Chapter 3 Happy Birthday Vivienne

SIR GABRIEL CARTER was a big man: tall, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, as overwhelming in his size as in the strength of his personality. He was a hard man to oppose; a powerful man, used to winning his own way; a man whose fifty-eight years of age sat easily on him, a testament of experience and assured maturity that even enhanced the rugged male attraction that had always been his.

No wonder women ran after him, adored him, would do anything for him. Vivienne could see his drawing power, even feel it sometimes, but she was never going to let herself be vulnerable to it.

Sir Gabriel Carter smiled at the tall, proud carriage of his daughter, approved the stubborn tilt of her chin, admired the undaunted challenge in her wide steady eyes, the disciplined sweep of her hairstyle, the striking purity of features that gave her face such a cool, remote beauty... so like Odile, even to the soft womanliness of her figure.

But her mind was his ... that sharp intellect that stood back and weighed, and could act with ruthless ferocity if it wanted to... or needed to. His child ... as the others weren't and never would be, although he didn't doubt he had fathered them. They were as useless and shallow and petty as his wife had been. But this one ... she was his.

And he knew that in the dark recesses of her mind there was a hatred for him, because of what she thought he had done. Too late to correct that impression now. There was no proof. No way he could prove to her satisfaction what had really happened.

Besides, he had put together far too many deals in his time to know that it might not be such a bad thing. Life often tricked you ... when you got the things you thought you wanted and they didn't turn out to be what you wanted anyway. Like his legitimate children.

He swept the thought away and set himself to enjoy this evening's duel with Vivienne.

'You look more lovely with every year that passes,' he said with sincere appreciation. 'Happy birthday, my dear.'

'Thank you, Father,' Vivienne replied coolly.

He didn't attempt to kiss her cheek. Her reserve was impregnable and he knew that any gesture of affection from him would only be suffered with contempt. He admired her independence but sometimes he regretted it, too deeply to allow much contemplation. Easier not to think about it.

He held out the' car-keys. "A present for you"

Vivienne took them, weighing them in her hand, wanting to thrust them back at him but knowing there was a better way to show her disdain for the way he used his wealth.

He smiled. It was the confident smile of a man who knew he could buy anything he fancied. "It's a red Mercedes sports. You can drive me to dinner."

'Thank you. But you do know I'll sell it?' Vivienne said bluntly. As she had every other car he had bought her, and given the money to needy causes. Her mind instantly flitted to the women's shelter where she was called all too frequently to attend to women and children who required medical help. Yes, the shelter could certainly do with an injection of capital.

'The car is yours, Vivienne. What you do with it is entirely your business,' Sir Gabriel said without the slightest umbrage. Which showed precisely how little it meant to him.

Cars ... furs ... jewellery ... just standard barter in the game of getting his own way.

Had her mother succumbed to Sir Gabriel because of what he could give her? Had there been any love involved at all? There couldn't have been from him. Only a man who had no love in him could have turned his back on his own child for twelve years, as he had done. She wondered why he had bothered with her these last twelve years. He had certainly not been motivated by a sudden rush of love. No doubt he had some plan for her future.

Sir Gabriel Carter didn't make investments if he didn't expect some profit or other. But he would never win her over with his expensive gifts. Not in a million years.

She looked him straight in the eye and told him precisely what she thought. "I wish you wouldn't do it, Father. You'll never buy me."

He gave a soft laugh. 'Don't ever change, Vivienne. If you did...' His mouth took on an ironic twist. "Then I'd have nothing at all."

Vivienne frowned over the remark as she pulled the apartment door shut behind her. "Nothing?" she tossed back at him as they began to walk towards the lifts. "I thought you liked the power your wealth gives you. That's something surely."

"Yes. But wealth and power are a vanity, Vivienne. I like to be on top. Always have. But the passion for it ..." he paused, then softly, almost to himself ... left me a long time ago. Twenty-three years ago, in fact."

The doors in front of them opened and Vivienne stepped inside the lift, hiding her shock as best she could. Power ... passion ... vanity ... they were the key words from the verse! Was it her father who had been sending the roses and those cards all this time? But why? What possible motive could he have? Loving ... he hadn't mentioned that! Was love what he wanted from her? Twenty-three roses ... twenty-three years ago ... but he hadn't taken any notice of her until she was twelve years old. He had certainly paid for her to be looked after, saw that she wanted for nothing ... but loving had never come into it.

The lift opened on to the basement car park and Vivienne blindly accompanied her father to the red Mercedes sports car. He opened the door on the driver's side. Vivienne slid in behind the wheel, her heart palpitating so fast that she had difficulty breathing. She tried to calm down, but it was too late. The asthma attacks that had plagued her since childhood always struck when she least wanted attention drawn to herself.

The breathlessness was bad enough, but the wheezing was worse. She had to prevent that at all costs. Her skin was going clammy even as she grabbed for her handbag and wrenched it open. Her hands fumbled with the Ventolin that she always carried with her. It was humiliating to have to spray it into her mouth in front of her father who had taken his place in the passenger seat beside her, but she had no choice, and she gasped in relief as the problem eased.

"I'm sorry, Vivienne," he said quietly, then sighed. 'I guess I started that. I always seem to cause you distress...'

"You had nothing to do with it," she denied, hating the returning rush of blood that brought a hot flush to her cheeks.

'It's only when you're upset or disturbed that you have an attack,' he reminded her drily.'The medical reports while you were at school were quite precise, and I don't imagine anything's changed.'

'You don't disturb me. Or upset me,' she insisted, determined not to give in to him. 'It's probably the smell of the new upholstery in this car. You'd better drive in case the problem comes up again.'

He changed places with her, apologising again as they resettled into the plush lambs-wool seat-covers which effectively smothered any 'new' smell. But Vivienne noticed that fact too late. The excuse would have to stand now.

'I wish there was something I could do,' her father said, throwing her a look of concern that was surprisingly difficult to rebuff, it seemed so genuine.

'There's nothing,' she retorted sharply. Where had his concern been when she had wanted it... needed it?

'I realise that,' he murmured regretfully.

Vivienne was grateful when he dropped the subject and started the car. She didn't want to talk. She needed time to think. If it was her father who had sent the roses and cards,why had he started them on her nineteenth birthday? It didn't make sense. What could he have intended by them? Was it some subtle form of manipulation... to undermine relationships that he didn't deem suitable for her? But why? Why should he care? What did he want?