In The Millionaire's Possession. Sara Craven

asking her to explain or expand further on some of the points she’d made in her application. Clearly they’d all read the file, she thought hopefully, and seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.

      The door opened to admit the tall blonde, bringing coffee on a trolley, and Helen was glad to see there was mineral water as well. This interview was proving just as much of an ordeal as she’d expected, and her mouth was dry again.

      When the blonde withdrew, the Frenchman reached for his folder and extracted a sheet of paper.

      ‘This is not your first application for financial assistance towards the repair and renovation of Monteagle House, mademoiselle. Is this an accurate list of the organisations you have previously approached?’

      Helen bit her lip as she scanned down the column of names. ‘Yes, it is.’

      ‘But none of your efforts were successful?’ The low voice pressed her.

      ‘No,’ she admitted stonily, aware that her creamy skin had warmed.

      ‘So how did you become aware of us?’

      ‘A friend of mine found you on the internet. She said you seemed to be interested in smaller projects. So—I thought I would try.’

      ‘Because you were becoming desperate.’ It was a statement, not a question.

      ‘Yes.’ Helen looked at him defiantly. Her consciousness of her surroundings seemed to have contracted—intensified. There might just have been the two of them in the room, locked in confrontation. ‘By this stage I will explore any avenue that presents itself. I will not allow Monteagle to become derelict, and I’ll do whatever it takes to save it.’

      There was a silence, then he produced another sheet of paper. ‘The surveyor’s report that you have included in your submission is twenty years old.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I felt that the recommendations made then still apply. Although the costs have obviously risen.’

      ‘Twenty years is a long time, mademoiselle. Having commissioned such a report, why did your family not carry out the necessary works at that time?’

      Helen’s flush deepened. ‘My grandfather had every intention of doing so, but he was overtaken by events.’

      ‘Can you explain further?’ the smooth voice probed.

      She took a breath, hating the admission she was being forced to make. ‘There was a crisis in the insurance industry. My grandfather was a Lloyds’ name in those days, and the calls that were made on him brought us all to the edge of ruin. He even thought Monteagle might have to be sold.’

      ‘That is still a possibility, of course,’ her adversary said gently, and paused. ‘Is it not true that you have received a most generous offer for the entire estate from a Monsieur Trevor Newson? An offer that would halt the disintegration of the house, mademoiselle, and in addition restore your own finances? Would that not be better than having to beg your way round every committee and trust? And deal with constant rejection?’

      ‘I find Mr Newson’s plans for the estate totally unacceptable,’ Helen said curtly. ‘I’m a Frayne, and I won’t allow the place that has been our home for centuries to be trashed in the way he proposes. I refuse to give up.’ She leaned forward, her voice shaking with sudden intensity. ‘I’ll find the money somehow, and I’ll do anything to get it.’

      ‘Anything?’ The dark brows lifted mockingly. ‘You are a most determined champion of your cause.’

      ‘I have to be.’ Helen flung back her head. ‘And if achieving my aim includes begging, then so be it. Monteagle is well worth the sacrifice.’

      And then, as if a wire had snapped, parting them, it was over. The Frenchman was leaning back in his chair and the chairman was rising to his feet.

      ‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Frayne, and we shall consider your proposals with great care—including the additional information and material you have supplied.’ He picked up the video, giving her a warm smile. ‘We hope to come to our decision by the end of the month.’

      ‘I’m grateful to you for seeing me,’ Helen said formally, and got herself out of the room without once glancing in the direction of her interrogator.

      In the corridor, she paused, a hand pressed to her side as if she had been running in some uphill race.

      What in hell had been going on there? she asked herself dazedly. Were they running some good cop/bad cop routine, where the upright members of the committee softened her up with their kindly interest so that their resident thug could move in for the kill?

      Up to then it had been going quite well, she thought anxiously, or she’d believed it had. But her audience might not appreciate being regarded as the very last resort at the end of a long list of them, as he’d suggested.

      God, but he’d been loathsome in every respect, she thought vengefully as she made her way back to the reception area. And to hell with his charm and sex appeal.

      Quite apart from anything else, she knew now what it was like to be mentally undressed, and it was a technique that she did not appreciate. In fact, she thought furiously, it was probably a form of sexual harassment—not that anyone whose spiritual home was obviously the Stone Age would have heard of such a thing, or even care.

      All the same, she found herself wondering who he was exactly and how much influence he actually wielded in Restauration International. Well, there was one quick way to find out.

      The blonde was in the foyer, chatting to the receptionist. They both glanced up with brief formal smiles as Helen approached.

      She said coolly, ‘Please may I have a copy of the organisation’s introduction pack?’

      Brows rose, and they exchanged glances. The blonde said, ‘I think you’ll find you were sent one following your original enquiry, Miss Frayne.’

      ‘Indeed I was,’ Helen agreed. ‘But unfortunately it’s at home, and there are a few details I need to check.’ She paused. ‘So—if it’s not too much trouble …?’

      There was another exchange of glances, then the receptionist opened with ill grace a drawer in her large desk, and took out a plastic-encased folder, which she handed to Helen.

      ‘One per application is the norm, Miss Frayne,’ she said. ‘Please look after it.’

      ‘I shall treasure it,’ Helen assured her. As she moved to put the pack in her briefcase, she was suddenly aware of footsteps crossing the foyer behind her. And at the same time, as if some switch had been pulled, the haughty stares from the other two girls vanished, to be replaced by smiles so sweet that they were almost simpering.

      Helen felt as if icy fingers were tracing a path down her spine as instinct told her who had come to join them.

      She turned slowly to face him, schooling her expression to indifference.

      ‘Making sure I leave the building, monsieur?’

      ‘No, merely going to my own next appointment, mademoiselle.’ His smile mocked her quite openly. He glanced at the pack she was still holding. ‘And my name is Delaroche,’ he added softly. ‘Marc Delaroche. As I would have told you earlier, had you asked.’

      He watched with undisguised appreciation as Helen struggled against an urge to hurl the pack at his head, then made her a slight bow as upbringing triumphed over instinct and she replaced it on the desk.

      She said icily, ‘I merely wanted something to read on the train. But I can always buy a paper.’

      ‘But of course.’ He was using that smile again, but this time she was braced against its impact.

      ‘A bientôt,’ he added, and went, with a wave to the other two, who were still gazing at him in a kind of dumb entrancement.

      ‘See you soon’, Monsieur