An Enticing Debt to Pay. Annie West
expenses elsewhere and, though large by normal standards, the withdrawals weren’t significant enough to match his usual personal investments.
‘We’ve traced them.’ Of course, Barker would make it his business to have an answer before he fronted Jonas with the problem.
‘And?’ Curiosity rose.
‘You’ll remember the account was originally set up as part of a family enterprise.’
How could Jonas forget? His father had given him chapter and verse on how to run a business, pretending he, as head of the family, was the senior partner in the enterprise. But they’d both known it was Jonas’ talent for spotting a sound investment, and his ruthless hunger for success, that had turned the floundering investment company around. Piers had simply been along for the ride, revelling in the novelty of success. Until father and son had parted ways.
‘I remember.’ Memory was a sour tang on his tongue.
Barker shifted again. ‘The withdrawals were made using an old cheque book—one that had supposedly been destroyed.’ Jonas looked up, catching a faint flush on the other man’s cheeks. ‘The records show they were accounted for but this one of your father’s...’
‘It’s okay, I get the picture.’ Jonas let his gaze drift across the unrivalled view of the City of London.
His father. Jonas hadn’t called him that since childhood when he’d discovered what sort of man Piers Deveson was. Despite his bluster about honour and the family name, Piers had been no model of virtue. It shouldn’t surprise Jonas to learn the old man had found a way to access his son’s assets illegally. The wonder was he hadn’t used it earlier.
‘So Piers—’
‘No!’ Barker sat straighter as Jonas turned back to him. ‘I’m sorry, but we’ve reason to believe it wasn’t your father. Here.’ He passed some photocopied pages across.
Jonas scanned them. Two cheques with his father’s familiar flourishing signature.
Except they weren’t Piers Deveson’s signature. They were close enough to fool a stranger but he was familiar enough with that scrawl to spot the differences.
‘Look at the dates.’
Jonas did and to his surprise felt a punch to the gut that winded him.
Bad enough to think the old man had pilfered funds. But this was—
Jonas shook his head, his lungs cramping as unexpected emotion filled him.
‘The second one is dated a day after your father died.’
Silently Jonas nodded, his heart slowing to a ponderous beat. He knew the date, and not just because it was recent.
For years his father had been a thorn in his side, a blot on the family—living in gaudy luxury with his scheming mistress. They’d flaunted themselves among the rich and notorious, uncaring of any hurt they’d caused. When Piers died Jonas had felt nothing—neither regret nor an easing of the tension that had gripped him since Piers’ defection had taken its ultimate toll. He’d expected to feel something. For weeks there’d been nothing, just an emptiness where emotion should have been. Yet now—
‘Not my father then.’ His voice was calm, belying the raw emotions churning in his gut. Beneath the desk his hands clenched.
‘No. We’ve traced the perpetrator. And she’s not too clever, given the obvious anomaly with the date.’ Barker spoke quickly, obviously eager to get this over. ‘It was a Ms Ruggiero. Living at this address in Paris.’
Barker handed over another paper. It bore the address of the exclusive apartment Piers Deveson had shared for the last six years with his mistress, Silvia Ruggiero.
Jonas paused before reaching out to take the paper. His fingers tingled as if it burned him.
‘So.’ Jonas sat back. ‘My father’s whore thinks she can continue to milk his family even after his death.’ His voice was devoid of emotion, but he felt it deep inside like the burn of ice on bruised flesh.
How could the woman think she’d get away with this after all she’d done to the Devesons? Surely she wasn’t stupid enough to expect mercy?
His pulse thudded as he thought of the woman who’d destroyed so much.
He remembered Silvia Ruggiero as clearly as if he’d seen her yesterday, her voluptuous figure, flashing eyes and froth of dark hair. Sex on legs, one of his friends had said the first time he’d seen Silvia, who was then the Devesons’ housekeeper. And he’d been right. Not even a drab uniform had doused the woman’s vibrant sexuality.
That had been mere weeks before Jonas’ father had turned his back on family and responsibility, let alone respectability, by running off with his housekeeper to set her up in a luxury Paris apartment.
Four months later Jonas’ mother was found dead. An accidental overdose, the coroner had said. But Jonas knew the truth. After years spurned by the man she’d loved, his public repudiation had finally been too much. His mother had taken her own life.
Jonas breathed deep, pulling oxygen into cramped lungs. Now the woman responsible for his mother’s death had struck again. She had the nerve to think she could continue to steal from him!
The paper in his hand crackled as his fist tightened slowly, inexorably. Fury surged, tensing every sinew. His jaw ached as he clenched his teeth against a rising tide of useless invective.
Jonas never wasted energy on words when actions were so much more effective.
For six years he’d spurned the idea of revenge. He’d risen above that temptation, burying himself in work and refusing any contact with Piers or his gold-digging mistress.
But now this—the straw that broke the camel’s back.
The blood raced hot and sharp in his veins as for the first time Jonas allowed himself to contemplate fully the pleasures of retribution.
‘Leave this to me, Charles.’ Jonas smiled slowly, his facial muscles pulling tight. ‘There’s no need to report the fraud. I’ll sort it out personally.’
* * *
Ravenna surveyed the apartment in despair. Most of the furnishings she knew now were fake, from the gilded Louis Quinze chairs to the china masquerading as period Limoges and Sèvres.
Mamma had always been adept at making ends meet, even through the toughest times.
A reluctant smile tugged Ravenna’s lips. Life in a swanky apartment in the Place des Vosges, one of Paris’s premier addresses, hardly counted as tough, not like the early days of Ravenna’s childhood when food had been scarce and the winters cold without enough blankets or warm clothes. But those early experiences had stood her mother in good stead. When the money began to run out she’d methodically turned to replacing the priceless antiques with copies.
Silvia Ruggiero had always made do, even if her version of ‘making do’ lately had been on a preposterously luxurious scale. But it was what Piers had wanted and in Silvia’s eyes that was all that mattered.
Ravenna tugged in a shaky breath. Her mother was far better off in Italy staying with a friend, instead of here, coping with the aftermath of Piers’ death. If only she’d told Ravenna straight away about his heart attack. Ravenna would have been here the same day. Even now she could barely believe her mother had kept that to herself, worrying instead about disturbing Ravenna with more trouble!
Mothers! Did they ever believe their children grew up?
Silvia had been barely recognisable when Ravenna had arrived in Paris from Switzerland. For the first time her gorgeous mother had looked older than her age, worn by grief. Ravenna was concerned for her. Piers might not have been Ravenna’s favourite but her mother had loved him.
No, Mamma was better off out of this. Packing up here was the least Ravenna could do, especially after Piers’