The Independent Bride. Sophie Weston

just stood there, under an assault of words like hailstones. In the end they all came back to the same point. Pepper was Calhoun Carter Industries’ property, bought and paid for over years. The very best education money could buy had seen to that. Along with the house in the South of France, the condo in New York, the South Sea Island mountain retreat, her suite in the Calhoun mansion…

      Pepper hung on to cool reason but it was an effort. ‘But they aren’t mine.’

      Mary Ellen showed her teeth in a shark’s smile. ‘Got it at last!’

      Oh, Pepper got it. Slowly. Reluctantly. With disbelief. But she got it.

      ‘You mean that all the stuff you’ve given me over the years—’

      ‘Invested,’ corrected Mary Ellen coldly. ‘You are an investment. Nothing more.’

      If Pepper had been pale before, she was ashen now. This was the woman who had introduced her at parties as ‘my little princess’?

      Mary Ellen smiled. ‘Think about it. The European schools. The year in Paris. Seed corn. I even arranged for you to go to business school five years younger than everyone else, so you wouldn’t want time out when the company needed you.’

      Pepper was outraged. ‘The business school took me on my own merits. I won a prize, for God’s sake.’

      Mary Ellen mocked that, too. ‘Problem solving! When did you ever solve a problem? All your problems have been bought off by Calhoun money.’

      That was when Mary Ellen listed them. Not just the right schools, the right clothes, the right apartments, the right friends. The senior businessmen who had taken her calls and talked to her like an equal. The junior businessmen who had dated her…

      Dated…?

      Pepper gulped. Her blouse was not just damp and cold any more. It was icy. A cascade of icicles was thundering down her spine. She was shivering so much she could hardly speak.

      ‘What do you mean? What have my dates got to do with this?’

      Mary Ellen saw that she had scored a hit. Her eyes gleamed.

      ‘You have no idea what it cost me to get you a social life,’ she went on with that trill of laughter that was her trademark. It was very musical, very ladylike. But the eyes that met Pepper’s across the dusty old cabin were not ladylike in the least.

      Even so—dated?

      ‘You’re nothing but a potato,’ said Mary Ellen, light and cruel and suddenly horribly believable. ‘Who would bother with you if you weren’t my grandchild?’

      Pepper was the first to admit that she was not fashionably slender, but she had always thought she was good company. That her friends liked her for that. She said so.

      Mary Ellen’s hard little eyes snapped. ‘And I suppose you think that one day you’ll meet Prince Charming and get married, too? Grow up!’

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘You have only one chance to be a bride,’ said Mary Ellen, showing her teeth like a shark. ‘And that’s if I buy you a husband. After all those mercy dates I paid for, I’ve got a good long list of candidates.’

      That was when Pepper knew that she could not take any more. There was no point in even trying. With a superhuman effort, she told her icy muscles to stop shaking and move. And she walked out.

      Mary Ellen was not expecting it. ‘Where are you going?’ she yelled, suddenly not even pretending to be ladylike any more.

      Pepper did not stop. She went running, scrambling up the soggy path, to where Ed was sitting.

      Her grandmother ran after her, but halted at the point where the path began to climb.

      ‘You get back here this minute,’ she yelled.

      Pepper did not stop. Not even when she fell to one knee. Not even when she felt her pantyhose tear and blood trickle down her shin. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything but getting away from the grandmother whose affection had been a lie right from the start.

      By the time she reached Ed, she was panting. ‘Take me back to New York,’ she said. ‘Take me back now.’

      He hesitated, but only for a moment. It would have taken a braver man than Ed Ivanov to face Mary Ellen in this mood. He took Pepper’s arm and hurried her towards the clearing where the helicopter was waiting.

      Ladylike, five foot two, Mary Ellen had a voice like a bass drum when roused. It reached them easily. So did the fury.

      ‘You’ll never make it on your own, Penelope Anne Calhoun, do you hear me? I own you.’

      A week later, Pepper knew exactly how true that was. So she leaned against the wall, skulking down as a party of VIPs swept onto the London plane in advance of everyone else. She did not care about VIPs, but there was an outside chance that they might recognise her. After all, Mary Ellen was a VIP. As the Calhoun heir, Pepper had been one too for most of her life.

      Well, that was all over now. A good thing, too, she told herself.

      She would get to London. She would put together a new life. And she would survive.

      All she had to do was keep clear of VIPs.

      ‘Professor Konig?’ The flight attendant had obviously been waiting for them. She was instantly alert, full of professional smiles. ‘Welcome on board, sir. This way.’

      The VIP and the airline director followed her.

      ‘So that’s what you get in first class,’ Steven Konig muttered to David Guber. ‘Instant name-check and personal escort to your seat.’

      The attendant took his jacket and the ticket stub to label it, and left her boss to do the formal farewells. Steven looked after her.

      ‘Is it enough to justify the cost, I ask myself?’

      The other man smiled. ‘You old Puritan! Still working on the principle I’m uncomfortable therefore I am?’

      Steven laughed. ‘You may be right.’

      Dave punched his arm lightly. ‘You’re important enough to fly the Atlantic without having your knees under your nose any more, Steven. Live with it.’

      ‘Can I quote you?’ Steven was dry.

      Dave Guber was not only a long-standing friend, he was a main board member of this airline. He grinned, ‘If you do, I’ll sue.’ He shook hands and added soberly, ‘I mean it. I’m really grateful, Steven. You saved our butts.’

      Steven shook his head, disclaiming.

      ‘Yes, you did. If you hadn’t come through for me we’d have had a conference and no keynote speaker. Great speech, too.’

      Steven shrugged. ‘I was glad to do it. I’ve wanted to do a think piece on the subject for a long time.’

      ‘Yeah, sure. Like you haven’t got enough to fill your time already.’

      ‘No, I mean it,’ Steven insisted. ‘It makes a change.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘It seems like all I do these days is meetings, meetings, meetings. It was really nice just to sit down and think for once.’

      Dave Guber looked quizzical. ‘Wish you were only doing one job again?’

      ‘Chairman of Kplant is my job,’ Steven told him drily. ‘Being Master of Queen Margaret’s isn’t a job; it’s a vocation. Ask the Dean.’

      They both grinned. They understood each other perfectly. They had first met at Queen Margaret’s College, Oxford, as students years ago. And they had both been fined by the Dean regularly for standard student bad behaviour.

      Dave cocked an eyebrow. ‘He isn’t glad to see you back?’

      ‘Spitting tintacks,’ agreed Steven, amused.