He’d decided that he wanted to move to New York back in the spring. He and Angela needed a fresh start: while Angela viewed Furlings as some sort of talisman of good luck for their marriage, for Brett it was the opposite. That house was a daily reminder of Tatiana, the one person above all others that he needed to forget. Cutting her out of their lives, physically, was all very well. But what good did it do him if she was still in his head and his heart, haunting him like some toxic shadow?
Christmas was a turning point. Having foolishly left his home unguarded, Tatiana had wasted no time moving in like a snake, coiling herself around each member of his family, warming herself by his fire in his drawing room while he, Brett, stood out in the dark and cold, looking in. Of course, it wasn’t his family Tati wanted. They were just collateral damage. It was Furlings. That was the bait, the bricks-and-mortar bond that tied her and Brett together, eternally. He’d have sold the house tomorrow if he didn’t know for a fact that Tatiana would call any new owner the moment a sale went through and offer them limitless amounts of money to buy it back. After the cynical manner in which she’d run off and married his son, Brett would rather cut off his own hand than see Tati get that house back. He’d already changed his will so that Furlings and the remainder of his estate was left entirely to Logan and her future children. If Tatiana thought that having a baby with Jason would change anything, she had another think coming.
He’d decided to let Furlings out, decamp to New York, and be rid of Tatiana and the past for good. All he had to do now was convince Angela.
‘Your grappa, sir.’
A waiter set down the miniature tumbler of clear, viscose liquid in front of Brett. Lifting it to his lips, Brett suddenly froze.
No. It’s not possible.
It was almost exactly a year since he’d last seen Tati. On that occasion he’d also been in New York State, and in a bar. The encounter was seared on his memory like a cattle brand. And now here she was again, looking relaxed and happy in a white, twenties-style sundress with a dropped waist, arm in arm with an extremely attractive man.
Instinctively Brett sank back into the shadows. He did not want Tati to see him.
‘Do you know that man?’ he asked the waiter, sotto voce, nodding towards Tati’s companion.
‘Yes, sir. Of course. That’s Leon di Clemente.’
Brett knew the name. Leon DC was a famous angel investor on the East Coast. He’d made a lot of money from a couple of apps, specifically one that let people pay off their tabs in a crowded bar from their phone, without having to wait for service. Leon’s father, Andrea di Clemente, had made a small fortune in mining in the Congo and his son had turned it into a large one, inheriting at the tender age of twenty-one. All of which begged the question: what the fuck was Leon DC doing here, with his arm around Tatiana Cranley?
Tatiana was having a wonderful week. Not only had she persuaded the seller of the Seventh Avenue site to lower his price by a further ten per cent, but her meeting with Leon di Clemente yesterday had gone better than she’d dared hope. A mutual friend from London had set her up with Leon, and Tati’s plan had been to approach him about joining the board of Hamilton Hall NYC. But the two of them had hit it off instantly, agreeing about everything from the unique opportunity currently presented by Manhattan commercial real estate, to the limitless possibilities for growth in the private education sector. Within forty minutes, Leon had been reaching for his chequebook and promising to underwrite the New York school in its entirety if necessary, should Tatiana’s London board continue to stymie her proposal. After all the stress and confrontation of the last few weeks, Tati felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders.
She and Leon got on well personally, too. It was a long time since Tati had felt a sexual connection to anybody, but Leon’s attentions, combined with the adrenaline rush she always felt pulling off a great deal, had set her libido on fire. A few years older than Tati, with curly, jet-black hair, dark brown eyes and the swarthy complexion of a pirate, Leon was a handsome man. But his sex appeal lay more in his confidence. There was nothing passive or subtle about his flirting.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ he told Tati, apropos of nothing, halfway through their meeting in his palatial Park Avenue office. ‘Have dinner with me.’
‘I’m married,’ said Tati, unable entirely to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
‘So? I’ll pick you up at your hotel at eight.’
He took her to L’Artusi, a trendy restaurant in the West Village that wasn’t remotely discreet, and held her hand as they walked to the table, apparently not in the slightest concerned about who might see them together. Nothing happened. But after a few sour apple martinis, Tati felt a warm rush of happiness whenever Leon touched her back or paid her a compliment. Like a coma patient opening her eyes after years of nothingness, every sensation was heightened and wonderful. It was an effort to return to her hotel room alone.
Leon, however, seemed unfazed and happy to play the long game.