Required to Wear the Tycoon's Ring (2 page)

In the midst of his reverie a sudden inexplicable instinct drew him to the windows. He caught his breath when his eyes settled on the figure of a young woman in the fading light. She was peering through the wrought iron gates. He froze for a moment, thinking she was a ghost. When common sense swiftly returned he wondered irritably, just who did she think she was spying on the house?

Not thinking twice about finding out, Seth strode from the drawing room and went straight to the front door. Opening it wide, he took the carved granite steps two at a time, his boot heels crunching across the gravel. The woman had started to back away, but he halted her with the demand, ‘Who are you and what do you want here?'

His visitor's startled brown eyes showed her shock and surprise. Just then her curling chestnut hair was blown wildly across her face by a rogue gust of wind, and her slender fingers visibly trembled as she pushed the strands away. For a mesmerising, unguarded moment Seth was transfixed by the delicacy and haunting loveliness of the features in front of him—so much so that it threw him off-kilter for a moment.

‘Well?' When he next spoke—having decided not to be so easily beguiled by the woman, and realising she was probably just one of the bevy of journalists that tracked his career, looking for a story—his voice was terse.

‘I'm sorry... I didn't mean to bother you.'

Her voice was soft as summer rain and added to the sense that she was casting a spell on him.

Seth sucked in a breath. ‘But you
are
bothering me. Answer my question. What's your business here?'

For a couple of seconds the woman didn't seem to know. Then she said hesitatingly, ‘I— Are you the house's owner?'

‘What's it to you? Why do you want to know?'

‘I'll tell you...but if you
are
the owner I wonder if I might have a word?'

Seth's cobalt blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What about?'

‘About the history of the house... My name is Imogen, by the way... Imogen Hayes.'

‘And you want to know because...? Let me guess—you're
fascinated
by old historic houses and you intend to study this one for a school project?'

Underneath her pale skin the girl blanched. ‘I'm hardly a schoolgirl. I'm twenty-four!'

‘Who are you, then? Someone from the local newspaper?' he quizzed.

She grimaced. ‘No. Look, if you
are
the new owner, could you perhaps spare me a couple of minutes? I promise I won't take up too much of your time.'

Even as everything inside him told him it was a bad idea—the girl probably
was
from the local newspaper, hoping to write an article about him along the lines of ‘poor boy made good'—he took longer than he meant to in deciding what to do.

Having made his fortune in America, and returned home a billionaire, Seth knew that his name couldn't help but arouse local interest. This girl probably wouldn't be the only interested party.
But because he couldn't help admiring her pretty face, and the unexpected spark of attraction it had aroused in him, he decided to relent and let her in. What had he got to lose? If the piece turned out to be defamatory he wouldn't hesitate to sue the newspaper.

‘You'd better follow me inside.'

He pulled opened the iron gates, and the grating sound they released set his teeth on edge.

The brunette quickly edged past him. ‘Thank you. That's very good of you.'

‘Are you sure? Goodness isn't something I'm generally known for,' he quipped drily.

A corner of what he could see was a pleasingly pretty mouth nudged in an unsure dimple before she glanced away and followed him across the gravel.

When they reached the front door a blast of cold air along with a couple of dried, burnished leaves flew in from the driveway to accompany them.

Seth frowned as he closed the door behind them. Answering her questions wouldn't take long, he was sure. In truth he knew very little about the house's history other than that it had been in Louisa's family for generations. So why on earth had he broken his own rule to be wary and instead invited the woman inside?
Was it really because it had been too long since he'd been genuinely attracted to a woman and he'd found the opportunity too good to miss?

‘I would suggest we talk in the living room, but as yet there isn't any furniture. I'm only here to look round today. You were lucky to find me in.'

‘But you
are
the new owner?' The girl's even white teeth nervously clamped down on her fulsome lower lip.

‘Yes, I am. Don't worry...I haven't invited you in under false pretences.' Combing his tawny hair back with his fingers, Seth made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. A sense of bitterness had seeped into his tone. The memory of James Siddons not thinking him good enough to cross his threshold, let alone marry his daughter, still had the power to sting even after all these years...

‘I wouldn't dream of thinking anything like that. Perhaps you could tell me who you are?'

‘My name is Seth Broden. What else do you want to ask me, Miss Hayes?'

Curling a strand of lightly waving rich brown hair round her ear, Imogen didn't hide her relief that he wasn't going to change his mind and tell her he'd made a mistake—that he didn't have time for her questions after all.

Whether by luck or design, her spontaneous evening stroll had skirted the imposing manor house, and when she'd spied its impressive turrets reaching up into the sky she hadn't been able to deny herself the impulse to take a closer look. At the back of her mind she'd been hoping for just such an opportunity, and that was why she carried the book with the note inside with her.

‘I heard from someone local that the previous owner's family was called Siddons?'

The heavy thud of her heart was close to painful when she saw a guarded glint of steel invade his eyes, but she still couldn't help being drawn to him. The man's charismatic good looks had made her catch her breath as soon as she'd seen him up close. Acting purely on instinct, she had decided to stay and find out who he was...

‘Yes...it was. You heard right.'

‘And you knew them? I mean, you knew them when they lived here?'

‘Why do you want to know? I presumed it was the house that you were interested in.'

‘I am, but it's the people who make a house into a home...no matter how grand or intimidating it might be.'

Seth's brow furrowed. ‘You think this place is intimidating?'

The girl reddened. ‘Yes, I do, but only because it's so far removed from my own life. I can't envisage what it must have been like for anyone who lived here and could afford to run a place like this.'

‘Having great wealth isn't all roses, you know. It doesn't change who you are fundamentally, be it bad or good. Look...this is all rather pointless. I don't think I can help you after all. If there's anything else you want to know, then I suggest you do some research at the local records office.'

‘The information I'd like to find out is more of a personal nature, Mr Broden. I'd be so grateful if you could help.'

‘I'm sure you would... But if there's one thing I've learned it's that the answers to life's questions don't always reveal themselves so easily, Miss Hayes.'

Guilt combined with an uncomfortable feeling of embarrassment washed over Imogen. She wondered if she'd come across as being insensitive. ‘I know that, but... Can you perhaps tell me why the family moved away?'

‘You could say that fate stepped in and took them down a very different path from the one they expected...'

Seth Broden's voice was huskily pitched and his gaze held hers unflinchingly. It was becoming very evident that he was in no hurry to reveal what he knew about the Siddons family, and Imogen quickly intuited that she'd have to tread carefully if she wanted to learn the truth about the note in her book.

‘That holds true for a lot of us, I'm sure. The dreams we have don't always come to fruition.'

‘I take it that's been your own experience, Miss Hayes?'

His comment took her aback. But she wasn't ready to share the events of her life that had taken
her
down an ‘unexpected path' with a complete stranger—no matter how much his seductively handsome face and glittering blue eyes might compel her to. She should know by now the dire consequences of trusting people too easily, and if she didn't, she really
was
in trouble...

‘Like most people, my life hasn't always gone smoothly.'

There was a flash of what looked to be empathy in Seth Broden's eyes. Folding his arms across his impeccable wool coat, he sighed. ‘But you're young enough not to become cynical about the cards you've been dealt and you can move on. At least you have that in your favour.'

Surprised by the remark, Imogen shrugged. For a long moment it was hard to duck the beguiling blue gaze that suggested he would have no trouble in persuading any woman to share her innermost secrets. Just who
was
this man? If it was true that he owned the mansion, he had to be someone important. There was an air of exclusivity about him that said if a situation called for it
he
would be the one taking charge.

If only she'd thought a bit longer about giving in to her impulse to look at the house. But after talking to the assistant at the charity shop she hadn't been able to resist.
Having viewed it, she'd found the imposing and beautiful facade had piqued her curiosity even more.

‘I'm sure you're right. Trouble is that's harder to do than you might imagine...'

‘Then, my advice to you, Imogen, is to focus on the things that you
can
do and not worry about the rest. Now, are you going to tell me the true reason for your visit, because I sense that researching the family who lived here isn't the real reason why you're here.'

Seth Broden had stopped Imogen in her tracks on two counts. First by so familiarly using her name, and second by instinctively seeming to know that the reason for her interest in the Siddonses' family history was specific.

She realised she'd become more than a little possessive about the note, and didn't easily want to relinquish it. That was, not until she found out who its author was. She was uneasy. She realised she would have to tell him about it, even if it meant he demanded she return it.

‘The other day I bought something from a local charity shop,' she began. ‘I was told it had come from here. They'd taken delivery of a box of books from the house.'

Not commenting, Seth walked across to the window next to the door with a distinctly unhurried gait and stared out. What was he thinking about? He was still not saying anything, and his closed-off demeanour hardly suggested he was eager to break the silence.

The formidable quiet that ensued started to worry her. She was just about to ask if anything was the matter when he suddenly snapped out, ‘So you found a book...? Care to tell me the title?'

With a helpless shiver Imogen hugged her arms over her coat. ‘It's a book of love poems by William Blake.'

‘Is it, indeed? You admire his work, do you?'

When Seth turned to face her she was mesmerised. The carved contours of his face might have been fashioned out of marble, they were so still. There was no expression in them whatsoever...
none.
And yet the burning blue of his eyes was fierce...

‘Yes, I do...very much.'

‘I once knew someone else who was fond of his poetry.'

The admission came out of the blue, and stunned Imogen because she hadn't expected it.

‘Was it someone who lived at the house?' The question was out before she could check it.

‘It might have been. Wasn't the owner's name in the book?'

‘No, it wasn't. There was only—'

The man in front of her raised a dark eyebrow interestedly. ‘You were going to say, Miss Hayes...?'

Fearing she'd said too much too soon, Imogen parried the question with another one of her own. ‘Was the person who enjoyed Blake's poetry a woman?'

‘You didn't answer my question.'

Her companion's lightly lined forehead warningly grew tighter, and it was easy to sense the shield that had slammed down into place. But no shield—however strong and impenetrable—could hide the truth. It was right at that instant when Imogen remembered the initials that had signed off the note—SB.

The person who'd written in such beguiling and heartfelt tones was Seth Broden himself...

CHAPTER TWO

S
ETH
IMMEDIATELY
SAW
what he took to be dawning realisation on Imogen's face. He didn't know why, but his heart started to pound.

‘Do you have the book with you? I'd like to take a look if you have,' he said.

The sigh that escaped her was no more than a whisper but he heard it easily. The melting brown eyes before him were fused to his for the longest moment, and he wondered the reason behind it. Then, delving down into her shoulder bag, she produced a compact yellow book without a jacket. Flicking through the pages, she carefully extracted a piece of paper. Not knowing why, he caught his breath.

Crossing the floor, she handed him the note.

‘What's this?'

‘It was inside the book when I bought it.'

Seth's insides clenched hard as a painful sense of knowing gripped him. Seconds later his glance fell upon the words he had written all those years ago.

The realisation that Louisa had kept his message inside the pages of her favourite poetry book was bittersweet. He hardly knew what to think, what to feel.

He had sent the note to her at the university, to make sure she received it. They hadn't met since that humiliating meeting with her father.

She'd been utterly distraught when she had realised there was no hope that he'd consent to them being together—‘not even if World War III is threatened!' That was how intransigent the man had been.

As all her hopes had seemingly turned to dust she hadn't been able to hide her sorrow. Before Seth had been able to reassure her that nothing would break them apart, she'd mouthed a forlorn
I'm sorry
, then quickly fled upstairs. He'd hardly known what to do.

After that, things had just gone from bad to worse. Once again he'd tried to get Siddons to relent and see sense but it had been useless. The man had been about as flexible as an iron wall
.
There had been no ‘give' in his heart whatsoever.

Seth had slammed out through the door in a temper, vowing again that no matter what he and Louisa were going to be together. The pompous banker could do his worst, but Seth
would
find a way.

The next day he'd left Louisa this note at the university, because before he'd left the house her father had cruelly declared that he was confiscating her phone. To leave her a note had been Seth's only means of reaching her until he'd figured out something better. One thing was for sure: Siddons would burn the missive if he found it first.

But a few days later his whole world had shifted on its axis and been demolished, all his hopes and aspirations turned to rubble. A friend of Louisa's had knocked on his door in the early hours of the morning to inform him tearfully that she'd been killed in a hit-and-run accident. Seth had wanted to die, too. Just how was he going to carry on without her?

Now, tightly clutching the note, he walked across to the staircase and sank down onto one of the steps. He knew that it should comfort him to know that Louisa had read the message before she died and briefly treasured it, but he had been waiting too long to find that out, and in the meantime the damage had been done.

All that seeing it had done was reaffirm the fact that he should have tried harder to be with her,
much
harder... Even if her unrelenting father had come up with some trumped-up reason to prosecute him and had him thrown into jail.

Feeling enraged, he muttered a furious curse.

Watching Seth, Imogen felt two things hit her at once.
The man was distraught. The repercussions that she had been wary of had come to pass. The muscle that flickered at the side of his lean, carved jaw immediately informed her that he was having significant trouble in containing his emotions. One thing was certain—seeing the note hadn't given him any pleasure.

That led to her next realisation. He and his loved one
hadn't
stayed together
.
No matter how much she'd hoped, true love
hadn't
sustained them after all. She felt like crying.

But her deep sense of disappointment was quickly overridden by her concern for the man sitting on the stairs. Leaning towards him, she gently laid her hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you okay?'

Even as the words left her lips Imogen knew the question was futile.

Turning his haunted blue eyes towards her, Seth Broden's mouth twisted grimly. ‘Meaning, am I still breathing and alive despite the fact that I probably should have gone to hell for my part in what happened?'

Contemptuously jerking his head, he stood up and shook off her hand.

‘I need a drink.'

Imogen turned pale. Outside, the fierce wind battered against the leaded windows as if it would break through the glass. Suddenly she felt as though freezing jagged ice had invaded her veins. What did he mean by such a statement? Had something terrible happened?

Why hadn't she really thought about the wisdom or lack of it in contacting the note's author? Because now that she had found him it seemed to have delivered anything
but
happiness to him. Not meaning to, she'd blundered in regardless and brought pain to this man. As to what she'd achieved for herself—she'd just smothered another longed-for dream.

‘I didn't know that the note would upset you so much,' she stated huskily. ‘The message was so heartfelt. I just wanted to find out if—if the people involved had been reunited?'

‘And what...? Prove that happy-ever-after really exists?'

Feeling as though she'd been whipped, Imogen flinched. ‘What's wrong with that?'

Seth stared. ‘I don't mean for you to come crashing back down to earth with a bang, sweetheart...but it's probably better if you don't delude yourself.'

‘I'm guessing that
you
wrote the note?'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘I don't mean to intrude more than I've done already, but will you— Can you tell me what happened?'

He moved down the stairs to stand in front of her, his expression a mixture of anger and resignation, and she didn't know why he didn't demand she leave.

‘The lady died...end of story.'

But Imogen saw that it wasn't the end of the story. How
could
it be?

‘I'm so sorry.'

She meant it with all her heart.
It was only natural that she'd commiserate with his loss. It honestly grieved her that fate had intervened and stolen the couple's happiness. God knew it was hard enough to come by.

Seth Broden wore the scars of that loss as if they were physical ones. They weren't easy to hide in such a compellingly carved face. Amidst such perfection the smallest irregularity couldn't fail to show.

‘How did it happen?'

‘It was a hit and run. The bastard didn't waste his time waiting to see what he'd done. Just left her lying in the road.'

‘Dear God...' The shock ricocheted right through her.

Seth's tormented glance seared hers. ‘No amount of condolence or sympathy is going to bring her back, so don't get upset on my account. Is your car outside?' he added sharply.

‘I didn't drive. I walked here.'

‘I take it you must live in town, then? That's about five miles away. Clearly a long walk doesn't faze you?'

Imogen shook her head. ‘Not at all... I love it. It helps to keep me fit.'

‘Even so, I'll give you a lift home. It's getting late as well as becoming dark.' He briefly glanced down at his watch. ‘I never meant to stay here so long.'

She wasn't going to argue. She felt strangely reluctant to leave him. Perhaps on the way he might relent and tell her a little bit more about the woman he'd lost?

‘So long as you're sure you're ready to leave?'

‘I am. I was checking things over, but I'm finished now.'

‘Are you going to move in here soon?'

‘I haven't decided.'

‘Oh. Well, I'm ready to go when you are, then.'

She swept back her silky brown hair and pulled the collar of her coat more snugly round her neck...not that it would give her much added protection against the wind that was howling outside. It sounded as if it was brewing up a cyclone!

They hurried out to his car. When they were ensconced in the sumptuous leather of Seth's comfortable sedan, he turned to her and said, ‘Where to?'

As soon as Imogen gave him the directions he nodded in acknowledgement. ‘I know exactly where you mean.' His expression failed to tell her whether the knowledge pleased him or not.

Leaving the impressive Gothic building behind them, they headed out through the tree-lined lanes towards the centre of the town. During the journey they were both silent. Imogen didn't feel quite brave enough to question him again, and she wanted to respect his need for what must be quiet reflection.

Just twenty minutes later they arrived, and Seth negotiated the roads that took them to her address. As instructed, he pulled up in front of a neat black door with a gilt number one on it. It was dusk, and a lone street lamp helpfully illuminated the small row of terraced houses. Apart from the ethereal soughing of the wind, all was quiet. Most of the town's workforce had departed for home.

Turning towards her companion, Imogen breathed out a sigh. Seth's expression was as implacable as ever, but his strong, lean hands gripped the leather-clad steering wheel as though it was a much-needed anchor.

She was sorry they hadn't had more time to talk. But, clutching at yet another straw, she said quickly, ‘Can I offer you a drink...in payment for the ride home, I mean?'

‘You think the age-old remedy of a cup of tea might help to set things right?'

The tone of his voice registered his scorn.

Pushing his fingers agitatedly through his hair, he continued, ‘I don't want payment, but if you're going to offer me a drink, then I'd prefer something stronger than tea.'

She sensed her cheeks flush heatedly as his intense blue eyes roamed her face. It made it doubly hard to form a reply. ‘I—I have some brandy that a friend bought me for my birthday. Will that do?'

‘Yes, it will—but only if you agree to join me. I won't be making any more revelations, if that's what you're thinking, but a companionable silence might be welcome.'

Flushing again, Imogen nodded. ‘All right, then. Why don't you park the car and come in? I'll leave the front door open. My flat is on the ground floor.' The words were out before she could stop them.

After unlocking the door, she entered the house. The small apartment she rented was easily accessible and the door opened onto a cosy, compact living room. She was putting a match to the tinder in the wood burner when she sensed Seth coming in behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his interested gaze scan the room.

As was her habit, she'd left everything tidy that morning. The task helped her to get clear about the day ahead.
But strangely the ability seemed to elude her now, as her glance collided with Seth's. Suddenly she didn't feel clear about very much at all. And ever since she'd laid her hand on his shoulder to comfort him the oddly intimate sensation of warmth and strength hadn't left her. It didn't help that she still sensed his agitation. The note she'd found had clearly been a great shock to him.

‘Why don't you sit down?' she invited. ‘I'll get you that drink.'

‘Sure...' he murmured, shrugging off his coat.

He draped it over the arm of a nearby easy chair as though it was nothing, but she glimpsed the Italian designer label attached to the silk lining. The garment was both exclusive and expensive, and it said much about the taste of its owner.

She watched thoughtfully as he dropped down onto the battered brown leather couch that had serviced several other tenants before Imogen. Even though she'd personalised it with the flowing red-and-gold Indian shawl that she'd draped over the back, it was still more ‘shabby chic' than smart. Positioned next to the couch was a pile of hardback books on a maple-wood coffee table, and he picked up the top one to examine it.

‘Interesting,' he murmured, reading the flyleaf. ‘I can see that you like a mystery.'

‘Thrillers aren't really my thing, but a friend lent it to me,' she explained. ‘She said the story was terrific.'

‘Would that be the same friend who gave you the bottle of brandy?'

‘Yes, it was, as a matter of fact...though I rarely drink that stuff at all. She was hoping I'd let my hair down and celebrate for once.'

Imogen stared at the fire and felt her cheeks heat. Why had she told him
that
?

‘And did you?'

‘I did—but not with brandy. I stuck to orange juice that night.'

Checking that the flame had taken hold in the wood burner, she straightened and dusted her hands down her jeans.

Her companion was studying her intently and, feeling strangely as if she'd been put under a spotlight, she said, ‘Give me a minute and I'll go and get you that drink.'

The tiny kitchen was adjacent to the living room. It wasn't particularly well-appointed, but it had a fairly new gas stove, an original butler's sink that was still in good order, a plum-coloured granite worktop and a couple of sturdy pine shelves on which she'd stacked some blue-and-white crockery. The bottle of brandy was located next to the stoneware bread crock.

Pouring a proper drink for a man wasn't something she was remotely used to. Her ex-fiancé, Greg, had been teetotal. That was until she'd found out that he
wasn't
. It had been another lie amongst the many that he'd told her. But dwelling on the thought was apt to remind her of his shocking betrayal and make her mood plummet. She was determined not to let that happen. After all, she'd vowed to make a fresh start, hadn't she? From now on she wanted to believe that good things
did
and
could
happen, despite the evidence to the contrary. How else was she going to turn her life around?