The Bad Boy Wants Me(97)

‘That’s my ward,’ he bit out. ‘I’ve been entrusted with her well-being.’

‘Let go of my arm,’ she gritted.

He released her arm. ‘Don’t force me to take an injunction out on you.’

‘She cheated him. He was ill,’ she cried.

‘He wasn’t ill, Rosalind. You may have been able to make that argument if you had not tried to have him declared incompetent six months ago, but he passed the battery of tests your team of doctors had run with flying colors.’

‘He became more ill after that.’

‘He wrote his will two years ago.’

She frowned and then gasped. ‘As soon as he met her.’ She looked down at me and screeched, ‘What did you do to him, you little conniving bitch?’

‘That’s enough, Rosalind. Your husband is waiting outside. You should go home.’ Ivan’s voice was so cold and hard I jumped.

‘This is not the end of it,’ she promised before she stalked off. Bianca ran after her, but Dorian remained to hear that he too had been left exactly the same as Rosalind. A lifelong income of twenty thousand pounds and a quarter of a million pounds.

He turned to look at me and sardonically raised his empty glass as if in a toast. I looked away.

Then it was Ivan’s turn, and I was utterly surprised to find that there was no money for him at all. Not even a small token sum. All he had been left was a painting that he admired as a child.

After Ivan it was my turn.

The solicitor confirmed what Robert had told me. I had been given everything else. The entire Maxwell fortune.





Chapter 6


Tawny Maxwell

The wake was a great success. It was exactly how Robert wanted it, with a sumptuous spread of food, champagne, singers and even fire-eaters performing on the snow covered grounds.

In all the gaiety, music and people, I suddenly realized that I couldn’t feel Robert anymore. This was his house and this was a wake for him, but his spirit seemed to be nowhere.

Stifling a desire to tell everyone to go home, I slipped out of the reception rooms filled with people and walked to his library. I paused for a moment before I opened the tall doors and went in. Immediately I was engulfed by the familiar smell of the room. Before he became truly ill this room used to smell of the tobacco from his pipe. Now it just smelt of old leather and that cream he used to use.

Inhaling deeply, I walked into the cold darkness. I felt as if the past lived in that darkness and I could simply walk into it. I journeyed deeper into the room and went up to his desk. I let my fingers trail on the polished wood surface. I switched on the table lamp. It threw a pool of yellow light on the polished wood and I thought of Robert sitting here, his head bowed, reading.

‘Oh, Robert,’ I breathed.

‘Hello, Mother,’ a voice drawled from the doorway.

My spine stiffened. I turned around slowly.

Dorian was standing at the doorway holding a glass of red wine. His handsome face was slightly flushed, his lips red, and his hair a little mussed. In the half-light he looked as beautiful as one of those Greek statues, but from the way he held the glass, with it slightly tipped to one side, told me he was more than a little drunk.

‘I’m not your mother,’ I said coldly.

He took a sip of wine. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t hold that against you,’ he said slowly.

I hoped my face did not show the disgust I felt. It never failed to amaze me how little of Robert remained in his children.

‘What do you want, Dorian?’ My voice sounded harsh in the empty room.

He strolled towards me. Something about his unnaturally casual stance made me shudder. He stopped in front of me and the desire to take a step back was almost overpowering, but I held my ground.

I was in my home. He was the intruder. What could he do to me? One scream and a whole host of people would come running. He was just trying to scare me, but there was nothing to fear. I was only helpless when my nail polish was wet, and even then I could still pull a trigger if I had to and he was just a spoilt rich kid. I refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had succeeded in rattling me.

‘Do you know I’ve always wanted to fuck you?’ he said conversationally.

I stared at him steadily, my face wiped of all expression. Robert always said that the art of war was to never show your hand. Always take your enemy by surprise.

‘Well, I’ve never wanted to fuck you,’ I replied with elaborate politeness.

He took a long slow sip of his drink and regarded me quizzically over the rim of his glass. ‘Hmmm … how could he possibly have satisfied you?’ he wondered aloud.

I smiled coldly. ‘I loved him.’

Amusement flashed in his eyes. ‘Come on, the sex was shit though, wasn’t it?’