The Bedroom Surrender
Autore
Emma Darcy
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CHAPTER ONE
THE large group of local children surging into the foyer of the hotel caught Adam Cazell’s attention first—something of a curiosity, given that this was the Raffles Hotel Le Royal, a mecca for wealthy tourists in Phnom Penh, and it was the cocktail hour. Adam paused on his way to the famous Elephant Bar to meet up with the rest of his party, amused by the chirpy excitement of the children, all dressed in long black pants and white tunics, regardless of gender.
Then he saw the woman who was shepherding them forward. She brought Adam to an absolute standstill, the sheer exquisite beauty of her catching the breath in his throat, punching his heart, wiping everything else from his mind.
Pale perfect skin, gleaming like pearl shell.
Long, liquid, shiny black hair, falling to below her waist.
Exotic eyes, black velvet, thickly fringed with long silky lashes, their almond shape tilting slightly up at the corners.
Finely arched brows that winged up at the ends, as well, accentuating the fine cast of her angled cheekbones.
A straight elegant nose, the slight flare of her nostrils balancing the lush sensuality of the sexiest mouth Adam had ever seen, full pink-red lips, stunningly delineated by texture, not by cosmetic gloss. She wore no make-up that he could see.
A natural work of art.
Not Cambodian like the children.
She was tall, slender, innately graceful, and what country she called home, what mixture of genes had created her, Adam could not even begin to guess. All he knew was he’d never seen anyone like her. She had no peer amongst all the beautiful women who’d sought his acquaintance, and being one of the few billionaires in the prime of his life, he’d met legions of them.
With all his concentrated brain-power, he willed her to look at him.
She didn’t.
She spoke to the children who gave her their rapt attention as though she were some goddess, commanding their reverent obeisance.
‘Good heavens!’ The surprised voice of his current companion, Tahlia Leaman, jangled in his ears as she hooked her arm around his. ‘Fancy seeing Rosalie James here!’
He’d left Tahlia in the bathroom, blow-drying her long blond hair—a tedious activity that always tried his patience. He glanced quickly at her now to see if she was looking at the woman with the children.
No doubt about where her gaze was trained. She raised her other arm in a wave. ‘Rosalie! Hi!’
The greeting evoked a frown, a quick look—the lustrous dark gaze skimming right past Adam—a rueful little smile, a nod of acknowledgment to Tahlia, and that was it, the briefest of interruptions to her communication with the children.
‘Must be doing her children’s charity thing,’ Tahlia commented, hugging Adam’s arm. ‘Come on, darling. The others are probably already waiting for us in the bar.’
It piqued him, not to be at least noticed by the woman. In most company he stood out as a big man, well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, powerful physique, with a face most women considered attractive, wearing well for its thirty-eight years. A good head of hair, too, though the dark brown was liberally streaked with grey, adding to his somewhat distinguished persona. He wasn’t accustomed to being passed over by anyone!
‘Who is Rosalie James?’ he demanded of Tahlia, wanting some definitive tag on her.
It earned an incredulous look. ‘You don’t know?’
‘I wouldn’t ask if I knew,’ he said tersely, wanting information not gushy nonsense.
Tahlia rolled her eyes. ‘Only the queen of the catwalk for all the influential designers in Europe and the U.S.—the one model they all vie for to show off their star creations. The rest of us aren’t even in the running if Rosalie James is available.’
‘Is that a bitchy comment?’
Tahlia grimaced. ‘The plain truth. I can’t even be bitchy about her, though she does get the plum jobs. When she’s not modelling, she works her butt off for orphaned kids and I suspect most of what she earns gets funnelled to them, too. You rarely ever see her on the social circuit. She’s not into partying.’ Tahlia slanted him a knowing look. ‘Not your kind of woman, Adam.’
‘No,’ he agreed.
And they walked on to the bar.
But the image of Rosalie James lingered in his mind, indelibly printed there, a rarity that both annoyed and intrigued him. Why would such a beautiful woman spend all her leisure time do-gooding, not to mention pouring all she earned into it? What drove her?
Adam knew he was a born achiever. Building up successful businesses had always given him a buzz, though he grew bored with them once they were flying high. His latest challenge was getting a new airline off the ground and he was aiming to organise cheap flights to South-East Asia, scouting the possibilities while ostensibly on this pleasure trip.
To his mind, Cambodia had a lot to offer tourists. Here in Phnom Penh, the Royal Palace and the Silver Pagoda with its fabulous Buddhas—one encrusted with over nine thousand diamonds, another in Baccarat crystal—held so many unbelievable treasures, it was mind-boggling. And seeing Angkor Wat today—that amazing complex of temples built in the twelfth century—definitely one of the wonders of the world, well worth the trip.
He’d brought a few of his company executives and their women with him, and when he and Tahlia arrived in the Elephant Bar, they were there, still raving over what they’d seen at Angkor Wat. Adam left Tahlia with them and went to the bar to order drinks.
‘A group of children entered the hotel just now,’ he remarked to the barman. ‘What are they doing here?’
‘They’ve come to sing for the tour group having dinner around the swimming pool this evening. A raffle is being held out there, the proceeds to go to their orphanage. Their little concert is by way of a thank-you. Miss James organised it.’
‘You know this Miss James?’
The barman nodded and smiled. ‘The kids call her the angel. Sings like one, too. She does a lot of good here for the orphans.’
Adam frowned. The angel. He hadn’t seen her as some kind of ethereal being. Her impact on him had been very physical. Sensual. Sexual. Which made it all the more frustrating that she hadn’t been aware of his presence. No recognition of who he was, either. Not even when she had acknowledged Tahlia’s call had she bothered to show any curiosity about her fellow model’s escort.
What kind of woman didn’t notice such things?
Most of the women he knew were like butterflies, instinctively seeking the sweet nectar of money. Like Tahlia, a top-line model herself, happy to be along for the ride for as long as it lasted. He wasn’t particularly cynical about his wealth being a powerful drawcard, regarding it as the natural order of things. He enjoyed having the best-looking women in the world in his company, just as they enjoyed the high life he could provide.
It was something he took so much for granted that one more beautiful woman shouldn’t have mattered one way or another. Except…being ignored had got under his skin, especially being ignored when he’d wanted to impress as strongly as he’d been impressed. A passing vexation, he told himself. Rosalie James lived on a different planet to the one he occupied. Pursuing her would be absurd. Non-productive. Clearly in her world, do-gooding had priority over…sinful pleasures.
He tried to block her out of his mind, chatting to his executives about the viability of establishing a Saturn Airline service to Cambodia. But when they moved from the bar to go to the dining room, he heard the singing begin. Her voice—it had to be hers—was delivering the verse of a very melodic song in a clear pure tone, perfect pitch…angelic.
None of the recording artists he’d signed for Saturn Records in years gone by had ever come close to having a voice like that. It sent a shiver down his spine. Rosalie James could have been a star in the music world. Still could. With her looks, her talent…
Then the children came in on the chorus, singing with more gusto than musicality, belting out their words at the top of their voices, almost drowning hers out.
Forget her, Adam savagely told himself.
He’d sold off the record company to fund the airline.
There was absolutely no profit in forcing an acquaintance with Rosalie James, either on a personal or business level.
Six months later Adam Cazell saw her again.
And was once more transfixed by her beauty.
He was at the Met in New York. It was the opening night of Puccini’s Turandot. Adam was not a big fan of opera but he’d been hooked into attending this premiere—the proceeds to go to charity—by his latest lady, Sacha Rivken, who loved glittery theatrical events that promised lots of celebrities in the limelight. Their affair was new enough for it still to be a pleasure to indulge her.
Along with a festive party of jet-setting friends, they were seated in a corner box of the Grand Tier level of the famous Metropolitan Opera House, enjoying the buzzing atmosphere of a big night out. Sacha had positioned herself and Adam on the curve of the corner so she could more easily spot the most watchable people entering the two central boxes which directly faced the stage.
The far box was filled first. Sacha was speculating over who might occupy the adjoining box when the awaited party arrived and a jolt of recognition hit him.
Rosalie James…leading her companions into the front row of seats.
The liquid black hair was coiled around the top of her head, baring a long, pale, swanlike neck, around which hung a fabulous necklace of rubies and diamonds.
No sexless white tunic and black pants tonight. She wore a figure-hugging gown of dark red velvet—breasts, waist, hips, every feminine curve lovingly delineated to breathtaking effect. Little shoulder-cap sleeves swept into a low, heart-shaped neckline that revealed a tantalising hint of cleavage. Her carriage was regal. She looked regal. If she’d worn a tiara, she would have had people wondering what royal family had spawned her.
As she took the end seat, she smiled up at the man about to settle beside her—a big man, his physique every bit a match for Adam’s, tall, powerfully built, his face showing a similar mature age, silver strands sprinkled through his chestnut hair, and he was smiling back at her as though they were sharing some very warm, intimate moment.
Never in his life had Adam experienced jealousy, yet a violent black wave of it instantly crashed through him. If her escort could have been mentally zapped into irretrievable atoms, it would have been done in those few out of control seconds. She had given him space in her life—a man of the same physical mould as himself—and Adam felt cheated, wronged, every muscle in his body clenching in aggressive anger at this trick of Fate.
‘Oh! It’s Rosalie James!’ Sacha hissed exuberantly, delighted to have recognised the enigmatic top-line model. ‘And she’s wearing the show-stopper from this season’s Bellavanti collection. I bet it’s on loan for this premiere, getting more spotlight for the designer. And look at that necklace! On loan from Bergoff, for sure. Must be worth a fortune!’
Not money spent on herself then, Adam swiftly reasoned, nor gifts from a lover, which was a matter of some relief though he didn’t stop to examine the cause of this relief. ‘Who’s the guy with her?’ he grated out, wanting some firm identification, a name that could tell him more about her choice.
‘Don’t know. Quite a hunk, though. Very impressive.’
Which caused Adam’s jaw to tighten further.
‘James…is she related to the tenor who’s making his debut here tonight?’ the one opera buff in their party inquired.
Adam flicked open the glossy program he’d bought earlier. The starring tenor’s name was Zuang Chi James. ‘She’s not Chinese,’ he pointed out sardonically.
‘You haven’t read his bio, Adam,’ came the faintly mocking reply. ‘Zuang Chi was born in China but he was smuggled out to Australia by his family who wanted him to have the chance to develop his voice. He was officially adopted by a previous Australian ambassador to China and his wife, Edward and Hilary James. They found him teachers at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music where he won a scholarship to…’
‘Hey! Rosalie James is an Australian, too,’ Sacha chimed in excitedly. ‘You could be right about a connection.’
Australian? Was that her nationality? Richard stared at her, thinking there could be few more English names than Edward and Hilary, but Rosalie James didn’t look English-Australian. And the guy with the reddish hair next to her looked more like a huge marauding Scot. Her slim, elegant hand was swallowed up in his as the lights dimmed.
Adam suffered through the first act of the opera which was utterly meaningless to him. He couldn’t get his mind off Rosalie James and her escort, both of whom looked utterly enthralled by the action on the stage. She didn’t once glance in the direction of his box, his seat. Every time Zuang Chi James sang, she leaned forward, her body finely tensed, her focus entirely on the tenor as though she did have some extra personal interest in his performance. Was he her adopted brother? He certainly won the most applause from her.
But it was his debut at the Met, surely a milestone in any operatic singer’s career, and even Adam conceded he had a magnificent voice. Those facts alone could be eliciting her interest. After all, she sang like an angel herself, though without the resonant power of a trained classical singer. Finally, Adam remembered the proceeds from tonight’s premiere were to go to a charity.
That was why Rosalie James was here.
Do-gooding.
Probably most of the people in her box were connected to the charity, directors of the board or committed fund-raisers. Except she was altogether too cosy with the big man beside her for Adam to dismiss him as a charitable connection. The all too obvious rapport between them was like a thorn in his side, constantly irritating.
He was glad when the opera ended.
Supper at the Four Seasons was more his style.
Three months later their paths crossed again.
Unplanned.
Unexpected.
With the same stunning impact as before, but with one big difference. This time Adam was not accompanied by a woman. And Rosalie James was on her own.
It was a Sunday, midsummer in England. Adam left his London residence, looking forward to the pleasure of driving his Aston Martin into the country and collecting his daughter from Davenport Hall where she had spent the first week of her school holidays with her best friend, who happened to be the niece of the Earl of Stanthorpe.
Adam’s ex-wife was delighted with that connection to the British upper class. Sending their daughter to Roedean was pure status snobbery on Sarah’s part—a ridiculous reason in Adam’s mind, but it wasn’t a big enough issue to argue over. Besides, Cate seemed happy there, didn’t complain about anything.
She’d just turned thirteen, his one and only child from his one and only marriage, and a very bright spark, indeed. He was proud of her, always enjoyed her company when she spent time with him. They had fun together, the kind of adventurous fun her mother had never appreciated—going places, experiencing new things.
To Sarah, there was no place like England and she wasn’t happy anywhere else, a fact she made plain by divorcing him three years after they were married. She didn’t want to spend her life gallivanting around the world with him. She was now married to a member of parliament and was the perfect politician’s wife, do-gooding with the best of them for public brownie points.
Adam wished her well. There was no acrimony between them. The divorce settlement had been more than generous and he still paid for whatever Sarah wanted for Cate. Money, he’d found, bought a lot of harmony. He could have their daughter with him whenever he wanted. Having made time off from business commitments for Cate’s summer holidays, it somewhat niggled him that she had chosen to spend the first week of it with her best friend. Didn’t she have enough of Celeste’s company at school? Or was Davenport Hall a big attraction?
Having been invited there for lunch to meet Celeste’s family before whisking Cate away, Adam took particular notice of the place when he arrived, driving slowly through the gateway and down a long avenue of massive trees, their branches intertwining overhead to form a sun-dappled tunnel. He had the eerie feeling of being drawn into some time warp.
Cate had told him the hall was over four hundred years old and the thickness of the tree trunks suggested they were of the same age, yet the leaves were a light pretty green showing a bright continuance of life. At the end of the avenue the driveway circled around a massive stone fountain, water splashing and tumbling in endless cascades, a sparkling pleasure. Beyond it stood an impressive mansion, three storeys high, much of its walls covered by ivy.
The impression of solidity and permanence was strong. This had been the home of the Earls of Stanthorpe for half a millennium. Adam had no need of deep roots himself, but he could feel its attraction here, the sense of security that undoubtedly came with nothing ever changing. Did this place have some special magic to it that appealed to Cate? Or was she being over-influenced by Sarah’s values?
He was greeted at the front door by an old butler who’d probably served the family for decades. Having identified himself, Adam was ushered into a huge hallway, a wide strip of rich red carpet bisecting a floor of black and white tiles, a gallery of portraits on the walls, obviously depicting generations of earls. Adam instantly thought he wouldn’t want to carry the weight of all this heritage on his shoulders, tying him to the one place for life.
Yet when he was shown into a drawing room of magnificent proportions and furnished with rich elegance, he could understand the tug of possessions that made their own seductive claim. There were three groupings of sofas and chairs and tables, one directly in front of a massive marble fireplace. But no fire was lit or needed. Sunshine streamed through a bank of six windows at one end of the room where a man and woman rose from another sitting area, smiling their welcome.
‘Mr. Adam Cazell, m’lord,’ the butler announced.
The Earl of Stanthorpe was tall and lean, but with none of the rather effete air Adam associated with aristocracy. He had dark intelligent eyes and a strong grip to his hand. ‘Hugh Davenport,’ he said, inviting informality. ‘A pleasure to meet Cate’s father. This is my wife, Rebel.’
Curious name for a lady of the establishment, and she was certainly a distinctive one—a mass of curly black hair tumbling to her shoulders, bright hazel eyes, an unusual angular jawline, a warm, winning smile of perfect white teeth.
Adam smiled back at her as he retrieved his hand from the Earl’s and offered it to his hostess. ‘How do you do?’ A silly greeting, he’d always thought, but it seemed appropriate on this occasion.
‘I trust you had a pleasant trip down from London, Mr. Cazell?’
‘Adam.’
‘Thank you.’ Her smile widened to a grin. ‘I’ve learned to be a bit cautious about jumping in with first names here in England. I’m from Australia and old habits die hard.’
Rather intriguing to find a dyed-in-the-wool English earl married to an Australian. Was he a rebel, too?
‘Please join us,’ she went on, gesturing to a nearby armchair. ‘The children are out walking the dogs but they should be back any minute.’
She’d barely finished speaking when Cate burst into the room, throwing the double doors to it wide open. ‘Hi, Dad! Saw your car coming up the drive,’ she breathlessly informed.
Celeste was right on Cate’s heels, along with a couple of Yorkshire terriers. ‘We ran but you got here first, Mr. Cazell. Oh, do shut up, Fluffy and Buffy!’ This to the dogs who were yapping at Adam—a stranger on their territory.
Two small boys raced in past the girls and the dogs, coming to an abrupt and rather shy halt at seeing Cate’s father, eyeing him up and down before the older one—possibly all of five—commented with considerable awe, ‘He’s as big as Uncle Zachary, Mum.’
Rebel laughed at the remark.
Then in strolled Rosalie James.
She looked directly at him.
And all Adam’s instincts transmitted a wild belief that the time warp in the tunnel of trees had been spiralling him towards this moment.
