on going...but her legs felt like rubber. She needed to sit down before she fell down, and she collapsed into her seat, reached for her glass of champagne, and drained it dry.
‘I’m sorry,’ Charles said miserably. ‘I’m really sorry, Olivia.’
Olivia shook her head. ‘Who was that man?’ she whispered.
‘Someone who thinks he owns the world,’ he said grimly.
There was anger and determination in his voice now, but where had those emotions been while their unwelcome visitor had loomed over them? That bastard! The things he’d said to her—the things he’d implied...
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cushioned banquette. Some birthday this had turned out to be! A stranger for a luncheon companion instead of Ria, an offer to start her own business—even though accepting the money now was surely out of the question—and an encounter with a—a madman, an absolute madman...
‘Livvie!’ The scent of Poison filled the air. Olivia’s eyes flew open as Ria Bascomb dropped into the booth beside her in a flurry of sable and silk. ‘Oh, Livvie, can you ever forgive me?’ She pressed her cheek to Olivia’s and smiled at Charles. ‘Hello, Charlie. Did you two have a nice chat?’
‘Ria,’ Charles said. ‘Thank God you’ve finally arrived. We just—’
‘Well? Did you tell her?’ Ria peeled off her kidskin gloves and tossed them on the table. ‘Well, Livvie, what do you think? I wanted you to hear the details from Charlie, so you’d understand it wasn’t just me trying to give you a...’ Her voice trailed off and she frowned. ‘What’s wrong here? I thought you two would have become the best of friends by now. Livvie, don’t tell me you’re angry because of Charlie’s offer?’
Charles leaned forward. ‘Edward just paid us a visit,’ he said tightly.
Ria’s head came up. ‘Edward? Good lord, Charles. What was he doing here?’
‘Making trouble. That’s all he ever does, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but Edward—here? What did he say?’
‘He said a lot of awful things—most of them directed at me.’ Olivia’s voice trembled. ‘And I’ve no idea why. Who in God’s name is he?’
Ria and Charles looked at each other, and then they both spoke at once.
‘Edward is—’
‘Edward’s—’
Charles fell silent, and Ria cleared her throat. ‘Edward is—he’s a member of Charles’s family. He—he resents Charles’s wealth, Livvie, oh, it’s all very complicated. Byzantine, you might say. But the bottom line is that he thinks he should have control of the family funds—which he’d squander, of course. And he never misses the chance to insult Charles if he can.’
Olivia puffed out her breath. ‘Well, he’s very good at it, I must say.’ She gave a shaky little laugh. ‘He made me feel as if—as if...’ Her eyes lifted to Ria’s. ‘But he did make me realise one thing. I can’t accept your offer.’
‘My offer?’
‘Well, Charles’s offer. I do thank you, Ria, it was quite the nicest birthday ever, but—’ Olivia took a breath. ‘It really was very generous, but it’s out of the question.’
Ria propped her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers beneath her chin.
‘Why?’
‘Well, because it just is. I mean, Charles doesn’t know anything about the decorating business...’
‘He’s not supposed to. You’re the decorator, remember?’
‘And—and who knows if I can make a go of my own studio? I’ve only been out of school four years.’
‘Nonsense. That fat jerk Pierre hasn’t lifted a pencil to a sketchpad since he made you his assistant and everybody knows it. What else?’
‘Well...’ Olivia flushed. ‘I just wouldn’t feel right taking so much money from a stranger.’
‘Edward made some insinuations,’ Charles said tightly.
Ria’s brows rose. ‘Did he?’
‘Yes,’ Olivia said. ‘Of course,’ she added quickly, ‘I know they were lies. I mean, Charles never even suggested...’
‘He’d better not have.’ Ria leaned across the table and reached for Charles’s hand while Olivia stared in surprise. ‘Charlies and I have become very close, Livvie,’ she said softly. ‘Did he tell you?’
‘No.’ Olivia swallowed hard. ‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Well, it’s true.’
‘I see,’ Olivia said, although she didn’t. Ria and Charles? There had to be thirty years separating them, at least. ‘Well then, why would this Edward person have acted as if he thought Charles and I were—as if he thought we were...?’
‘Edward is—he’s actually related to Charles’s wife. And Charles is separated from her.’ Ria flushed when Olivia looked at her. ‘Don’t look like that, Livvie. This is the twentieth century. Besides, it happened before we met.’
‘I—I’m just surprised, Ria,’ Olivia said slowly. ‘You never said...’
‘Well, we don’t talk much any more, do we?’ Ria said defensively. ‘Anyway, Edward doesn’t really care about our situation.’ Her pretty face set in grim lines. ‘I told you, all he wants is to get his hands on Charles’s money—as if what he already has weren’t enough. And he’s got an attitude about women that went out with the cavemen.’
Olivia’s mouth thinned. ‘Yes.’ Her fingers went to her wrist and rubbed lightly over the bruised flesh. ‘I’ll agree with that.’
‘Look, what can I tell you? Edward Archer was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.’ Ria made a face. ‘You know the type, Livvie. He resents anybody who doesn’t fit the mould.’
Yes, she knew the type. She knew it all too well. She’d grown up around boys like that, ones who came from families with old names and older money, who saw girls like her as toys. They were boys who grew into men with the same attitude.
Had Edward Archer seen right through all the layers added to herself over the years, the clothes, the sophistication, the quietly flawless make-up? Olivia’s mouth narrowed. Was that why he’d thought he would come on to her when they’d first bumped into each other, why he could insult her, why he’d misunderstood her relationship with Charles? Did she still somehow bear the mark that set her apart, that showed that she was not ‘to the manor born’?
‘Livvie, you’re not going to be foolish enough to let someone like that stop you from accepting Charles’s loan and changing your life, are you?’ Ria took Olivia’s hand in hers. ‘Are you, Livvie?’
Olivia looked at her friend. Ria’s smile was open and warm; Charles was looking at her with love shining in his eyes, and she thought suddenly of the way Edward Archer had looked at her, as if she were dirt beneath his feet.
‘Certainly not,’ she said without any more hesitation, and in that instant sealed her fate.

CHAPTER TWO
DAMN Edward Archer to hell! She barely knew the man with eyes like winter ice, and yet he’d managed to reduce her, a self-assured woman, to the shy, awkward girl she’d been years ago.
The knowledge, lodged like a stone in her breast, was enough to steal some of the pleasure from Ria’s ‘gift’. But as the days passed, Olivia was too busy to dwell on anything as insignificant as an encounter with a rude bully.
There were meetings with lawyers and with accountants, with real estate agents and painters and plasterers, and one memorable half-hour with Monsieur Pierre during which he first accused her of being an untalented, ungrateful upstart—and then all but got on his knees and begged her to accept a huge rise and stay on in his employ.
It was that acknowledgement of her worth that convinced her that leaving Interiors by Pierre and opening her own shop was the right thing to do.
It all came together quickly. Olivia fell in love with a narrow, four-storey town house on a tree-lined Manhattan street. She took a deep breath, put down a chunk of Charles’s loan, and the place was hers. The top floor became a small but comfortable flat that put an end to years of living in a cramped bed-sitter. The lower three levels were transformed into a design studio and showrooms that had, until now, only been a dream.
And that was what she named her shop: Olivia’s Dream.
She designed every square inch of it herself, so that it wasn’t only the showroom that had flash and dash, which was the way it had been at Pierre’s. He had been big on dazzling the customers, but he hadn’t cared a damn for his designers.
‘Life in the salt mines,’ Dulcie Chambers, who’d worked with Olivia, had said of their cramped, rather grim studio. They’d both tried to make the place more cheerful, but potted geraniums and framed prints had not been able to do the impossible.
‘When I have my own place,’ Dulcie had said wistfully, ‘it’ll be a million feet square, with wall-to-wall windows and hundred-foot ceilings.’
Olivia had smiled archly. ‘When I have mine,’ she’d said, ‘it’ll be a zillion feet square, with thousand-foot ceilings. I won’t have any walls at all, I’ll just have glass, glass, and more glass. How’s that sound?’
‘Like heaven,’ the other girl had sighed—and now, thanks to Ria and Charles, it had all come true.
Well, perhaps not quite all, Olivia thought, smiling a little as she looked up from her drafting table. The room on the second floor in which she and Dulcie worked now—the other girl had leaped at Olivia’s job offer—was a bit shy of being a zillion feet square and a thousand feet high. But it was big and bright and filled with cheerful colours, and, if it wasn’t a zillion square feet, it was as close to it as the architect could manage.
‘Are you happy, Livvie?’ Ria had asked just yesterday, when the two friends had met at the Plaza for drinks after Olivia’s Dream had closed for the day.
Olivia had smiled. ‘Do you really need to ask?’ she’d said, and Ria had beamed with delight.
And she was happy, Olivia thought as she picked up her sketch-pad, pushed back her stool, and walked slowly to the window. Most of the time—and, if there were occasional shadows and misgivings, she could hardly mention them to Ria.
Charles had been a perfect gentleman in the weeks since he’d offered to back her financially. He’d never given her a moment’s reason to regret her decision to accept his loan. Nevertheless, she couldn’t escape the feeling that the Charles she did business with and the Charles who was courting Ria were in some ways different men. And why was Ria so intent on keeping her relationship with him a secret?
Because Charles’s lawyers had advised it, until his divorce was final, Ria said. And then, she’d added with a sigh, and then there were her parents.
‘You know how they are, Livvie.’
Olivia did, all too well. The Bascombs had always treated her pleasantly, but they’d never quite let her forget that she was their housekeeper’s ward and living in their house on sufferance.
‘You mean,’ she’d said after a moment, ‘that they’re a bit conservative.’
Ria had sighed. ‘Stuffy and uptight’s a better way to describe it. If I tell them about Charles, they’ll go crazy. They’ll say he’s too old for me, they’ll be horrified that he’s still married...’
‘Maybe you ought to think about those things, too,’ Olivia had said gently.
‘Come on, Livvie, you’ve come to know him. Why, he’s got more energy than some men half his age. As for his marriage—I’ve told you, it’s been unhappy for years.’
‘Still, all this—this subterfuge is—is—’
‘—is necessary,’ Ria had said firmly. ‘Until his divorce is final, anyway, and then we’ll go to Vegas and get married and then present my parents with a—what do you call it?—a fait accompli.’
It sounded more like sneaking around to Olivia, but she’d known better than to put Ria on the defensive.
‘I just don’t want to see you get hurt,’ she’d said instead, and Ria had smiled as she reached across the table and took hold of Olivia’s hand.
‘I know,’ she’d whispered. ‘Oh, Livvie, I’m so glad we’re close again,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve missed you.’
They weren’t close again, not really, but Olivia hadn’t the heart to say it to the girl who’d once been as much sister as best friend. Instead, she’d smiled and grasped Ria’s hand tightly.
‘Me, too,’ she’d said, and that had ended the conversation.
And then there was Edward Archer. Olivia caught her bottom lip between her teeth. It was crazy, but the ugly run-in with him had never been far from her thoughts, as if her mind had only been waiting for her to have time to think about something other than architectural plans and structural sketches to relive those awful moments in the restaurant.
And that was ridiculous. The incident had occurred almost a month ago, and she hadn’t seen him since.
Why, then, was she remembering it? Without warning, there’d be the image of him, standing close to her. She’d see the tall, leanly muscled body, the eyes that had danced with sexual appraisal when he’d tried to pick her up and had later damned her with sexual contempt. Edward Archer had given her a look that had clearly said, If I wanted you, I could have you, I could subdue you and make you cry your need for me into the darkness...
Her body flooded with the heat of humiliation, and Olivia leaned her forehead against the cool window-pane.
Years ago, she’d stepped off a kerb on a rainy night into the path of a sports car just as the light went green. She’d heard the angry roar of the engine as it revved—and then, almost too late, the driver had seen her and hadn’t released the clutch pedal. But that frightening sense of something powerful, something held under taut control just waiting to be unleashed, had left a lasting impact.
Confronting Edward Archer had been like that. Despite the elegant cut of his suit and the scent of expensive cologne, there’d been an animal edge to him. Instinct warned her he’d been holding himself in tight control. It was as if she’d glimpsed the expert assassin that lurked just beneath the civilised exterior of any well-groomed house cat. It had been in the feel of his hand clamping down on her arm, in the hint of dark stubble barely visible on skin tautly drawn over the hard bones in his face.
She caught her breath. What would it feel like, that shadowy stubble, moving lightly against a woman’s tender flesh? Rough, slightly abrasive, as his mouth traced a path down her throat, across her shoulders, across her breasts...
‘Olivia?’ The sketch-pad fell from her hands as she spun around. Dulcie stood in the open doorway, her fair hair a bright nimbus around her freckled face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Olivia swallowed. ‘That’s OK. I was—I—I was trying to come up with a design for those draperies we’ve been...’ Her voice faded as she bent and picked up the pad. ‘And getting nowhere,’ she said briskly. ‘Is it my turn to be salesgirl?’
‘No, I’m still the lucky one.’ Dulcie’s brows rose. ‘Actually, someone’s asking for you.’
‘A customer?’ Olivia said. All thoughts of Edward Archer faded away at the prospect. Each new order was still something of an event.
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Ah, well.’ Olivia sighed dramatically. ‘I wonder what permit I’m missing this time, although heaven only knows what could possibly be left. Department of Health, Department of Taxation, Department of Labour...what more could any man want of me?’
‘A great deal—unless he were a damned fool.’
Olivia’s heartbeat stuttered. ‘Olivia?’ Dulcie said, but Olivia was already twisting towards the sound of that softly insinuating voice.
Edward Archer stood lounging in the studio’s open doorway, his navy suit jacket open over a cream shirt and dark silk tie, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his trousers so that the fabric drew tautly across his thighs. He smiled when he saw Olivia’s eyes widen in shock, his mouth tilting up at one corner to give an even more suggestive twist to his words.
Olivia didn’t hesitate. ‘How dare you come here?’
His smile became a lazy grin. ‘That’s a hell of a way to greet a client.’ His gaze swept over her with slow insolence, moving down the beige linen suit she’d designed herself to the Charles Jourdan pumps picked up on sale last spring, returning at last to her face. ‘Or has old Charlie supplied you with all the “clients” a girl could possibly handle?’
Olivia’s face coloured. He was doing it again, here on her own territory.
‘I wouldn’t count on old Charlie for very much, Olivia.’ He stepped away from the door-frame, moved into the room, and strolled the length of it, pausing every few feet to glance at the sketches tacked on the walls. ‘Actually,’ he said after a moment, his voice very soft, almost silken, ‘I wouldn’t count on old Charlie at all, if I were you.’
Damn the man! Olivia gave herself a mental shake, then drew herself up. ‘You’re not welcome here, Mr Archer,’ she said in a cold voice.
It was as if she hadn’t spoken. He didn’t even glance at her. Instead, he paused at the windows that looked down on the town house’s tiny garden.
‘Nice. Very nice.’ He swung towards her and gave her a smile that was all even white teeth. ‘Who’d have thought such a transparent ploy would work, Olivia? Telling old Charlie you couldn’t accept whatever he was offering that day, convincing him you didn’t want his money—’
‘Get out!’ She took a step forward. ‘Do you hear me, Mr Archer? You get out of my office this minute!’
‘I guess he upped the ante, hmm?’ Archer leaned back against the window ledge and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Hell, Charlie always was an old fool for...’ His eyes moved over her again, very slowly and very deliberately, and she had to fight against the terrible desire to cover herself with her hands. ‘Although this time I can almost understand why.’
Dulcie cleared her throat. ‘Olivia? Shall I—shall I do something?’ She looked from Edward Archer to her employer. ‘I mean, do you want me to—to call somebody, or—or...?’
‘You can show this—this “gentleman” out, Dulcie.’
Archer’s smile faded. ‘I’m not leaving.’
Dulcie shifted closer to Olivia. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she whispered.
Edward Archer answered before Olivia could speak. ‘She wants you to go out and close the door after you,’ he said softly. His eyes locked with Olivia’s. ‘Isn’t that right, Miss Harris?’
‘No,’ Olivia said quickly, almost breathlessly. ‘Don’t—don’t go, Dulcie.’
Hearing the pathetic tremor in her own voice made her flinch. How dared he do this to her? She belonged here, not he. It was he who was the outsider.
The realisation gave her strength.
‘If you have something to say to me, Mr Archer,’ she said coolly, ‘you’d better get to it.’
‘Tell her to go.’ He jerked his head towards Dulcie, who was still gaping. He was all business now; something about the look in his eyes and the set to his mouth sent a chill up Olivia’s spine. ‘You and I have things to discuss, Miss Harris. I suggest we deal with them in private.’
‘Olivia? Should I—should I call the cops?’
Edward Archer, in the hands of the police! Oh, but the thought was tempting! But calling them would be a foolish indulgence, and Olivia knew it. Olivia’s Dream was on a quiet street; she’d spent a small fortune on discreet advertisements in The Times and a handful of pricey magazines, but one visit from a police car with its lights flashing and its siren wailing would bring down the kind of publicity her business might never live down.
Besides, every instinct warned that she should hear him out. There was a grim determination about him now; whatever had brought him here would have to be dealt with.
‘No, Dulcie,’ she said quietly, ‘that won’t be necessary. You just go on down to the showroom.’ It was hard to smile, but she managed. ‘We don’t want to miss any clients, do we?’
The girl’s mouth tightened. ‘I’m going to stay right outside the door,’ she said with a meaningful glower in Edward’s direction. ‘You call and I’ll come running.’
Olivia waited until the door swung shut. She looked down at her watch and then at Edward Archer.
‘You have one minute,’ she said coldly.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘This is going to take a hell of a lot longer than that.’
‘One minute, Mr Archer. And so far, you’ve wasted almost five seconds.’
‘You’ve got your act together since we last met.’ She looked up. He was watching her narrowly, his eyes cool and assessing. ‘The Lady of the Manor thing, I mean. Very nicely done. I’m impressed.’
‘Nine seconds gone, Mr Archer.’
His lips drew back from his teeth. ‘And then what? Will you throw me out?’
‘Thirty-nine seconds left, and counting down,’ she said as she walked to her corner desk. She bent and riffled through the papers strewn across it. What did he want? Damn it all, what did he want?
‘Because we both know you won’t be able to do that.’ She went very still as she felt him come up behind her. His breath ruffled her hair. ‘I can overpower you,’ he said softly. ‘I can do whatever I want with you, Olivia, and we both know it.’
She felt her heart begin to race. One one thousand, she thought, two one thousand, three...
When she was certain she could face him without trembling, she turned around.
‘Does trying to intimidate me make you feel good?’ she asked quietly.
His mouth twisted. ‘You know damned well that isn’t what I was doing.’
‘Because if that’s how you get your kicks, Mr Archer...’
She caught her breath as his hands clasped her shoulders. His fingers were hard on her flesh; she felt their touch in the marrow of her bones. His eyes swept over her face and fastened on her mouth.
‘Have you thought about me?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said quickly. Too quickly; even she knew that.
His hand rose and lightly encircled the nape of her neck, the fingers sifting into the loose knot of silken hair pinned at the back of her head. She felt strands of it fall free and drift to her shoulders.
‘I’ve been thinking about you, Olivia.’
His voice was soft, like the caress of his fingers against her skin. She felt herself sway a little, just a little, as if his stroking fingers were mesmerising her.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I have thought about you, Mr Archer. I’ve had nightmares that you might turn up in my life again and be even more rude than you were the last time.’
He smiled. ‘I think about you at night, when I lie in my bed.’ His voice grew soft and rough with promise. ‘I imagine you naked, in my arms, your hair spread like a dark cloud across my pillow.’
Her heart gave an unsteady thump as she tried to break away from him. ‘You have no right—’
‘I remember the smell of you, and I wonder what you taste like.’ She gasped as he drew her closer. ‘You wonder too, Olivia. I can see it in your eyes, feel it in the way your body heats under my hand.’
‘You’re crazy,’ she said. Her voice was cool, so cool. But her skin felt hot and flushed.
‘Sometimes I can almost hear you cry out my name as I touch you.’
A picture flashed into her mind. She saw herself in his arms, trembling under his caresses, straining towards him in the heat of desire, and an emotion she could not identify raced through her blood.
‘Never,’ she hissed, ‘not in the next million years. Not if you were the last...’
His hands fell away from her so suddenly that she fell back against the desk.
‘Be careful what you say, darling.’ His voice had gone as cold as his eyes. ‘You can never tell when you may just need the last man on earth.’
Olivia raised her hands to the back of her head. They shook as she tried to smooth back her hair and re-pin it.
‘I’d never need anything from you,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘Not as long as I have—’
‘Sweet old Charlie.’ An ugly smile twisted across his mouth. ‘What a touching sentiment, Olivia.’
Not as long as I have two hands to work with, she’d been going to say. But why should she defend herself to Edward Archer? Her chin rose in defiance.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ she said evenly. ‘And now, Mr Archer, if you’ll get to the reason you came here—’
‘Sweet old Charlie is dead.’
The words were bluntly delivered. Olivia smiled uncertainly. ‘What did you say?’
His eyes fixed on her face. ‘You heard me, sweetheart. Charlie is dead. Kaput. He’s history.’
Olivia blinked. Dead? No, that was impossible. She had seen Charles just last night, only for a few minutes when he’d come to pick Ria up at the Plaza after they’d had their drinks, and he’d been fine, just fine.
He laughed unpleasantly. ‘Hell, at least old Charlie died a happy man.’
‘Charles Wright?’ she said stupidly.
Edward’s lip curled. ‘The late Charles Wright, my dear. How many other Charlies are there in your life? Maybe we ought to give ‘em numbers. Charlie One, Charlie Two—’
Dead. Charles was dead. Ria, she thought, oh, Ria...
‘Is he really dead?’ she whispered.
‘Dead as the dodo bird.’
Her eyes swept the hard, stony face before her. ‘How can you talk that way? Don’t you have any feelings?’
‘Why should I? Nobody will mourn the bastard.’
Ria’s face swam before her. ‘Somebody will,’ Olivia said softly, and she bent her head and put her hands to her eyes.
Edward Archer gave a muffled oath. ‘If I live to be a thousand, I’ll never understand what makes a woman cry!’ His arms went around her, drawing her into a hard, unyielding embrace.
The shock drove the colour back into her face. Olivia slapped her hands against his chest.
‘Let go of me!’
‘I suppose a Victorian swoon comes next,’ he said grimly as he stalked to the door.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I—’
He threw the door open and stepped into the hall. Dulcie’s startled gasp was sharp as a gunshot.
‘Miss Harris isn’t feeling well,’ Edward said tightly. ‘Where can she lie down?’
‘Olivia? Olivia, what’s he done to you? Do you want me to call the police now? Or an ambulance? Do you need an ambulance? Oh, Olivia...’
‘I’m fine, Dulcie. Dammit, Mr Archer—’
‘I asked you a question, girl!’ Edward’s voice was harsh. ‘Where can Miss Harris lie down?’
Dulcie pointed a trembling finger. ‘Upstairs,’ she said. ‘Olivia, shall I—?’
But he had already moved past Dulcie, shouldering her aside as he half carried Olivia up the narrow staircase that led to her flat.
‘Would you please let go of me?’ she demanded. ‘You’re making a fool of yourself, Mr Archer. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. Do you hear me?’
He ignored her protests, shouldered open the door, and stepped into her living-room.
‘Where is your bedroom?’ he demanded.
Not the bedroom. The last place she wanted this man was in her bedroom. Olivia’s head might still be spinning, but she hadn’t lost the power to think straight.
‘The sofa’s fine,’ she said quickly.
He crossed the tiny room in a few strides and deposited her on the velvet-covered Empire sofa, then stood back and stared down at her, his face grim.
‘Where do you keep your brandy?’
‘Look, I don’t need brandy.’
‘Where is it?’
She threw up her hands. ‘I don’t have any.’
‘Cognac, then. Whiskey. Where is it?’
‘There’s nothing in the house.’
‘Hell, woman, you must have something on hand. What did Wright drink when he visited you?’
Her eyes fixed on his. There was absolutely no expression on his face, but the contempt in his voice was like a slap.
‘He didn’t,’ she said coldly.
‘Didn’t drink?’ One dark brow angled upwards. ‘That’s hard to believe. Old Charlie liked his liquor—almost as much as he liked his women.’
‘He didn’t visit me. And I resent you—’
‘Don’t give me that. He was in and out of this place.’
Olivia folded her arms across her chest. ‘He visited the shop,’ she said, even more coldly. ‘Never my flat—not that it’s any of your business.’
Edward’s lips drew back from his teeth. ‘Yeah. Right. Why would he, when he’d set up that nice little love nest for you over on Sutton Place?’
‘What?’
‘Come on, sweetheart, don’t push your luck. You put on a pretty good act, I’ll grant you that. But the show’s over.’ He strode across the room and into the efficiency kitchen. She could hear cabinet doors slamming and the tinkle of glass. ‘Here,’ he said, coming back to her with a glass of something red in his outstretched hand. ‘Drink it down.’
‘What is it?’ Olivia’s nose wrinkled as he pushed the glass under her nose. ‘Ugh,’ she said, ‘I don’t want that. It’s—’
‘It’s cheap wine,’ he said. ‘Not Wright’s taste at all, but it’ll do the job. Go on, drink it.’
‘It’s cooking wine. And I told you, I don’t need—’
‘Drink,’ he growled. His eyes flashed at her. ‘Or must I hold your nose and pour it in?’
She stared at him, her eyes locking with his. Lord, how she despised this man! He would do it, she was certain, he’d hold her still and feed the noxious stuff into her unless she did as he demanded. He was strong. And intimidating. And very sure of himself, and she didn’t want to take him on again, not now. All she wanted right this minute was to get Edward Archer out of her home so she could contact Ria and comfort her.
She reached out, snatched the glass from him and tossed down the bitter liquid. Her shoulders lifted, her throat convulsed, and she coughed explosively.
‘There,’ she gasped, ‘are you satisfied now?’
He said nothing for a long moment, only watched her with that same empty expression on his face, his eyes hooded and unreadable. A little shudder went through her as she thought how he seemed to fill, even overwhelm, her small living-room.
He reached out and took the glass from her fingers. ‘Hell, it’s not every day you learn your benefactor’s dead.’
Olivia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Charles Wright was a good man,’ she said.
‘Especially to you, sweetheart.’ His teeth glinted in a quick grin. ‘Hey, I can understand getting hysterical when you’ve suffered such a terrible loss.’
‘I hate to spoil this moment of drama for you, Mr Archer,’ she said coldly, ‘but I was not hysterical.’
He shrugged lazily. ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’
She rose to her feet. ‘Goodbye, Mr Archer. I wish I could say it had been nice to see you again, but—’
He shook his head as he leaned back against the wall. ‘I’m not leaving yet, Miss Harris,’ he said, his formal tone mimicking hers.
‘Yes, you are. We’ve nothing more to discuss.’
‘We’ve plenty to discuss.’ He cocked his head to the side and smiled again. ‘For instance, what did you do to old Charlie to kill him?’
The blood rushed from her face. ‘What?’
Edward laughed and held up his hand. ‘Let me rephrase that. What little tricks did you introduce him to last night, hmm?’ His smile faded. ‘It must have been something pretty cute to have done him in. Charlie was used to keeping fast company, but then I suppose a woman like you knows some things that can take a man as close to heaven as they do to hell.’
Olivia stared at him. ‘Are you suggesting—are you trying to insinuate that I—that Charles and I were—that we were...?’
‘I’m not insinuating anything.’ Edward moved quickly; he was across the narrow room and standing next to her before she had time to react. ‘I saw him, Olivia.’ His voice was soft, silken, and filled with menace. ‘I saw him in that big, silk-sheeted bed, I saw the imprint your head had left on the pillow beside his, I saw the bit of black lace you left tossed on the floor—’
‘I don’t have to listen to this nonsense,’ Olivia began as she started past him.
Edward’s hand closed tightly on her shoulder. ‘It’s too bad you weren’t with him when he breathed his last, Miss Harris. After all, your lover—’
‘Damn you!’ Angry tears rose in her eyes as she twisted unsuccessfully in his grasp. ‘He wasn’t my lover!’
He pulled her to him. ‘No?’
‘No! He was—’
He was Ria’s lover, she’d almost said. But no one knew that, and how could she name Ria without speaking to her first? Besides, neither she nor Ria owed this man any explanations. He was related to Charles’s wife, Ria had said, and his only interest in Charles was in finding a way to get his hands on the family fortune. Well, she could see that for herself now. Edward Archer didn’t give a damn about Charles’s death. Whatever he was angry about, it wasn’t because Charles Wright was no more.
‘I don’t owe you any explanations,’ she said stiffly.
He laughed. ‘No. I suppose you don’t.’ He stepped closer to her. ‘But you might want to be a little nicer to me, baby, considering that you’ve lost your bread and butter.’
Olivia twisted against his hand. ‘I don’t have to be anything to you! You’ve no right to—’
‘I have every right,’ he said in a silken whisper. ‘You’d better be a hell of a lot nicer to me.’ She cried out as his arms went around her and he pulled her against the hardness of his long, powerful body. ‘You’re going to have bills to pay, sweetheart, and I control the estate.’ He shifted her in his arms so that she was off balance; her weight fell against him and he smiled lazily at the feel of her body against his. ‘You’ll have to give up the flat in Sutton Place, of course.’
‘You’re insane! I don’t have a—’
‘But this place is pretty cosy. I might just let you keep it, and that pretty little design studio you play around in.’
‘Get out!’ she panted as she struggled to break free. ‘Damn you to hell, Edward Archer, get—’
‘Assuming you’re as nice to me as you were to old Charlie,’ he whispered, and then his mouth dropped to hers.
He was strong, as strong as she had known he would be. His arms imprisoned her, made her captive to the heat of his body. She cried out and tried to turn away from him.
‘I can be as generous as he was,’ he whispered against her mouth. He caught her head in his hands and held her so she couldn’t get away. ‘And I can make you happy in bed. We both know that.’
‘You bastard!’
‘Hell, we can make each other happy in bed,’ he said thickly, and he bent to her and kissed her again.
It was the same way he’d kissed her the first time, it was an angry, overpowering kiss meant to remind her of who was in charge and of what he thought of her, and it sent rage rocketing through her.
‘I hate you,’ she whispered fiercely.
Edward went very still. ‘Do you?’ he whispered, and suddenly there was a subtle change in the way he was holding her. His arms were just as hard, his embrace as unyielding. His body burned against hers with the same urgency. But there was a strange kind of longing in the way he held her. His kiss changed, too. It gentled, asked instead of demanded, gave instead of took.
‘Olivia,’ he whispered, and with a little sob of defeat she lifted her arms and wound them tightly around his neck. She pressed herself to him, wanting the feel of him imprinted on her breasts, on her belly, wanting to feel the silken darkness of his hair under her caressing hand, to feel the heat of his mouth on hers.
He thrust her from him so suddenly that she almost fell. Her lashes lifted; she stared into his face, watching as his eyes went from sea-dark to ice.
‘You see?’ he said. ‘It would be terrific.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But I’m not really sure I want to take another man’s leavings.’
She didn’t hesitate. Her hand came up and she hit him, hard, across the cheek. The crack of flesh against flesh was like the crack of lightning, and echoed through the small room. The look that flashed across Edward’s face was ominous, but Olivia was past caring.
‘You bastard,’ she said in a choked whisper. ‘You can’t come into my home and treat me like this! Just who in hell do you think you are?’
His smile was slow and lazy, as if she’d finally asked him the only question worth an answer, and he seemed to take an eternity before he answered.
‘I thought you knew,’ he said softly. ‘I’m Charles Wright’s stepson.’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re not. You’re a relative of his w...’
‘I’m his stepson, Miss Harris. And I’m here to see to it that you don’t keep one cent of what rightly belongs to my mother.’
‘Your—your mother? But Charles was divorcing her.’
He laughed. ‘Did he tell you that, too? Hell, it must have been his favourite bedtime tale.’ The laughter fled his face. ‘Listen and listen well, baby, because I’m only going to say this once before I let my attorneys do the talking.’ One arm swept out in a gesture that took in everything: the flat, the floors beneath, and, Olivia knew, her very existence. ‘You’re not going to keep any of it. Not this place, not the apartment leased in your name on Sutton Place—’
‘What apartment?’
‘You’re going to lose it all, Miss Harris. My lawyers and I will see to that. So maybe you’d better shine up your shoes and go for a stroll. Pick a good spot, baby, and with any luck you might be able to find another sucker to replace good old Charlie.’
Olivia wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Get out,’ she whispered, ‘you—you...’
His teeth glinted in a quick smile. ‘The lady’s finally at a loss for words.’ Turning, he reached for the doorknob. ‘Not to worry, darling. Talk isn’t what you’re best at anyway.’
She took a step towards him. ‘Get out of my house!’
‘Enjoy it while you can.’ He laughed softly. ‘It won’t be yours much longer.’
The door opened, then slammed shut, and Olivia was finally, mercifully, alone.

CHAPTER THREE
OLIVIA sat at her desk, her dark head illuminated by the light from the brass gooseneck lamp beside her. It was late, almost eight o’clock on a Wednesday evening, and the studio was quiet, the silence broken only by the whisper of paper as she leafed through the documents that had been contained in the file folder that now lay on the floor beside her.
She read slowly, carefully, scanning the words with intensity, until they began to dance before her eyes, and then she sat back, put her hands to her temples, and sighed deeply.
The papers proved what she’d known, all along. Edward Archer’s threats had been just that—threats, nothing more. Olivia’s Dream was hers, lock, stock and drapery rods. So long as she made her loan payments and mortgage payments on time, she had nothing to fear from anybody.
Why had she let him intimidate her so? She wasn’t the sort of woman who could be driven into a corner—you couldn’t be, not if you were going to get ahead in business. As for the rest...
Olivia got to her feet. She didn’t even want to think about the rest, about how she’d let him force a response from her when he’d kissed her, so that she’d behaved exactly like the woman of low morals he’d accused her of being. All she could do was hope that he, even in his incredible arrogance, understood that she’d acted that way because she’d been distraught and confused, that her momentary weakness in his arms hadn’t had a damned thing to do with him.
Not that it mattered. She would never have to face him again. He’d made threats, and that was it. He’d known, all along, that he didn’t have a leg to stand on. The money Charles had lent to her was hers, so long as she kept up her end of the repayment agreement, and nobody, not even Archer, could do a thing about it.
As for the ugly things he believed about her relationship with his stepfather—well, that didn’t surprise her. The Edward Archers of this world were only too ready to believe the worst. They were men of privilege and money who thought girls—and women—of a different class were toys that could be bought for a price.
Once he found out that it was Ria who’d been involved with his stepfather and not she, there would be the satisfaction of rubbing his patrician nose in the information.
Olivia sighed as she tucked the legal papers into their folder. Well, that would have to wait for later. She couldn’t say anything about Ria, not until she’d talked with her—and Ria wasn’t talking to anybody just yet. The only communication she’d had from her was a short note delivered by messenger the day after Edward Archer’s explosive visit.
‘Oh, Livvie, it’s awful!’ the note had said in Ria’s spidery hand. ‘We’ll talk soon, but right now I need to be alone. I know you’ll understand. Bless you.’
There was nothing to do but dig in and wait for Ria to surface, Olivia thought as she put the folder in the wall safe and closed the door. Until that happened, she’d keep a stiff upper lip and go on about her business, which was making Olivia’s Dream succeed. And Edward Archer could just take all his angry threats and—
‘Olivia?’
Olivia clapped her hand to her heart and swung around. Dulcie was standing in the open doorway, her shoulder-bag on her arm, a steaming mug in her outstretched hand.
‘Dulcie!’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘You scared me half to death. I thought you’d left an eternity ago.’
‘Coffee? You look as if you could use some.’
‘Thanks.’ Olivia took the mug, blew lightly on the black liquid, then took a sip. ‘Perfect. You’re right, this is exactly what I needed.’ She took another mouthful, then put the mug on her desk. ‘What are you doing here?’
Dulcie walked into the room and leaned back against the desk. ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this,’ she said. ‘But—there’s something you should see in today’s Chatterbox.’
‘That rag?’ Olivia made a face. ‘What could possibly be of interest to us in—?’
‘It’s—it’s about Charles.’
‘About Charles? But...’ Olivia went very still. Why was Dulcie looking at her that way? ‘Maybe you’d better tell me what the article was about,’ she said softly.
‘I hate these tabloids,’ the girl said with sudden ferocity. ‘They’re just—just so sleazy. I mean, hey, the guy was your partner, that’s all, he—’
‘My backer. Charles Wright was my backer. He loaned me the start-up money to open this shop.’ Olivia fought against the faint notes of panic in her voice. ‘You know that.’
Her assistant’s shoulders lifted and fell in an eloquent shrug. ‘Sure. That’s what I meant. And if he was anything else—’
‘Dammit, Dulcie, what are you saying?’
‘Listen, whose business is it if he—if you and he...?’ Dulcie’s face turned pink. ‘I would never say anything, Olivia, not even if that guy from the Chatterbox came sniffing around. I’d just tell him I think he’s a slimeball to have printed that stuff about you.’
Olivia felt the blood drain from her face. She reached out and grasped the back of the chair for support.
‘About—about me?’
‘Yeah.’ Dulcie nodded unhappily. ‘About—about you and Wright.’
‘What kind of stuff?’ Olivia touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. ‘That he lent me the money to buy this place? Is that what you mean?’
Dulcie shook her head as she dug into her holdall and pulled out a folded newspaper.
‘Here,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s probably best if you read it yourself.’
Wordlessly, Olivia took the paper and looked at it. The bold print leaped at her accusingly.
‘MILLIONAIRE FINANCIER FEATHERED A SECRET LOVE NEST‘, it said, and below, in slightly smaller letters, ‘Sutton Place Home to Charles Wright and Dark-haired Mystery Woman’.
The paper shook in Olivia’s hands as her eyes travelled down the page to a grainy black and white photo of a tall, slender woman, her back to the camera, her shoulder-length dark hair flying as she stepped from a low-slung sports car. ‘Do You Know this Gorgeous Bird?’ the caption asked.
Olivia caught her breath. Yes, she thought, I know her. Of course I know her.
It was Ria.
‘You don’t have to worry.’
Olivia blinked and looked up. Dulcie was watching her closely. ‘Worry about what?’ she said slowly.
Dulcie lifted her chin. ‘I wouldn’t tell a soul, not a single soul.’
‘Good,’ Olivia said absently, as she stared at the photo again. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to know. It would be upsetting, with all the publicity and—’
‘Oh, I understand.’ Dulcie put her hand on Olivia’s arm. ‘Mr Wright would never have wanted to drag your name through the mud. Why, he always treated you so—so politely. No one would’ve guessed that you and he were—that you were...’
Olivia looked up in horror as the girl’s voice faded. ‘But this isn’t me,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s...’
It’s Ria, she almost blurted. But Dulcie and Ria had never met—Ria had not been by since the shop had opened.
Besides, how could she say that without telling Dulcie everything?
She looked down at the photo again. Yes, it was Ria. But if you didn’t know any better, you might easily have thought it was Olivia. Olivia, with her dark hair flying. Olivia, getting out of Charles Wright’s little black Mercedes...
‘It’s not me,’ she said again.
‘Of course it isn’t,’ Dulcie said compassionately, but what she was really saying, what Olivia could clearly hear her saying, was, We both know it’s you, Olivia, but if you don’t want to admit it, I understand.
‘I’d never judge you, and neither would anybody else with half a brain. If it were you they were talking about.’ Dulcie touched her tongue to her lips. ‘Which, of course, it isn’t.’
Olivia looked up.
‘This is the 1990s, not the Dark Ages.’
‘That’s—that’s good to know. I—I...’ Olivia swallowed drily. ‘It’s late,’ she said softly. ‘Why don’t you head home? It was—it was kind of you to stay after hours.’
‘Listen, if you need to talk... If you need a shoulder to lean on... Even tonight. I could stay a while, or we could go out for a bite...?’
‘No,’ Olivia said quickly, ‘no, that’s all right. You—you go on. I’m fine.’
‘Sure?’
Olivia nodded. ‘Sure,’ she said. Somehow she managed to smile. ‘I’m going to go upstairs, get into my robe, and make myself an omelette. Then I’ll take a long, hot bath and climb into bed with a good book.’
It was a good prescription. But it was impossible to fill. Instead, she stood immobile in the centre of the room, listening to the tap of Dulcie’s heels on the stairs, then to the muffled thud of the front door as it slammed shut, and then she sank down into the chair at her desk.
Dear heaven, what a mess! First Edward Archer, now Dulcie. Dulcie, of all people. How could she think such a thing? Never mind. She could survive it, at least until Ria surfaced and she could tell Dulcie the truth.

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