3 comments/ 1230 views/ 2 favorites Shakespeare Masquerade Ch. 01-03 By: mcbook Chapter One Barrister-Wells Auction Rooms, Glastonbury The auctioneer lifted his bespectacled gaze to the back of the red velvet flocked wallpapered hall and acknowledged the latest bid with a perfunctory nod of his head. "One point two million pounds!" he said. The room sighed a collective breath. Hushed whispers and low murmurs filled the shocked silence once more as curiosity took the place of surprise. The gathered guests twisted and turned in antique gilded chairs, craning their necks for a glimpse of the man who had raised the bar by more than half a million pounds. One point two million pounds? "Ladies. Gentlemen," the auctioneer pleaded. He raised an imploring hand. "May I have your attention? One moment. Please—" The sharp crack of his gavel on the sound block rang out with firm conviction through the vaulted Elizabethan hall and garnered an immediate reaction. Voices quietened and faces froze. The auctioneer cast a steady gaze around the room and, certain he'd regained everyone's full attention, focused on the young woman sitting five rows back from the front, near the aisle. He pursed his lips. "Madam, the bid stands against you at one point two million pounds. Do I hear one point three million for Cadfan Abbey?" Magdalena Perez sat with bated breath and curled her toes in her tall boots. She pinched the glossy property magazine tighter between shaking fingers and squared her shoulders against the weight of stares now singling her out. How could this have happened? She had been home free. She'd easily topped the highest bid with her offer of five hundred thousand pounds. The auctioneer had accepted it as a credible bid. He'd raised his gavel to close the deal— Then came the curt, masculine voice from somewhere at the back of the hall, scuttling her chances and shattering her hopes of winning the bid for Cadfan Abbey. Unlike everyone else, she'd refused to acknowledge this man or be impressed by his smart-assed tactics. And now all eyes had turned to her. Perhaps, he was watching her, too, waiting for her to lose her nerve. She grimaced. One point two million pounds. Absurd! Every property developer worth his or her salt knew the twelfth-century abbey founded by French Savigniac monks wasn't worth even half that much. It lay practically in ruins. Although, unlike a great many of its contemporaries, it'd fared far better throughout the centuries, having survived storms, wars and even Henry the Eighth's determined efforts to dissolve it. And yet, despite its ruinous structure, there was enormous potential to rebuild. She shifted uneasily in the Louis XVI giltwood chair. She crossed her legs at the knees and tried to mask the nervous tick of her booted heel against the highly polished wooden floor. Perez Developments teetered on the brink of bankruptcy—a situation that wasn't set to improve any time soon in the current economic environment—certainly not with clients readily reneging on their contracts left, right and center. But to sue for breach of contract cost time she didn't have and money she couldn't spare. She squirmed a little more in her seat. Today's auction had been about so much more than saving her mother's company, but she harshly shoved those reasons to the back of her mind. The Town Councilors had called on independent property developers to bid for the abbey on their behalf. However, there had been a proviso. The Grade II listed building would be renovated specifically as sheltered accommodation to house the increasing number of young women living on the town's streets. Its main aim would be to prepare these young outcasts for work, college and life, without thought of profit. That meant the small developers had little or no chance of ever recouping their investment on this vast and selfless project. Many had refused, but Magdalena had persuaded her mother, founder of Perez Developments, to accept the caveat. The Council didn't have the funds to buy the abbey, but the growing problem had to be addressed. So, she'd sold her mother the vision of a profitable future, convincing her of the financial benefits Perez Developments would ultimately reap if their bid proved successful. None of which meant anything anymore. How could she have been so careless? The Council's not-so-secret intent to block, delay or bury beneath a pile of red tape any and all planning permission submitted by richer, private investors with shareholders to appease placed her firmly in a position to successfully bid for the abbey. She'd been so sure of herself, her ability and her success. And she'd done her homework. She'd exhaustively researched the remaining competition. None of the smaller companies had assets substantial enough to greatly exceed the abbey's asking price. And yet, the inconceivable had still happened. She'd not only lost the abbey, but she'd probably lost the Council its only chance to acquire it. The fallout from this didn't bear thinking about. She released a silent breath. What was she going to tell her mother...or their employees for that matter? She'd practically guaranteed the personnel at Perez Developments their jobs. She'd let everyone down, herself included. God, what a mess. "Madam, will you give me one point three million pounds?" She would probably have to sell the entire bulk of her own assets to pay for the abbey, not to mention the exorbitant commission on top of that! But she couldn't leave without hazarding one final bid. And maybe, just maybe it would be enough. She inhaled slowly and deeply and mentally crossed her fingers. She caught the auctioneer's eye and nodded. The stout, bespectacled man exhaled with visible relief and returned the gesture. He straightened and squared his shoulders and looked sternly about the room. "Thank you, madam. One point three million pounds from the young lady seated to my right. Do I hear one point four?" Magdalena kept her gaze firmly fixed on the auctioneer's face. Let the hammer fall. Please. An unexpected hum of excited voices at the back of the hall interrupted the proceedings and drew everyone's attention. Heads turned as one. The auctioneer opened his mouth to protest the renewed disturbance but then abruptly closed it. His eyebrows shot into his hairline, prompting Magdalena to glance over her shoulder to see what or who had hijacked the room. "Miss Smythe, Lord McFarlane," the auctioneer said. "Welcome." Her fingers tightened about the brochure. She hadn't been prepared for the sharp slam of jealousy in her gut. She sucked in a shuddering breath and tensed her spine at the name exploding through her mind. Niall McFarlane? She clamped her lips together, surprised at the idiotic tears stinging the back of her eyes. Whatever Niall and she had shared had ended twelve years ago, yet the mere thought of him being in the same room was enough to send the cold shadow of their past slithering down her spine. She swept her eyes closed and suppressed the onslaught of unbidden memories, of being eighteen, chaste and in love. He drew level to her seat and strode obliviously past. She must have stopped breathing, although she was unaware of it, for now she drew in a long, ragged breath. She slumped back against the chair and clutched the catalog even tighter to her chest, but couldn't bring herself to look at his face. Not yet. Niall McFarlane was a celebrity, a king in the business world. Which was rather apt considering he could reputedly trace his ancestry back to arguably the last king of Wales, Cadwaladr ap Cadwallon. And from all she'd read about McFarlane Industries and Real Estate, Niall wasn't only revered but respected by his peers. She covertly eyed the elegant beauty standing at his side. It was hardly a surprise to see Polly Smythe on his arm. Polly had been Lady McFarlane's choice of a bride for her son twelve years ago, and now it looked as if a public engagement was finally on the cards. Their on-again, off-again relationship had been the cause of much speculation in the years they'd been together, but neither party had officially confirmed nor denied the persistent rumor. For one foolish moment in time, she'd thought Niall wanted her, had loved her and hadn't cared she was the housekeeper's daughter. Or didn't come from old money, have the right clothes or moved in higher social circles. How wrong she was. Niall brought his mouth closer to Polly's ear. She ignored the unaccustomed skip of her heartbeat. He tightened his arm about the redhead's slender waist. He spoke, and Polly's pink-glossed lips curved into a broad smile. Polly pressed her hand against his chest and playfully tossed her head, stirring the hair spilling down her back. She forced her gaze back to the auctioneer. "Madam," he said, "the bid is back to you. I have one point five million pounds from Lord McFarlane. Will you give me one point six?" Breathe, Magda. She could scarce feel her fingers. She couldn't have clasped the brochure any tighter if she tried. Twelve years was a long time, perhaps Niall wouldn't recognize her. She wore contacts now, instead of the thick-rimmed glasses she used to wear, and her loose curls hung past her shoulders. She reached a hand to her throat and swallowed her disappointment. Then shook her head once in defeat. "One point five million pounds, going once," the auctioneer bellowed. "One point five million pounds, going twice. Make no mistake, I'm going to sell Cadfan Abbey—" She rose calmly to her feet and coaxed her legs down the center aisle toward the back of the hall. She didn't need to stay and hear the auctioneer confirm her failure or witness Niall's pleased look and Polly's satisfied smile. Her heels tapped conspicuously against the polished floor, and she fought the urge to run. She reached the exit door, yet stilled her hand at the sharp, definitive crack of the gavel against the sound block. "Sold to Lord McFarlane for one point five million pounds!" Enthusiastic applause and congratulatory noises rippled around the room, yet her name whispered above the din on a murmur only her heart could hear. She spun abruptly on her heel and instinctively met Niall's gaze across the crowded hall. Narrowed slits of green glittered from beneath straight, dark brows. Her heart did tiny somersaults against her ribs and her stomach, which had already recoiled like some small, frightened animal, retreated even farther against her spine. The handsome boy with playful, teasing eyes was long gone, and in his place stood a striking and powerful business magnate who had swooped down and crushed her noble plans. She released a tremulous breath and absorbed the familiar and unfamiliar that was him—boy and man. As a boy, he'd been lean, but the fine cut of his tailored clothes couldn't disguise the potent and athletic man he'd become. His blond hair was much shorter and darker than she remembered, still her fingers hadn't quite forgotten the feel of the silky strands, whether tangled during sex or just sliding idly through her fingertips as she cradled his head on her lap. There had been no greeting. No look of surprise, feigned or otherwise. And why should there be? To all intents and purposes, she and Niall were strangers. No longer friends or lovers. They had hurt each other too much and destroyed the love they'd once shared. Their past was gone. It meant nothing to either of them anymore. She lowered her gaze from the cold gleam in his eyes and stepped into the unseasonably chilly April night. The auction-house car park had been filled to capacity. She'd had no option but to park her car on a residential street some five-minutes' walk from the town center. The streetlamps, although few and far between, burned brightly in the narrow, quiet lanes. She wasn't frightened, but she wasn't in the mood to dawdle either. She wanted to go home and take a long, hot bath and maybe drown her sorrows in a glass of Merlot before she had to face the world of men again. She snorted inelegantly and corrected herself. Niall McFarlane. The world of Niall McFarlanes. She brushed the back of her hand across her cheek and wiped away the tears. He'd never been hers, so what did it matter who shared his bed or his life? Niall and Polly were meant to be. They were whom people called the perfect couple. Polly matched him in sophistication and height and looks and wealth. She and Niall could never be and would never be. She had learned that lesson the hard way twelve years ago when Lady McFarlane had cornered her near the stables behind Cadwaladr Castle, Niall's ancestral home. Despite the cold, her cheeks burned with humiliation at the memory. "Polly is an intelligent and lovely young woman from good, aristocratic stock," Lady McFarlane had said. "You are nothing more than a summer fling, a momentary diversion for my son. He knows our families have had hopes for their union since they were children, and I will not have our plans ruined by the local tramp. One day, Polly will marry Niall, not you." Magdalena mentally shook away the cobwebs of memories. The joke had been on her. She got it. Niall was a Hereditary Peer, and she'd been the housekeeper's daughter. He'd had a silver spoon shoved up every orifice since birth. She'd worked hard for every bit of luxury she possessed. Large raindrops fell onto her eyelashes and splashed onto her cheeks. She looked up at the gray, moonlit clouds and cursed softly. This night was just getting better and better. She pulled the collar of her coat up around her ears then wheeled about at the steady sound of echoing footsteps closing in behind her. A part of her told her to get to her car and drive, but somehow she couldn't tear her eyes away from the tall figure slipping in and out of the shadows and striding purposely toward her. With recognition came a plummeting feeling of shock. Her mouth went dry, and her stomach tied itself in knots. In the auction hall there had been distance and people, and a quick getaway that had buffered her from the sheer power of his aura. Now, there was no escape from a sensual familiarity that rooted her to the spot and stoked at the dormant embers of their past. He drew closer, beyond the glare of the neon streetlamps and the security of shop windows, not stopping until he'd forced her to take a step backward. The intoxicating scent of him teased at memories long locked away, and a rush of heat flashed through her lower belly to the soles of her feet. She curled her gloved fingers tighter about the red, glass dragon key fob in her hand and squeezed her eyes shut. Silence hummed between them, stretching her nerves. He must have something to say to her. He must. Why didn't he ask her? Confront her about the past and get it over and done with? Why else would he have followed her? She opened her eyes and met his clear gaze, lambent in the semi-darkness. "Don't I get a "hello" for old times sake, Magdalena?" His expression was unreadable even across the part of his face illuminated by moonlight, and she hoped hers was equally so. Don't fall apart, Magda. Please. Not now. She reached a shaky hand to her hair and pulled back the long strands whipping about her face and snaking frenziedly between them. "Hello, Niall. It's been a long time." He prowled into her personal space, his broad shoulders outlined against the dark skies, and his long, black coat flapping wildly about his sturdy frame. She shivered but not from the biting cold. "Not so long that I don't remember. Do you?" She briefly closed her eyes as if that would be enough to block out the memories, the promises made, the love they had once shared. "You're getting married to Polly, so the past hardly matters anymore, does it? Your mother must be thrilled." She'd tried to keep the cold edge off her voice, but didn't succeed. It hurt knowing what he'd cost her tonight. It'd hurt seeing him with Polly Smythe. His body stiffened, and he exhaled slowly. "My mother died six months ago." Shame weaved itself in the erratic beat of her heart and for a fleeting moment, she wished the insurmountable chasm wasn't between them, and that she could find the words to tell him. "I'm sorry," she said. "Are you?" Her eyes widened, and she sucked in an infuriated breath. "That's unfair. I wasn't good enough for your mother, and you never wanted me. It was always going to be Polly, or someone like her. I was nothing more than a moment of pleasure on your way to prettier and more aristocratic things. You must have been quite bored that summer to stoop so low." His voice rasped with taut control. "Don't cheapen yourself. I would have gone against my family and every principle instilled in me since birth to have you, but what we had wasn't real. You and your mother played me for a fool. That summer twelve years ago meant nothing more to you than a means to an end. Money. Start capital for your mother's business." Her heart fisted in her chest. "Wh...what are you talking about? My mother—" "Blackmailed mine. Dragging my name through the mud wasn't enough, was it?" The sky rumbled in the distance, and lightning split the shadows across his face, revealing the accusation in his hardened gaze. She could hardly think straight, and her denial scratched at the back of her throat. She willed her brain to function, to give her a thought and the capability of speech. She breathed out. "You're lying." "I have no reason to lie," he bit back. "A month after you left Cadwaladr, Sofia Perez received a check for two-hundred thousand pounds from my mother to buy your silence. I have the letter signed by your mother to prove it." A month? Dear God...No. This had to be some kind of mistake. She wrapped her arms about her waist. She'd been three months pregnant when she left Cadwaladr, and wholly unprepared for the reins of motherhood being thrust so firmly upon her young shoulders. She'd contemplated having an abortion, but it'd been her mother's sensible logic and show of support that had ultimately given her the strength to go through with the pregnancy. So, she'd prepared herself for the enormous responsibility of bearing and raising a child. And after a while, she'd even looked forward to welcoming her daughter into her arms, although that would never be. "Why are you telling me this now? If you have my mother's letter, why didn't you confront us sooner? Last week? Last month? Twelve years ago?" "I found the letter in a file among my mother's personal items. She never told me you had stooped to extortion." She searched the bright whites of his eyes bearing down on her with an intensity that unnerved her. Would he go to the police? She balled her fists tighter to stop her hands from shaking. There was probably a statute of limitations on blackmail, but she couldn't risk the press getting hold of the story either way. Her mother may not go to prison, but she wouldn't survive the scandal. Her defiance ebbed. "I'll repay the money, every last penny," she said. "If that is what you want." "I don't want your money, Magdalena. I don't need it." She swallowed the asperity of his words and blinked away the film of tears blurring her vision. "Then what do you want, Niall?" He drew back. Her senses could finally breathe. "I already have what I want. Your mother is unable to get a loan from any of the top banks because the business is no longer seen as viable. Perez Developments will be declared officially bankrupt in the next two weeks if you can't find a way to turn the company around." Shakespeare Masquerade Ch. 01-03 She flinched. "How could you know that?" "It's what I do. I can open doors for you in the property world, and I can close them, too." Realization crept through her veins like ice crystals and penetrated the heart of her brain. Her breath rasped over the dryness at the back of her throat. "No one's doing business with us because of you, are they?" "What did you expect? That I would let you blackmail my family and continue to profit from the money?" She couldn't believe her own mother would be capable of such deception, and yet she had nothing to prove slander and no defense to refute it. This had to be some kind of mistake. The hot tears that had gathered against her lower lashes now fell unhindered and mingled with the light rain running down her face. Niall had bought Cadfan Abbey and deliberately bankrupted them. A sudden gust of wind crisscrossed between them and rocked her back onto her heels. His body shielded her from the full impact of the gale, but she was too upset to care. The abbey wasn't just about saving her mother's company. It wasn't even about her. She didn't want anything for herself. The Council's initiative had struck a personal chord. Her own experience with Angharad made her wish to see these young women looked after, housed and prepared for school, work and life. "There are young women who need help, who need a safe place to call home so they can work, raise their children and study. They don't deserve your contempt, yet you callously destroyed their futures just to hurt me. Well, you didn't just hurt me." She took a step backward and turned from him. "You got your pound of flesh. I hope you choke on that goddamn abbey." Chapter Two The lift doors pinged open, and she stepped into the fifth-floor lobby bearing the company name, Perez Developments, in large, brushed-aluminum letters on its wall. Her journey from Glastonbury to Bristol had taken a little over an hour, yet she could hardly remember the drive down the M5. Arrogant bastard! She stalked across the foyer and pushed open the dividing glass doors onto the spacious walnut and aluminum waiting area, happy in the knowledge she would never see Niall McFarlane again. The small, blond woman behind the high reception desk lifted her head and smiled brightly. "Hi, Magda. How did the auction go?" Magdalena inhaled sharply and gathered the remnants of her composure. Her past had returned with devastating effect, that's how the auction went. "Not good, Jill. I'll explain later. Is my mother still here?" "Yes—" She ignored the worried look on Jill's face and dropped her coat and shoulder bag down on one of the brown, calf-leather chairs then continued across the hardwood floor to another set of dividing glass doors etched with her mother's name. She slid the doors open and entered the expansive corner office. Sofia Perez stood on the other side of her desk looking out of the large window framing Bristol's rainy, nocturnal skyline. At fifty-seven, she was still a beautiful woman. The muted, designer dogtooth suit complimented her still youthful, olive complexion, and her bobbed sable-colored hair showed no signs of graying. Magdalena walked toward the cherry oak executive desk at the center of the beige interior, her heels barely audible on the carpeted floor. "Mum. We need to talk." The silver, Celtic jewelry at Sofia's throat and wrists chinked softly as she spun about. Her mother smiled. "Congratulations, Magda. I know it's late, but we can still go out and celebrate if you want." She shook her head. "We were outbid." Sofia crossed the space to her desk. "You lost the bid? How is that possible? We had background information on every potential bidder at the auction tonight. There was no one who could possibly bid higher." "Except Niall McFarlane, Mum." "Niall McFarlane? But he's a private investor. The Council will refuse him planning permission." "Will they? This is Niall McFarlane we're talking about. The rules don't apply." She walked the length of the desk and fisted her hands. What Lord McFarlane wants, Lord McFarlane gets. "He waited until I had the winning bid and more than doubled it. The pompous ass—" "Magda!" She stopped pacing and leveled her gaze on her mother's face. "It's not just me he has hurt by doing this," she said. "Did he know he was bidding against you?" "Of course he did! He hasn't forgiven me. He hasn't forgiven us. And he wanted me to know it." Tears glistened in her mother's eyes. Magdalena hurried to her side and clasped the slightly trembling hands within her own. "I'm not worried about myself," Sofia said. "I've been poor before. It's my employees I'm worried about. This was their last chance, their last hope of keeping their jobs. I just don't know what to tell them." Magdalena exhaled softly. Neither did she. "We still have two weeks. I'll speak with the Council in the morning and persuade them to let us look for an alternative property. It's in their best interest and ours. We just have to make sure Niall doesn't find out what we're doing." Sofia's eyes widened. "He wouldn't, would he? Again? Isn't this enough?" "It'll never be enough. Not anymore. He hates us." "Is that what he told you?" "That was the general crux of our conversation." Sofia paused and stared at their joined hands. There was a hint of fear in the gold-flecked eyes that slowly returned Magdalena's gaze. "What is it, Mum?" "You talked to him?" She nodded. "It was brief and unpleasant and not to be repeated any time soon." "Did he tell you anything else?" Sofia asked. She shrugged. "Like what?" Sofia struggled to draw breath. "His—" Magdalena stepped anxiously forward. "You have to sit down, Mum." She maneuvered her mother into the plush, leather office chair behind the desk. "Letters—" The word clawed past her mother's lips. "Don't speak." Magdalena knelt beside her mother and loosened the top of the pink jacket with desperate but steadfast fingers then quickly jumped to her feet. "Why aren't you wearing it? You're supposed to wear it at all times." She raced across the room to the red sofa pushed against the far wall and grabbed her mother's bag. She rummaged through the bottom and retrieved the silver pill holder dangling on its chain. Her fingers fumbled with the lid. She dashed back to her mother's side. "Mum! Can you hear me? I have your pills." "I just need my pills." "I know. Here." Sofia took the small, white pill with shaking fingers and placed it under her tongue. She relaxed into the chair and closed her eyes. Magdalena studied her mother's face, their rapid breathing perfectly in sync. "I'll be fine in a minute," Sofia said at length. The calm had returned. "I shouldn't have returned his letters." "Wh-whose letters?" "I am so very sorry, " Sofia said, her eyes still closed. "I never should have interfered." Magdalena frowned, and her panic grew. She didn't want to push the issue but... Sofia opened her eyes, her gaze focused and clear. "So much had happened in that time, Magda. Niall's parents had wanted him to choose a wife from his own social circle. He wouldn't have gone against them for you." She wrapped cold fingers about Magdalena's hands. "I shouldn't have kept his letters from you, but I only wanted to protect you. You were four months pregnant and vulnerable. I couldn't let you read them. You would have gone back to him, and I wanted more for my daughter than to become some rich man's mistress." Magdalena pulled back with dawning realization and tugged her hands free of her mother's grasp. She rose to her feet, hurt and confusion roiling her stomach. "Niall wrote to me?" Sofia nodded. "Yes." "And you returned his letters?" "Yes." She wanted to be angry with Niall, not her mother. She wanted to feel nothing for the man who'd said he loved her then agreed to marry someone else. But she also wanted to jump around like a kid and scream and shout. Niall had known where to find her. He'd cared enough to write. And if he'd cared enough to write then maybe he had loved her as she had him. I wanted you. I would have gone against my family and every principle instilled in me since birth to have you, but you and your mother played me for a fool. She pressed her fingers to her temple and fought back her rising headache. She stood at the maw of a huge abyss, and if she looked down now... She didn't want to believe her mother capable of blackmailing Lady McFarlane or that she'd used Angharad to do it. Yet, Niall had made that accusation. He had no reason to lie, although she still hoped he'd made some terrible mistake. "And your blackmail letter, Mum?" Sofia's eyes widened, and she gasped. "Blackmail? My blackmail—did Niall tell you that?" "Mum, please calm down. Think about your heart—" "I am calm. Do you think me capable of something so despicable?" "You kept his letters from me," she retorted. She took a few calming breaths and slowly paced the room. She stopped in front of the large Goya painting hanging on the wall above the sofa. Sofia's voice was small but controlled when she spoke again. "I did give a letter to Lady McFarlane, but not for the reason Niall thinks. I never wanted you to find out about this." She turned to face her mother. "You told Lady McFarlane I was pregnant with Niall's child?" "Yes," Sofia said. "But not to blackmail her. I simply thought she would like to know about her grandchild. Lady McFarlane didn't approve of you, and I didn't want the child to ever have to pay a price for being born. But Lady McFarlane thought differently about that. She offered me money to keep quiet and made me write a letter promising never to divulge the name of the baby's father or to ever tell Niall." "So, Lady McFarlane bought your silence for two hundred thousand pounds. And you kept the money?" "I'm guilty of that, yes. It was for your future and the baby's—" "But when Angharad died, why didn't you just give the money back?" "We needed it, Magda. And after the business started to take off, well, too much time had passed by to revisit old wounds." Sofia sat up straight. "You should have told me about Niall's letters. Now I understand his contempt for us—for me. He merely returned ten-fold tonight what he perceived to have been my own." "Will you call Niall and explain?" The time they had wasted, the anger, the hate... Magdalena shook her head. "What would be the point?" she said. "What's done is done." Her head throbbed violently. She needed some air. She needed to think. "Magda..." * * * * Magdalena opened her eyes into the blackness of early morning, aware that she'd been hovering in that place between dreaming and sleep. Her body lay drenched in sweat, and the sheet tangled about her limbs indicative of yet another sleepless night. She threw an arm across her eyes and concentrated on calming her heartbeat and ridding her mind of the dark images that had seemed so very real—her defenseless body draped in a bloodied toga, lying on the lower steps of the Roman Senate. Casca, Cinna, Brutus stabbing at her. Although it'd been her mother's cold blade in the midst that had delivered the unkindest cut of all. She shivered at the context. Et tu, Mater? She sighed loudly and, disentangling her legs from within the sheets, rose from the bed. She padded across the wooden floor to the en suite at the other side of the room and within moments, she'd stripped off her pajamas and stepped into the shower. The tepid water teased her awake, massaging her scalp and invigorating her cells. She'd hidden away for two days, but she couldn't spend another twenty-four hours cooped up in her house. She needed to clear her mind and restore her perspective before the emotional tidal wave in her heart overwhelmed her completely. She turned off the jet of water and reached for the large, fluffy towel hanging above the shower door. She gently dabbed off the excess moisture from her skin and returned to the bedroom. She crossed the room to the answering machine on her desk and pressed play. And for the first time in two days, listened to her messages. Half of them were from her mother expressing her regret and sorrow. The other half were from her best friend, Xander, who demanded to know where the hell she was. She dressed and decided to avoid her mother for a little while longer, although the same couldn't be said about Niall McFarlane. She squeezed her eyes shut and fought the conflicting emotions splitting her brain—leaving him had been one of the hardest decisions of her life. It'd almost cost her, her sanity. It was always him, and it would always be him. She lifted a trembling hand to her throat and shook her head, denying the feelings he had so easily rekindled in her heart. She needed to talk to Xander. Xander's voice went up a notch on the other end of the line. "Magda, are you serious? Do you know what time it is?" "Four o'clock." "In the bloody morning! I've been calling you non-stop for two whole days, and you choose to wake me up at this godforsaken hour to train?" "Please, Xander. My head feels like it's going to explode. I need a release, otherwise I'm going to lose it." "God, if it was anyone else, I would say sod off." "I know. That's why I love you. See you in half an hour?" "An hour." "I wasn't interrupting anything, was I?" "Would you care?" "At this moment, no. I need you. I really need to see you." There was a slight pause on the other end of the line then a sigh of compliance. "Half an hour. Use the back entrance." Magdalena hung up the phone and headed out the front door to her car. It'd been a while since she'd visited the dojang. Xander was not only Kwan Jung Nim, but he was her closest friend. She'd literally walked in off the street and into his martial arts school five years earlier after completing a seven-year stint with her psychiatrist, Dr. Chung. She'd needed something to help sustain her mind and keep her body disciplined. Xander had made her laugh again and Tae-Kwon Do had made her stronger. She wasn't a natural talent by any stretch of the imagination. It'd taken her five years of determination and setbacks to earn the red belt cinching her waist, as well as Xander's friendship and trust. And he, hers. She put the key in the lock and entered the modest, one-story martial arts school in the center of town. Xander was already inside, wearing his dobok and warming-up. He saw her through the small window that separated the canteen from the training area and waved her through. At the doorway, she bowed respectfully toward the Korean flag hanging on the far wall then entered the main arena. She wanted to talk, but just not yet. She ran laps around the room, increasing her pace and relishing the thud of her heartbeat and the furious rhythm of the dobok flapping loudly about her body. Xander soon fell in step beside her. He held his tongue but matched her speed. She pushed harder as she tried to purge all thought of the last forty-eight hours. Twenty minutes later, her body warmed and ready, she stood on the soft, black mats in the middle of the dojang and faced her mentor. "Magda, what's going on? You shut yourself away for two days—" "Fight me, Xander." "No, not until you calm down." She threw a well-aimed punch to his solar plexis and swiveled with a jump kick to the side of his head. She threw another well-aimed punch to his stomach and quickly followed that with a series of chagi to his torso, knees and groin. Xander easily parried her blows and avoided the kicks for the time it took Magdalena to rid herself of the latent anger burning a hole in her chest. Then he unceremoniously floored her. She lay on the mat, panting and scowling and trying to speak all at the same time while he sat astride her hips. "Did it work?" he asked. "What?" she snapped. "The exorcism you were trying to perform. I've never seen you this wound up before. Who is he?" Magdalena glared at him. She contracted her stomach muscles and pushed herself onto her elbows. Xander shifted his weight a little lower down her thighs, allowing her the room she needed to sit upright. She snaked her arms about his neck and pressed her lips against his. "Make love to me," she whispered. He gently but firmly clasped her wrists within his hands and brought her arms down to her side. "If you were a man, you know I'd have no problem with that." Yes, she knew that, which is probably why she'd asked him in the first place. It'd been a relatively safe bet that he wouldn't take her up on her offer. "I'm sorry, Xander. I...don't know what's wrong with me. I want to cry, and I can't. I want to scream, and I can't do that, either. My life is unraveling with the speed of a freight train, and I can't seem to make it stop." He jumped to his feet then pulled Magdalena to hers. "Right! You're coming home with me, and you're going to tell me why you've been avoiding me and everyone else around you for the last two days. And I mean everything." Thirty minutes later she'd parked her car outside Xander's exclusive waterfront apartment building and followed him inside to his fourth-floor apartment. She'd taken a quick shower and slipped on his oversized bathrobe before settling in one corner of the huge couch in the spacious living room overlooking the river Avon. She tucked her feet beneath her. "I love it here," she said. "Yeah, I know. It's quiet, peaceful and safe. Your sanctuary." Xander had showered, too. He walked toward her, wearing only a pair of jogging pants and carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and two plates of French toast, which he set on the low, designer table between the two sofas. She reached for the purple "Little Miss Transvestite" coffee mug. "You make it sound as if I'm hiding." "Aren't you? When is the last time you had a date, or had your heart broken or even got laid just for the hell of it?" "I'm not promiscuous, that's all." Xander took a huge bite out of his toast. "It has nothing to do with promiscuity," he said. "It's living. It's life, and you haven't got one. I should know. I've known you for five years. Look at you. That face, that body, that hair. It's wasted on you. You don't do anything with them. Get thee to a nunnery!" he thundered. The silence lasted for all of five seconds before they both burst out laughing at this terrible and probably misrepresented rendition of Hamlet. By the time the hilarity died down, she'd spilled coffee on his robe, and they were both wiping their eyes. It felt good to laugh. "Thank you," she said. "I needed that. I'm sorry about your robe. I'll buy you a new one." His grin softened to a smile, and he shrugged. "If I knew the bastard who broke your heart, I would wring his bloody neck." Her smile faded, too. He knew her too well. She stared at him. She didn't want to hide the truth any longer. "His name is Niall McFarlane, but I don't want you to kill him." Xander raised a brow, his mouth agape. "Niall McFarlane as in "CEO of McFarlane Industries and Real Estate." Lord McFarlane who's engaged to rich-bitch socialite Poppy-what's-her-name." "Polly Smythe," she said. "So, what happened?" Magdalena lowered the purple coffee mug from her lips and sighed. "Niall and I were in love. I thought. Once upon a time." Shakespeare Masquerade Ch. 01-03 Xander let his toast slide onto his plate. "And now?" "He was part of a past I couldn't have. I wanted to forget him...and everything associated with him." "And you can't." "It's not that. He was at the auction, Xander. He knew why I wanted, needed Cadfan Abbey, yet he bought it anyway out of spite. To hurt me like I'd hurt him." "What could you have done to him?" Magdalena pushed herself up from the sofa and padded across the tiled floor, her coffee cup in her hand. She stood at the window framing the river below it and leaned her forehead against the cool pane. She cradled the warm coffee cup to her chest and for a moment, enjoyed the faint shards of dawn peeking through the dark mist hanging over the lamp-lit waterfront. "I misjudged him through the eyes of a child, and acted like one as well." "Now, what does that mean?" "It's complicated." Xander's footsteps neared and drew to a slow stop behind her. His hand stroked her hair. "I like complicated, Magda." She shifted her gaze to his face reflected in the glass pane. His eyes glinted with concern. She inhaled softly. "My mother had worked as housekeeper for the McFarlane's before she created Perez Developments. That made me the housekeeper's daughter, and persona non grata as far as Niall's mother was concerned. With his heritage and background, he was deemed too good for me, but that didn't seem to matter to Niall. We didn't have anything in common, yet growing up we were each other's best friend. It was as simple as that and as wonderful." "Until it went wrong, I take it," Xander said. She breathed heavily and shook away the dormant images of happier times resurrecting in her mind, each vying for her complete attention. "Until it went wrong," she sighed. "The summer of my eighteenth birthday." "What happened?" She returned her gaze to the patch of dark, shimmering water below. "That summer, Niall and I took our friendship to the next level. He was my first lover, my first love. That summer, his mother announced his engagement to Polly Smythe. He hadn't chosen me." Xander slipped his arms about her waist and drew her backward against his chest. She welcomed his warmth and snuggled into his embrace. She sniffed and continued. "My mother never knew Niall and I had been sleeping together until after I had left Cadwaladr Castle and discovered I was pregnant. She immediately assumed Niall and I had started our sexual relationship while I was underage because of our five-year age difference. My mother screamed statutory rape, and I did and said nothing to counter it." "That was harsh. And unfair. It sounds like you were jealous." "I know, Xander. I should've given him a chance to explain." Instead, I let my mother blackmail his family. She closed her eyes. Hindsight was a wonderful thing. "I was jealous of Polly and every other woman eligible for Niall's hand. Pathetic, right?" Xander didn't answer that. "You didn't fight for him. You chose to hurt him instead. Did Niall know about the baby?" "No. I thought my mother would tell him, but she didn't." Magdalena expelled a deep breath. "Although it didn't matter if he'd known or not. Three months later, the choice of whether to keep the baby or not was taken out of my hands. Angharad was born prematurely and lived for only two weeks." Xander's arms tightened about her. "God, Magda. Why didn't you ever tell me this?" "What's gone and what's past help, should be past grief." "That Shakespeare has to have an answer for everything." A wry laugh escaped her lips. "Do you still love Niall?" "My feelings don't matter. Not anymore. The papers say he's engaged to Polly now—" "And since when have you started believing anything written by the press?" "This time, I know they're right. Besides, it's too late for us." Xander nuzzled his chin against her shoulder. "I don't think it's too late. You and Niall are adults now," he said. "You need to talk to each other, like adults, and resolve this, or you will never be able to move on." "I walked away from Niall twelve years ago." "No. You ran away, Cinderella. The ugly sister forced herself into your glass slippers because you weren't there." "Polly is anything but ugly." "Don't change the subject. The point is, you have to find closure. Call him and talk to him. Face your demons, Magda, or you will never put this behind you. You can never move on." Magdalena shut her eyes and shook her head. "I don't know if he wants to see me again, Xander. I don't know if I can." Xander tightened his arms about her. "Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie." Damn that Shakespeare. * * * * Despite the Town Council's insinuations and veiled threats, he'd bought Cadfan Abbey. It's stunning location outside the town and bounteous gardens made it a developer's dream. He had no doubt he would get the planning permission he needed—that was what his legal department was for—but he hadn't been in the mood to celebrate this latest acquisition. Not this time. If Polly had been aware of his reasons, she hadn't said anything, although that night, the drive back to Cadwaladr had been a long and silent one. He raised the cup of coffee to his lips and took a satisfying mouthful. It'd been two days since the auction and he still couldn't get Magdalena out of his mind. Her hair was longer now, curling past her shoulders and down her back. She no longer wore glasses, but he would've recognized her blush-tainted cheeks and large, autumn-colored eyes anywhere. Except this time, her eyes hadn't been filled with the fire he'd once known. They'd been saddened and dulled and disappointed. He looked at the matted black dossier in his hand. She was the guilty one, not him. So, why did he feel like such a prized bastard? His mother's death, six months ago, had been painful and unexpected, and yet, ironically enough, it had answered the questions that had plagued him for twelve long years. He flipped the file open with one hand and raised the coffee cup to his lips once more. Magdalena had used him. It'd always been about money, not them. Every word, every sound, every kiss. Her, made to make him fall even more in love with her than he already was, although he hadn't needed persuading. He would have given her the money if she had asked him for it. He'd been expected from birth to choose his bride from among the many eligible daughters within his father's circle of friends. It really didn't matter which one as long as she was wealthy and had social acceptance. Magdalena was the housekeeper's daughter, a nobody in his mother's eyes. She had neither wealth nor connection nor beauty nor presence, his mother had once said. They couldn't be friends let alone anything else. He pushed himself upright from the dark-mahogany pillar that partitioned his office and went to stand at the window overlooking the eastern landscape at Cadwaladr. The morning mist had lifted, and the garden was slowly coming alive. He had waited for her to grow up, to finally show her what was in his heart. He'd thought she felt the same way that their friendship had developed into something more meaningful, until the best night of his life—summer rain and all—had been tainted by lies and false accusation. He threw the dossier onto the conference table behind him and ploughed a hand through his hair. How the fuck had things gotten so out of hand? He stalked toward his desk at the sound of his cell vibrating loudly on the polished surface. He picked it up and held it to his ear. "Yes." His assistant was on the line. "There's a Ms. Perez to see you, Mr. McFarlane." He could barely contain his surprise. "Is she here? Now?" "Yes, sir. She says it's urgent." "Give me five minutes." Chapter Three The storm raging outside her office window was nothing compared to the tempest still raging in Magdalena's heart a few days later. She'd immersed herself in her work for most of that time, contacting the Town Council, overseeing project reports, re-examining schedules, planning staff meetings, anything and everything to help stave off her company's demise and to stop herself from thinking about Niall McFarlane. It hadn't worked. Her finger slowly followed a tear-shaped raindrop trickling down the windowpane. She loved the rain and hated it too for the memories it brought with it. Wet hair, wet T-shirts. Consuming mouths and exploring hands. Hot tongues and gasping breaths. And toe-curling orgasms. She closed her eyes and willfully revisited her memories for the first time in a very long time. She and Niall had practically grown up together at his ancestral home in Wales, although she never saw him quite so much after he went away to boarding school. Lady McFarlane had frowned on their blossoming friendship. The future Lord of Cadwaladr wasn't supposed to socialize with the housekeeper's daughter, which meant Niall seldom came home during the holidays. But on the rare occasion he did, they were inseparable. They would read or swim, go for long walks or just sit and talk for hours beneath the weeping willow by the lake hidden on the east side of the estate. He'd taught her to ride horses, play rugby, golf and drink beer. She smiled. She'd taught him to play chess and a few paltry chords on the guitar. They'd been friends long before they'd become lovers. Her smile vanished. She missed her friend. She lowered her gaze to the red key fob in her hand. Their gifts to each other had always been childish, silly, meaningless things. That is, until her fifteenth birthday when everything had changed. For her fifteenth birthday, Niall had presented her with his family crest "Y Ddraig Goch", the red dragon. She caressed the smooth red glass in her hand and traced her finger across the name etched on the dragon's tail. It'd been especially handcrafted in the Murano Islands near Venice and still the most exquisite piece of objet d'art she'd ever seen. Six hundred years of Seguso family knowledge and tradition had gone into its making. She wiped away the tear rolling down her face. She'd been eighteen when he'd led her across the east lawns at Cadwaladr Castle down to the weeping willow to seek shelter from an abrupt summer storm. There had been no going back when he'd leaned forward and gently kissed the raindrops from her lips. It'd been a Midsummer Night's Dream worthy of the Fairy King Oberon himself—a quick, bright thing as swift as a shadow, short as a dream on a midsummer night and brief as a flash of lightning that had neither been real nor imagined. "Magda?" She released a stifled breath and opened her eyes. She wiped a hand across her cheek, pretending to push back her hair when she was really checking for any telltale moisture. She turned from the window toward the door of her office. Jill leaned heavily against the doorjamb. "What is it, Jill?" The receptionist rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation. "It's that insufferable man again." Magdalena gave a slow but firm shake of her head. Why couldn't Niall take the hint and leave her alone? Jill pushed herself upright and stepped into the office. "He's been calling you for a week. You have to talk to him." She shrugged and lowered her gaze. "I've got nothing to say to him. I'm up to my eyeballs in work. I haven't got time to listen to him gloat. Perez Developments is virtually bankrupt. He'll only be satisfied when I'm living on the streets." "Perhaps, he's had a change of heart. Handsome, powerful magnates do sometimes, you know." She lifted the corner of her mouth in a half-smile and raised her eyes. "Do they? And when have you ever known one to do that and not want something in return?" "Well, you'll never know what Lord McFarlane wants if you don't speak with him." She smiled inwardly. The petite blond stood in the middle of her office with her arms folded like a schoolmarm. "Have pity on my nerves," Jill said. "I'm the one who has to lie to him every single time. Besides, this time he sounds serious." Magdalena agreed. She needed to talk to Niall, if only to tell him to take a long walk off a very short plank. "Okay. Patch him through to my cell, will you?" Jill clapped her hands together and turned to leave. She paused at the door, her eyes glinting with something akin to mischief. "I'll send him right in." What? "He's here!" The door to her office closed, and Jill made good her escape before Magdalena could round her desk and dash across the room. She wasn't ready to see Niall. Not like this. Without some warning. "Jill?" She yanked open the door to her office and collided into someone very tall and very solid, encased in an expensively tailored dark suit. The infusion of faint aftershave and evocative masculine scent rolled over her senses, reeling her in. Her heart crashed into her ribs. "Niall!" She stumbled backward and lost her balance and, feeling the world tilt on its axis, closed her eyes expectantly and waited for her bum to crash embarrassingly to the floor. Strong arms broke her fall, and she fixed a startled gaze on Niall's face as he pulled her safely to him. She braced her hands on his chest and felt the strong, steady rhythm of his pulse beneath fabric and skin. This wasn't the first time he'd held her against him like this, but he'd been young then. Now, he was a man, all hard muscle and firm strength. It was the same and different. A warm chill tingled down her spine and channeled its way to the tips of her breasts. Her back arched, and her legs trembled. She drew back to look at his face and was immediately struck with memories of him kissing her...caressing her...making slow, scorching love to her beneath an old willow tree by a lake in the summer rain. Her gaze drifted to the long, paled scar at the corner of his mouth, missed in the darkness of their previous run-in. The scar concertinaed with the slight tilt of his mouth, and she swept rounded eyes up to the clear, green, masculine beauty of his. He towered above her, close enough for her to see the singular McFarlane flaw in his left eye where the pupil trickled like a black dragon's tail into his iris. She licked her lips. For twelve years she'd fought to forget those extraordinary eyes. Would Angharad have had his eyes? Magdalena gave a jerky shake of her head and fought the unbidden images the memories brought with them. She dropped her hands from where they lingered on his biceps and stepped back. His gaze slid to the red dragon key fob clasped tightly between her fingers then meshed questioningly again with hers. She brushed the palm of her other hand awkwardly over her hip. She didn't owe him any explanation. "Come to gloat, Niall?" He arched a brow. "You're welcome," he stated pointedly. He'd just saved her from an unsightly tumble, and she'd rewarded him by being churlish and uncharitable. And he'd called her out on it. Great. She avoided his gaze and murmured a quick "thanks" before turning on her booted heel and retreating into her office. She quickly sought the relative safety of her desk and tried to still the erratic beat of her heart. Niall crossed the blue and gray interior space toward her in fluid, sure movements. She held herself stiffly erect and controlled the urge to fidget with her hands. "What do you want, Niall? You've already gotten even for everything I've ever done to you or put you through. I haven't got anything else for you to take." "I didn't come to take anything, Magdalena. I came to give you this." She swept her gaze to the padded, manila envelope in his hand and frowned. "What is it?" He closed the remaining distance to the exclusively designed black, glass desk in the center of the room and placed the thick, unopened envelope down in front of her. "The deed to Cadfan Abbey." She cast a disparaging glance at the envelope bearing the McFarlane logo before flicking her gaze up to his. "Is this some kind of joke?" "No, it's not a joke." "Well, if it's not a joke, it's absurd. A week ago, you were set to destroy me. What has changed?" The ensuing silence and the fleeting emotion in the depths of his eyes ripped through her heart. There was only one other possible reason that would bring him here like this. She stepped forward. He knew. She gripped the glass edge of her desk. "How did you find out?" "Your mother came to see me last week," he said. "She told there were some things I needed to know before passing judgment." Magdalena closed her eyes and squeezed the desk a little harder. Her heartbeat ricocheted against her ribs, and she sought to stem her tears and the guilt cascading through her. She hung her head. "Why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you tell me about our daughter?" There was nothing to tell. Not anymore. Angharad had been born premature and no one could tell her why it'd happened. Her beautiful daughter had been small but perfect. The doctors couldn't determine a cause of death. It'd been one of those inexplicable things. Rare and sad, they had said. No one blamed her, but she couldn't help but blame herself. She'd spent weeks in bed, reliving her daughter's death and wondering constantly what she had done or not done to cause it. It'd been a cruel and unfair punishment for a moment of selfishness and indecision, and a painful twist of fate that had left a gaping hole in her heart. Her chest tightened about the scarred tissue. For a whole year after Angharad's death, she'd kept herself together, resuming her studies, pretending to the world and even fooling her mother into believing that she was all right. Until one day the taut control, which she had so carefully erected around her emotions, snapped. It had resulted in a seven-year stint under Dr. Chung's psychological care. Her eyes fluttered open and, after what seemed like an age, her fingers relaxed. She lifted her head and steeled herself to face the man who'd been the only love of her life. "What is there to tell? My daughter died—" He pushed a hand roughly through his hair. "Our daughter—our daughter died," he clipped. "I had a right to know about her." She conceded that with a slight nod of her head. She didn't want to fight about this. "Why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?" She straightened and fisted her hands tightly at her side. "Would you have listened? Things had gotten out of hand between us, and when Angharad died, there was no point in both of us suffering her loss." "So, you suffered alone." She drifted from behind the desk. Perhaps if Angharad had lived, they would have had something to talk about—some kind of common ground to build on. As it was, they had nothing. Their past had died along with their daughter. "I didn't want anyone's pity then, and I don't want it now." He gave a ghost of a smile. She reached a hand to the small, red locket at her throat containing a lock of her daughter's hair. Her most valuable possession. How could he expect her to take the abbey when nothing had been resolved between them? The things she'd said. The things he'd said. They had meant every hateful word. The fact that he was willing to give her property worth millions didn't change that. The fact he was only here because of Angharad didn't change that, either. "And if my mother hadn't told you about Angharad?" "Then, I wouldn't be here, but I am, and I can't conveniently forget you had my child."