Mediterranean Tycoons: Wealthy & Wicked. Jacqueline Baird
Читать онлайн книгу.
with him.
Jed wasn’t satisfied. ‘Marcus, I want the best for Phoebe, and this is not it.’
‘I am not going anywhere,’ Phoebe murmured, and all three turned to look at her. ‘I just want to sleep.’
‘She is right, gentlemen,’ Dr Norman spoke up again. ‘Let the nurse give her a sedative, and we can take this discussion outside.’
Phoebe stood in the kitchen, talking to the cat. ‘You were right about the man, Marty. I should have trusted your instincts instead of mine. Jed Sabbides, for all his wealth, is emotionally and morally bankrupt—an utterly ruthless and despicable man, and I hate him.’ The cat purred as if in agreement. ‘But you belong to me now, and you and I are leaving.’
She picked up the cat and placed her in the pet carrier, then picked up the bag with the jewellery box inside and without a backward glance left the apartment. Her cases were already in the foyer and her car was parked outside.
Phoebe thanked the doorman for loading her cases, and after placing the pet carrier in the back seat of her car she fastened the seat belt around the box, slid behind the wheel and drove off.
When she had woken the morning after her miscarriage Jed had been there and Dr Norman had discharged her. Still devastated by her loss, she hadn’t cared what happened to her, and when Jed had insisted he would take care of her she’d been too weak to resist, so she’d let him, and returned to the apartment.
Dr Marcus had provided a nurse to stay with her over the weekend, although Jed had insisted he could look after her. An appointment had been made at Marcus’s private clinic for the D&C the following week, and after a lot of persuading from the nurse and Phoebe that he was fussing over her too much Jed had left that afternoon to attend his father’s birthday party in Greece.
He had said, ‘You have my mobile number—ring me if you need me. But I will be back on Sunday evening. You can count on it.’ Then he had promised to take her to her appointment at the clinic the next week, kissed her goodbye, and left.
Well, it was now Monday, and the nurse had gone but Jed had not returned. After Phoebe had tried to to get in touch with him late last night a woman had answered his phone—Christina, his PA, apparently—and after an enlightening conversation Phoebe had known she was going nowhere except home…
She couldn’t believe she had been so weak, so spineless, that she had let Jed fool her a second time—well, never again, she vowed…
The warmth and the love she had thought she felt for him had turned into cold, bitter contempt, and so she had done what he expected of a mistress. Taken everything he had ever given her, including the car.
It was little enough for the price of a child.
‘I WISH you had told me it was the Greek Embassy, instead of just saying a foreign embassy,’ Phoebe said, nervously chewing on her bottom lip. She certainly hadn’t gone out of her way to put herself in the path of any Greeks in the last five years.
‘What difference does it make? Foreign, Greek, French—the same crowd attends all of them. Stop worrying, Phoebe. You look stunning in that silver thing, and you fit in perfectly among the international elite of our capital city—in fact you are the best-looking woman here by a mile.’
‘Flatterer, Julian! And my dress is not silver, but pale grey,’ she informed her partner with a smile as they moved slowly in the line to be presented to the Greek ambassador to London. ‘And this is a big step up for a history teacher from Dorset—an ambassador’s ball.’ And she would bet the simple jersey silk halter dress she was wearing was a fraction of the cost of every other woman’s gown in the place.
‘Rubbish! You studied politics as well as history, and you are smarter than most of the females here. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to switch careers and join the Foreign Office in London with me?’
‘No—and anyway, you are hardly ever in London, but off all over the world on government jaunts most of the time.’
Julian shook his head. ‘You know me too well, that is the trouble,’ he said with a mock sigh.
Phoebe laughed, but it was true. He was three years older than her and he had known her almost all her life. Her Aunt Jemma had worked as his father’s secretary for years, and after the old man’s death Julian had inherited everything. But instead of taking over the full time running of the vast Gladstone estate, as his father had, he had hired an estate manager as he much preferred his government career.
Her Aunt Jemma lived in a cottage on the outskirts of a village on the estate, and Phoebe had spent part of the summer holiday at her aunt’s for as long as she could remember. After her parents had died it had become her permanent home. Still was, she thought with a wry smile.
‘Stop daydreaming, girl,’ Julian quipped, ‘It is our turn.’ He stopped. ‘Phoebe, meet Alessandro, our Greek ambassador and a good friend of mine—who, I might add, is a widower, and will be sorely missed by the ladies in the drawing rooms of London when he returns to his own country next month.’
Phoebe smiled at Julian’s informal introduction and held out her hand to the distinguished-looking man standing in front of her. ‘Pleased to meet you. I am Phoebe Brown.’
He was a very attractive man, with silver hair and a warm smile, and this ball was apparently his way of saying goodbye to the other ambassadors of the international community in London. Something Julian had omitted to tell her when he had talked her into attending the ball with him.
‘The pleasure is mine, Phoebe. Now I understand why Julian has spent so much time in Dorset lately. It is always a delight to meet a beautiful woman.’ His dark eyes twinkled, and she was flattered as he asked her a few questions about her life.
Beginning to relax, she held Julian’s arm as he let her down the staircase into the elegant ballroom. He took a couple of glasses of champagne from a circling waiter and handed her one.
‘Not as bad as you feared?’ He touched his glass to hers. ‘To an interesting night.’
Phoebe smiled and took a sip of the excellent champagne. ‘You know, Julian, for once you may be right.’
The band struck up a waltz, and Julian took her glass from her hand and placed both on a nearby table. ‘I’m sure I can do this,’ he declared, wrapping an arm around her waist and taking her hand in his. ‘I watched some celebrity ballroom dancing show while I was consigned to the country for so long.’
Phoebe laughed out loud. ‘A few weeks with your legs in plaster and being convalescent for another two months watching television does not a dancer make,’ she quipped.
‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ he mocked, and led her onto the dance floor.
Surprisingly, he was an excellent dancer, and Phoebe knew he had not really learnt from the television—though it was a fact that his enforced sojourn at the family manor in Dorset was the longest period he had stayed there in his adult life, after smashing both his legs in a motorcycle accident.
Julian, six-feet-two, twenty-nine years old, unmarried and undeniably handsome, with blond hair, grey eyes and a wicked smile, enjoyed playing the typical man about town. But after being a long-time family friend over the last few months he had developed his relationship with Phoebe into something a bit more. At first she had thought it was because, devoid of much female company in rural Dorset, he considered her his best bet. But his kisses were persuasive, and he had almost convinced her otherwise. Tonight they were staying at his London apartment after the ball, and though he had never said she got the impression he was hoping for a lot more than kisses. But, having been burnt before, she was still a bit wary.
In fact she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have changed her mind if she had known the ball was at the Greek Embassy before they had arrived. But it was too late. Besides, no