Ryan's Revenge. Lee Wilkinson

London two-and-a-half years ago, she had used her middle name as a surname and had virtually lived in hiding. No one knew where she was. Not even her parents.

      She had been staying in a cheap hotel off the Bayswater Road and, with very little money and Christmas coming up, had been badly in need of a job.

      The employment agency she’d approached had sent her to the Raynor Gallery where she had been interviewed by Charles himself.

      She had told him about the course on the practical and administrative side of art she had taken at college, and had explained, without giving any details, that she had just returned from the States.

      After studying her thoughtfully while she spoke, he had offered her a post as his assistant.

      After she had been working for him for almost a year, the gallery had started to handle the Adams’ work, and when Charles had suggested that she should be their contact she had been forced to tell him at least part of the truth.

      ‘Virginia, my dear,’ he protested, ‘as you’re their daughter, surely—’

      ‘I don’t want them to know where I am.’

      They were acquainted with Ryan, and that made any communication with them potentially dangerous.

      Charles frowned. ‘But won’t they worry about you?’

      ‘No, I’m certain they won’t. You see we’ve never been a family in the real sense of the word.’

      Seeing he was unconvinced, she explained, ‘Mother was fresh out of art school when she met my father, who was over from the States.

      ‘They’d both been painting since they were children, and lived for art. That’s probably what drew them together.

      ‘After they married they lived in Greenwich Village for several years before coming back to settle in England. By the time I was born they were well into their thirties.

      ‘I was a mistake. Neither of them wanted me. If mother hadn’t been brought up to believe life was sacred, I think she might well have had an abortion.’

      ‘Oh surely not!’ Charles, a mild-mannered, conventional man, sounded shocked by her bluntness.

      ‘They were both so wrapped up in their work that a baby was an unlooked-for and unwelcome complication in their lives…’

      Though she spoke flatly, dispassionately, he could feel her abiding sense of rejection, and his heart bled for her.

      ‘They were well-off financially, and their solution was a series of nannies, and a girl’s boarding school as soon as I was old enough.

      ‘I was on the point of leaving school and starting college when they went back to New York to live.’

      ‘They left you behind?’

      ‘I was nearly eighteen by then.’

      ‘But surely they helped to support you? Financially, I mean?’

      ‘No, I didn’t want them to. I preferred to take evening and weekend jobs and stay independent…

      ‘So you see, not knowing where I am now won’t worry them in the slightest. In fact I doubt if they ever give me a thought.’

      ‘Very well, if you’re sure?’

      ‘I’m quite sure.’

      ‘Then, I’ll deal with them personally.’

      ‘You won’t say anything?’ she asked anxiously.

      ‘Not a word. Your secret’s safe with me.’

      She felt a rush of affection for him. He was a thoroughly nice man and, knowing that he would keep his promise, she breathed easier.

      Until now…

      The latch clicked.

      She glanced up sharply, her heart in her mouth.

      It was Charles, neat and conservative in a lightweight business suit, a lock of fair hair falling over his high forehead giving him a boyish air that belied his forty-three years.

      Seeing her face had lost all trace of colour, he said reassuringly, ‘There’s no need to look so concerned. He’s gone.’

      Perhaps, subconsciously, she had been half expecting Ryan to come bursting in, and relief was washing over her like a warm tide when a sudden thought made her query anxiously, ‘He didn’t ask about me?’

      Dropping into the chair opposite, Charles raised a fair brow. ‘Why should he?’

      She worried her lower lip. ‘I’d started to go down when I realised who it was. I thought he might have seen and recognised me.’

      ‘He made no mention of it,’ Charles assured her calmly. ‘And, as he appears to be the type who wouldn’t have hesitated to ask about anything he wanted to know, I think we can safely assume he didn’t.’

      Watching Virginia relax perceptibly, he wondered what had passed between her and the powerful-looking man he’d just been talking to.

      From her reactions it was clear that her feelings had been a great deal deeper than her casual ‘someone I once knew’ had implied. It might even be part of the reason she had refused his offer of marriage…

      Hoping for further reassurance that Ryan’s visit had been just chance, she asked, ‘What did he actually say? How did he act?’

      ‘His manner was quite straightforward and purposeful. He told me his name was Ryan Falconer, and that he’d like to acquire, amongst other things, some of the earlier Adams paintings. I promised I’d put out some feelers and let him know the chances as soon as possible…’

      ‘Is he staying in England?’

      ‘For a few days, apparently. As well as his home address in Manhattan, he gave me the phone number of a Mayfair hotel.’

      Mayfair. She repressed a shiver. Practically on their doorstep and much too close for comfort.

      ‘Though he’s primarily a businessman, a Wall Street investment banker, I understand, he’s interested in art and owns the Falconer Gallery in New York… But possibly you knew that?’

      ‘Yes.’

      When she failed to elaborate, Charles went on, ‘However, I gather the paintings he’s hoping to buy are for his private collection. He mentioned one by Mia Adams that he’d particularly like to own, Wednesday’s Child…’

      She froze.

      ‘Falconer believes it was painted seven or eight years ago, and is one of her best. Though I must say I’ve never heard of it… He made it clear that money’s no object, so I’ve promised to do what I can. Of course, even if I’m able to locate it, the present owner might not be willing to sell.’

      Something about Virginia’s utter stillness made Charles ask, ‘Do you remember it by any chance?’

      Taking a deep breath, she admitted, ‘As a matter of fact I do. I sat for it. I wasn’t quite seventeen.’

      His light blue eyes glowing with interest, he exclaimed, ‘I didn’t realise your mother had ever used you as a model!’

      ‘It was just the once. I’d been invited to spend the summer holidays with a school friend—Jane belonged to a big happy family, and I was looking forward to it—but at the last minute the visit had to be cancelled, so I went home.

      ‘Mother said that as I was there she might as well make use of me. I tried hard to do just as she wanted, but for some reason she disliked the finished portrait, and she never asked me to sit again.’

      ‘What did you think of it?’

      ‘I didn’t see it,’ Virginia said flatly. ‘She told me that it needed framing, and the next time I went home, it had been sold…’

      And