of the window. ‘I don’t want his money,’ she said.
The man allowed himself a small smile. ‘Really. And who paid for all this?’ He glanced pointedly around the apartment.
‘I don’t want money,’ she snapped, trying her best to sound indignant. ‘What I want is Peter.’
‘Well, I’m afraid that’s not an option any more,’ he said flatly.
‘We’ll see about that.’ She strode to the coffee table and snatched up her mobile. ‘I’m phoning him.’
He shook his head, that half-smile again. The bastard was enjoying this.
‘I don’t think so.’ He peered at his watch. ‘It’s two a.m. in Uzbekistan.’
‘Uzbekistan? He’s supposed to be here.’
‘Just us here,’ said Devon, gesturing with the chequebook again. This time her eyes followed the book, unable to look away.
‘So give me a figure,’ he said, sitting at the table.
She grabbed her glass of wine and took a fortifying sip. ‘I’ve told you, this isn’t about money. This is about Peter and me.’
‘How much is it going to take?’ he asked, taking a fountain pen from his inside pocket.
‘How much would you suggest, Mr Devon? How much would you say a relationship is worth?’
‘In this case, nothing, because your relationship is over.’
His words were simple and stinging, their impact cruel because she knew they were true. Perhaps she had pushed Peter too far, overplayed her hand. And now he had sent a lackey to mop up his mess. A thickness filled her throat and her vision blurred in a cloud of tears.
‘I think you’d better leave.’
Devon remained seated. ‘Believe it or not, I’m here to help you.’
She hated the note of sympathy, the pity she could hear in his voice.
‘Take my advice,’ he said slowly. ‘Accept the money, move somewhere new, forget what’s happened and just get on with your life. It’s the smart thing to do.’
‘It’s never that easy though, is it?’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Not when you love someone. Now please, just go.’
Devon hesitated, then put his chequebook back in his briefcase and stood up. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Could I just use the bathroom?’
She nodded without looking at him. ‘Upstairs.’
Her bedroom was on a mezzanine platform over the living space below. She watched him disappear towards her en suite, his sensible brown shoes clumping up the glass staircase.
His briefcase was still on the table. How much would he have paid? A decent amount, that was for sure. And Devon was right, it was the smart thing to do. Her own money wouldn’t last long in this place. A person could quickly get used to expensive linens, parquet floors and stainless-steel kitchens. Nice things. Pretty things. Things that made her feel safe, secure, smart, successful. This was the life she’d always wanted. Still . . . for once, she had been telling the truth. It wasn’t about the money this time. All she wanted was him – and she couldn’t have him. No amount of lovely sheets would make up for that.
She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands to stop the flow of tears. Taking a few deep breaths, she tried to compose herself. Maybe she would call Peter herself, apologise for what she’d said, explain that he’d taken it all the wrong way. Yes, that would do it, she thought, feeling a little better. Maybe this was a test; when Mr Devon reported back that she had turned down the money, he would see that she truly loved him, not his credit cards.
She glanced up the stairs, frowning. He’d been a long time in the bathroom.
‘Mr Devon?’ she called. ‘Is everything all right up there?’
There was no reply. Shrugging, she walked up the stairs towards the mezzanine platform. ‘Mr Devon?’
At the top, she tapped on the bathroom door but couldn’t hear a sound inside. ‘Are you all right? Mr D—’
The door opened and Jack Devon stepped out. ‘Yes. I’m fine.’
‘Oh, good,’ she stuttered, flushing with embarrassment as she turned to walk back downstairs. She felt a hard push from behind and her body jerked forward. Instinctively she reached for the banister, but she was moving too fast and momentum carried her on, her head slamming against the wall. Her body twisted as she fell, her shoulder cracking into the glass steps, her torso pinwheeling over, snapping her neck, her body landing splayed and broken like a puppet with the strings cut. It had been mercifully quick. Aside from one moment of air-sucking terror as her hand missed the rail, she had felt nothing.