The Millionaire's Revenge. Cathy Williams

      

      “Why are you so bitter?” Laura’s eyes met his and skittered away in a rush of helpless confusion.

      “Why am I so bitter…?” he mused. His voice was lazy and thoughtful, but his dark eyes were coldly hostile and a shiver of dread slithered down Laura’s spine. “Why do you think I’m bitter?”

      “Because your pride was dented when…” Her voice faltered.

      “Say it, Laura,” he commanded silkily. “After all, it has been a long time since we last set eyes on one another. What could be more natural than to go over old ground?”

      “What’s the point of all this? Do you have any intention of buying the stables, Gabriel, or did you decide to get me here so that you could watch me squirm? Humiliate me because I once turned down your proposal of marriage?”

      There. It was out, and they stared at one another in lengthening silence.

      The Millionaire’s Revenge

       by

       Cathy Williams

      There are times in a man’s life…

      when only seduction will settle old scores!

      Pick up our exciting new series of revenge-themed

       romances—they’re recommended and red-hot!

      The Millionaire’s Revenge

      Cathy Williams

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      Contents

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      GABRIEL GREPPI stood outside the compact, ivy-clad Victorian house for a few minutes, his hands thrust into the pockets of his beaten suede jacket. He glanced up towards the left of the house, and saw that her room was in darkness. It would be. She would be at the stables now, even though it was after nine and the countryside was sunk in the frozen grip of winter.

      The thought of her brought a smile to his lips. For her, he would go through this, but it wouldn’t always be this way. He knew it. Could feel it in his bones. Knocking on the door of this house and being made to feel like a beggar, a distasteful presence to be endured by her parents with that particularly freezing politeness so typical of the British upper crust. No, things would change. He was only twenty-two and it might be a long haul, but things would change.

      He hardened his jaw and pressed his finger to the doorbell, listening to it resound through the house, then he lounged against the doorframe and waited until the door was cautiously pulled open. Gabriel was tempted to ask whether they were expecting bandits to ring the bell before entering the house, but he refrained. A keen sense of humour had never been one of Peter Jackson’s striking qualities, although that might just have been towards him.

      ‘Greppi. What brings you here, boy?’

      Gabriel gritted his teeth together and summoned up all his self-control not to respond with something he would live to regret.

      ‘Could I have a word with you, Mr Jackson?’ He insinuated his foot through the small opening, just in case Peter Jackson gave in to the temptation to slam the door in his face.

      ‘What, now? Can’t it wait?’

      Peter Jackson gave an impatient click of his tongue and regarded Gabriel’s dark, handsome face with irritation, then he reluctantly pulled open the door and stepped back. ‘If you’ve come to see my daughter, then you can start heading back to that house of yours, boy. Laura’s in bed and I have no intention of getting her out of it at this ungodly hour.’

      ‘It’s nine o’clock.’

      ‘Precisely.’

      ‘And I haven’t come to see Laura, I have come to see you. You and your wife.’ Gabriel fought to maintain his composure but, under his weathered jacket and faded jeans, every muscle in his hard body had tensed.

      That stopped Peter Jackson in his tracks. He paused and narrowed his blue eyes. ‘I hope you don’t intend to ask any favours of me, boy, because I can tell you right now that the answer is a resounding negative. I am not in the habit of bailing out anyone financially.’

      ‘I have not come here to ask for money.’ He kept his tone as polite as he could, but the derision underneath was unmistakable and the older man’s mouth tightened.

      ‘Then say what you have to say and leave.’

      This was turning out to be a big mistake. He had chosen to take the honourable path and now he wondered what had possessed him.

      ‘Perhaps I could speak with your wife as well.’

      ‘Oh, very well. But you’ll have to be brief. My wife is not a well woman. She needs to get to bed at a reasonable hour.’ He turned and began walking towards the snug and Gabriel followed behind him, slightly taller and with the easy, graceful stride of someone attuned with his body.

      ‘Lizzie, darling, we have an unexpected visitor. No, no need to get up. It’s just Greppi.’

      Elizabeth Jackson sat in one of the big, padded armchairs, a fragile figure but with the stunning prettiness of a woman who even now, in her mid-fifties, could still make heads turn. The classic English rose who exuded good breeding from every one of her fingertips. Neither invited him to sit, nor was he offered a drink, although both were, he could tell, curious to find out what the hell he was doing in their house at the unseemly hour of nine in the evening.

      Peter Jackson stood behind his wife’s chair, as ruggedly impressive as she was delicately pretty. ‘If you’re thinking of buying one of the horses, Greppi, then you’re out of luck. Laura tells me that you have a knack with Barnabus, but he’s not for sale. If you could afford him, which I frankly doubt. Might be a bit tempestuous, that stallion, but he’ll make a damned fine racehorse with the proper training, so don’t think you can cut yourself a deal cheaply simply because you know how to handle him. Or, for that matter, because my daughter chooses to associate with you. I am doing enough of a good deed by employing you to do odd jobs around the stables on the weekends.’

      ‘I have come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.’