Dancing With The Devil's Heir

NOT again!

Vivienne's teeth clenched in sheer frustration as she stared at the sheaf of red roses in the delivery boy's arms. She knew, without having to count them, that there would be twenty-three this time.

'Miss Vivienne Carter?'

'Yes,' she bit out, unable to respond to the fatuous grin on the boy's face. She inwardly winced over the curtness of her acknowledgement as his grin disappeared. The boy was only doing a job. He wasn't to know that the beautiful blooms gave her more torment than pleasure. She offered an appeasing smile as he gravely handed her the roses and the gold-embossed envelope-sealed, as it had been every year, with wax.

Vivienne didn't bother to ask who was the donor. She had pursued that track three years ago and the florist knew no more about the mystery man than she did. The envelope was sent with a typed note of instructions and a bank cheque-untraceable. She dragged her gaze up from the wax seal and caught the sparkle of suppressed laughter in the delivery boy's eyes. 'Thank you,' she said with almost frigid dignity, instantly realising that the curious once-a-year incident was probably a source of amusing gossip at the florist shop.

Being Sir Gabriel Carter's illegitimate daughter carried enough notoriety. Her stupid and indiscreet attempt to identify the sender had almost certainly turned a routine transaction into a memorable one.

The delivery boy gave her a whimsical--or was it a mocking?--half-bow, and retreated towards the lifts. Vivienne grimaced at his swaggering back. Only after he had gone did she step back into her apartment and slam the door shut, giving vent to some of her bitter frustration.

This was the sixth time. She almost hated the man who was doing it to her, whoever he was. The roses she could have dismissed. Anyone could be sending her roses on her birthday, one for each year of her age since she had turned nineteen-if only the gold-embossed envelope did not come with them.

What he was doing to her-what he had done to her--with his tantalising messages was diabolical. They had completely undermined her relationships with Dante and Rob and Farrell; made her wonder about every other man who had apparently been attracted to her... whether it was for her own self, or because of their potential prospects as Sir Gabriel Carter's future son-in-law. Even if she was illegitimate, it seemed that any foot inside her father's door would do.

Vivienne had suffered too many lessons in life to accept much at face value any more. But this insidious siege on her heart and mind... why didn't he make himself known to her? Why taunt her with words of love if he had no intention of meeting her... openly declaring what he secretly and mysteriously professed?

It was madness! Mean...eccentric...selfish...and positively infuriating. Perhaps he was psychotic!

The thought had crossed Vivienne's mind before. She pondered it again as she filled a vase with water and jammed the roses into it; roses so darkly red they were almost purple, and so deeply scented they were an invasion of her privacy, the aroma quickly stealing to every recess of the spacious apartment.

Not psychotic, she decided. At the hospital where she had been working she had dealt with people who were mentally unbalanced. The game this man was playing was too patterned, too deliberately paced to have been conceived by a sick mind. This was someone diabolically clever... ruthlessly determined to infiltrate and influence her life... and acting out of purposeful self-interest.

Undoubtedly a fortune-hunter.

Possibly trying to climb on to some non-existent bandwagon. When he did declare himself, as he obviously must, she would know how to deal with him!

Vivienne swept up the vase of roses and dumped it on to the centre of the white stone coffee-table in the living-room. They looked sumptuous... wrong... out of place with the light modern decor.

Her eyes skated over the white leather sofas and floppy cushions-the choice of the interior decorator who had been hired by her father to furnish the apartment. Cold and clinical and emotionless, Vivienne thought. Just like her father.

She had always hated living here, hated the necessity of accepting this apartment from him until she finished her studies and could earn her own living. But it had been worth it to get her medical degree. That could never be taken away from her, and she would put it to good use. Better than any other use her father had for his money!

However, it was a matter of pride that when she handed this apartment back to her father-as she would do within a month or two, it would not have been changed in any way. He would get it back precisely as he had given it to her.

And wherever she went she would make herself a real home, a place that was cosy and welcoming, where roses could look right and...

Vivienne's fantasy came to a jolting halt. He was doing it to her again! She was letting his damned roses infiltrate her mind, making her think of things she had never had, stirring needs...

She picked up the envelope, stared down at it, her fingers sliding indecisively over the wax seal. Better for her peace of mind if she refused to read what he had written.

She should toss the envelope away, burn it, deny him the insidious fascination he worked on her. It was the sensible thing to do.

But Vivienne had never backed away from a challenge in her life, even to the extent of defying her father... and she was fairly certain that no one else in the world had got away with that. She had been only twelve years old at the time and it had been her first meeting with him. Twelve lonely years of having her existence completely ignored, and then...

Her mouth thinned in determination. Her fierce independence had been hard won, and she would stand up to any man... or woman, if necessary. She was not going to let anyone intimidate her, particularly not a man who needed to keep to the shadows of anonymity.

Irritation coupled with his impertinence made her rip open the flap of the envelope with total disregard for the "pensiveness of the paper. She withdrew its contents with an angry sense of impatience...exactly the same style of card as on previous years...a shimmering gold... luminous red print in the beautifully flowing strokes of copperplate handwriting

Happy birthday

Vivienne-

my love.

AS SHE OPENED the card Vivienne instinctively braced herself against the impact of this year's message. His words had a way of worming into her subconsciousness and tripping through her mind at unexpected moments; unsettling her judgements and slanting her perspective with a most unwelcome persistence. It was another invasion, of a kind she found impossible to fight. And that was the core of her frustration.

Her eyes skimmed over the unusually short verse, then backtracked to read the words again and again.

"The power and the passion of life

is in loving.

Embrace the power;

Savour the passion.

All else... is vanity!"

A sense of outrage grew as Vivienne furiously dissected their meaning. Was he suggesting that it was only a vanity to have spent all these years of hard work earning her medical degree? That she should have spent that time loving him instead? And precisely where would that have got her? Vivienne thought scornfully-- out on a limb, depending on him not to drop her when he felt like it!

From the time in her life when she could first comprehend what was going on about her, she was determined to stand on her own two feet and not depend on anyone. For anything! And she had done it.

A flash of anger burned through her. It wasn't her fault that love was in short supply where she was concerned. She hadn't asked to be born on the wrong side of the blanket to a man like Sir Gabriel Carter. She hadn't wanted her mother to die before she was old enough to remember her. And as for passion, it was all too easily generated when there was wealth in the background; and other people savouring that had proved a bitter exercise for her.

If she had ever counted on loving to be the power and passion of her life, she would be in a very sorry state. And if that was what her anonymous lover really thought, she would soon disabuse him once she had the opportunity.

She tossed the card into the drawer where she kept the others and determined not to look at any of them ever again. Not even when she felt lonely or sad, nor when she suffered the occasional bouts of deep depression.

One day he would reveal himself, and she would confront him with them. She knew all the words by heart and she would certainly put his sincerity to the test. She would demand to know why he had sent them, and what he meant by them, and she would get the truth out of him if it was the last thing she did!

The doorbell rang again.

Vivienne's heart gave an agitated leap and she took a deep breath to restore a facade of calm composure. It would certainly be her father this time.

She strode quickly into her bedroom for a last-minute check on her appearance. Not that she should care what he thought of her. She had learnt to do without his caring since infancy. But some wisp of pride demanded that she not look inferior to his legitimate daughter whenever her father escorted her out in public. Aria Carter was the darling of the social pages. Vivienne never would be. She scorned such empty nonsense, yet she had it thrust upon her. There was no getting away from the Press when her father was so newsworthy... Sir Gabriel Carter, with a finger in every corporate pie, a financial network that spread across the world, and always making profits, of course; more money to become bigger and richer and more powerful.

Had he bought her mother, in the same way as he had bought all his other mistresses since his wife had died? Vivienne fiercely wanted to know, but she never asked...never would ask... not anything of him. Not ever!

The blue ice of her eyes hardened at the thought. Her reflection in the hall mirror assured her that not a wisp of her dark blonde hair had escaped from the elegant coil, that her make-up was as perfect as it could be, and the white dinner gown draped itself over the lissom curves of her body with all the style and grace of its elegant line.

Yes, she was ready for her father... ready for anybody, ready to meet any of them on any ground ... and hold her own. She walked unhurriedly from her bedroom, picked up her handbag from the hall table, and opened the door.

****

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?