Rafaello's Mistress. Lynne Graham

fell clean out of her hand. The cup tipped and she gasped as coffee went flying over the perfect pale carpet.

      ‘Si…yes,’ Rafaello confirmed as the spilt liquid flowed over the expensive fibres in a spreading stain and she just stared fixedly at it, paralysed where she sat. ‘Naturally my father told me what it cost to persuade you that I was not, after all, the love of your life. And it was a fitting footnote to our relationship. A lousy five grand when you could have had ten, twenty, thirty times that for the asking. But I guess five grand seemed like a small fortune to you then.’

      Glory was still watching the seeping pool of coffee. She was appalled that he had found out about that payment. She felt sick. She was in an agony of shame. Rafaello knew, Rafaello knew about the money. ‘He said it would be a secret, he said you would never know…’ she mumbled strickenly.

      ‘Dio mio…do you believe everything you’re told?’ Rafaello murmured with a cruel enjoyment that she could feel like a knife plunging between her ribs. ‘I was amused—’

      ‘Amused?’ Folding her arms over her churning tummy, Glory gazed up at him in shaken disbelief.

      ‘My father acting like some clumsy Victorian squire trying to pay off a maidservant he saw as a threat to family unity. So unnecessary,’ Rafaello mused. ‘I never entertained a single serious thought about our relationship. But I wasn’t amused when you took the money like the greedy little gold-digger he said you were. That was cheap and inexcusable.’

      Glory sat there as if she were turned to stone. She said nothing. She had nothing to say, for, as the money had not been returned, she could not defend herself. It would scarcely help her father’s case if she was now to confide that Archie Little had refused to allow her to destroy that cheque. Indeed, he had taken her to the bank that same day and the money had been transferred into his account. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, he had said when she argued with him. If she was being forced to leave home to please Benito Grazzini, her father had believed that he was due some compensation. Deprived of her help in the household, not to mention the extra money her job brought in, how was he to manage?

      A greedy little gold-digger? So that was how Rafaello had learned to think of her over the past five years. True bitterness scythed through Glory. She thought of the games rich people played and the damage they could wreak. Their money could give them the power to bully smaller people and make them do what they didn’t want to do. She had left home because her father’s job and his very survival had been at stake and for no other reason. It seemed bitterly ironic that she was now facing Rafaello again for much the same reason.

      She squared her shoulders and veiled her eyes. ‘Now that you’ve told me what you think of me, can we discuss why I asked for this appointment?’

      ‘Go ahead…’ Rafaello said drily.

      ‘You’ve given my father a month’s notice—’

      ‘Don’t tell me you’re surprised.’ Rafaello elevated a sleek dark brow. ‘If it hadn’t been for your father’s incompetence, your punk of a brother would never have gained access to my home—’

      ‘Sam nicked the keys when Dad was asleep,’ Glory protested, rising to her feet in a sudden defensive movement. ‘Since Dad could hardly have guessed what Sam was planning to do, you can’t blame him for what happened!’

      ‘But I can certainly blame your father for telling the police a pack of lies and trying to protect your brother and his nasty destructive friends,’ Rafaello cut in with ruthless bite. ‘Have you any idea how much damage has been caused to the Park?’

      ‘Sam told me everything.’ However, Glory’s combative stance had instantly evaporated when she was faced with that daunting question. ‘Rugs stained and furniture scratched and windows broken, but at least the damage was restricted to two rooms. As soon as Sam realised that his mates were too drunk for him to control, he ran for help. Dad should have called the police himself and he should have told the truth when the housekeeper called the police in the next morning—’

      ‘But he didn’t,’ Rafaello slotted in with lethal timing.

      ‘He was scared of the consequences. My brother’s only sixteen. But Sam did tell the truth when the police questioned him. He’s very ashamed and very sorry—’

      ‘Of course he is. He doesn’t want to be prosecuted.’

      Having turned noticeably paler at that blunt statement of possible intent, Glory said in desperation, ‘Didn’t you ever kick up a lark that went horribly wrong at his age?’

      ‘If you’re asking, did I ever trespass on someone else’s property or vandalise it?…the answer is no.’

      ‘But then, I bet you had more exciting outlets at Sam’s age,’ Glory persisted. ‘Only there’s virtually nothing for teenagers to do in the area and nowhere for them to go either. None of them have any money—’

      ‘Cut the bleeding-heart routine,’ Rafaello advised with cold impatience. ‘I’ve got no time for anyone who violates either my home or my property. The clean-up bill alone will run into thousands—’

      ‘Thousands?’ she stressed in astonishment.

      She received a nod of confirmation.

      ‘You’re being ripped off!’ Glory told him. ‘Everybody knows that you’re loaded. I bet you’re being quoted a crazy figure for the clean-up because the firm knows you can afford it.’

      Rafaello surveyed her with sardonic cool. ‘Glory…it takes highly trained professionals to repair valuable antiques and restore damaged plasterwork. That kind of expertise comes at a premium charge.’

      Feeling very foolish, feeling all the confused embarrassment of someone who had not a clue about the care of antiques, Glory subsided and set off doggedly on another tack. ‘I feel awful that we can’t offer you any financial compensation—’

      ‘I feel awful that sentencing tearaway teenagers to thirty lashes has gone out of fashion,’ Rafaello imparted very drily. ‘But the return of the snuff box that was removed from the drawing-room might…just might persuade me not to prosecute your brother.’

      Glory had gone very still. ‘Something was—er—taken? But why didn’t the police mention that to Sam yesterday?’

      ‘They weren’t aware of it until this morning when I realised that it was missing,’ Rafaello explained grimly. ‘The snuff box is tiny and would’ve been easily slipped into a pocket.’

      ‘A snuff box?’ Glory parrotted weakly, aghast at the news that an item of value might have been stolen from the Park, for that was an infinitely more serious offence.

      ‘German, eighteenth century, made of gold and covered with precious stones. It will be virtually impossible to replace,’ Rafaello outlined.

      Glory parted her taut lips. ‘How much is it worth?’

      ‘About sixty grand.’

      Glory tried and failed to swallow. ‘Sixty thousand…pounds?’

      ‘I have excellent taste—’

      ‘And you think it’s been stolen?’ Glory exclaimed. ‘I mean, have you searched? Are you sure?’

      ‘I would not have reported it to the police otherwise. It puts rather a different complexion on your touching portrayal of bored teenagers with nowhere to go and nothing to do, and I have every intention of pressing charges on the score of that theft.’

      Her lips bloodlessly compressed and her knees wobbling, Glory sank down almost clumsily into the seat she had vacated mere minutes before. ‘No way would Sam have stolen anything—’

      ‘Someone did.’

      Her head felt as if it was going round and round. The situation was even worse than she had realised. There had been around twenty teenagers at that impromptu party. Any one of them could have lifted something small without attracting attention.