Just For Her. Katherine O' NealЧитать онлайн книгу.
their future—and you’re stealing it from them. How can even you be so heartless?”
DeRohan was unmoved. “The lawsuit will eventually come to trial. You will lose, I shall win—and then you will see how heartless and vindictive I can be.”
“Yes, you may win because you will bribe the French officials and courts, but you will still not get your gold. These people are Corsicans—and now that they have been mobilized, they will fight you to the death to keep it on their island. And then, my friend, you will see what it is to be at the receiving end of a Corsican vendetta.”
“Even Corsicans have to eat. I shall merely wait them out.”
The priest pointed the rolled-up petition at his hostile host. “I happen to know that you do not have that luxury. All three divisions of your business empire—mining, real estate, and shipping—are in jeopardy. You desperately need the infusion of cash and renewed business confidence that will come with the sale of that stockpile of gold ore, and you need it quickly. You cannot afford to outwait us.”
DeRohan smiled cagily. “That may have been true a few weeks ago. But things have changed. I now have a deal nearly in my pocket that will ensure my future and catapult my company into an entirely new league of global power and influence. So you and your Corsican Bolsheviks can all go to hell!”
Dramatically, Siffredi threw the petition at DeRohan’s feet, saying, “Hell, sir, is where you belong.”
DeRohan picked it up, ripped it to shreds and said, “And when I’ve won, Siffredi, I’ll not forget your part in this—nor all the other actions you’ve initiated against me. I’m not without friends in the Vatican. When this is over, I intend to make sure you spend the balance of your career converting cannibals on some godforsaken island in the Indian Ocean.”
Squaring his shoulders, Siffredi told him, “If that happens, I will leave the Church. Because come what may, for the rest of my life, I intend to devote every breath I take to fighting your incomparable evil.”
He stormed out.
Jules returned to her suite, stirred and inspired by the priest’s fiery resistance. Too, she realized now why DeRohan was so intent on this deal with the Shah: His empire was troubled. He desperately needed those oil leases. And since—to get them—he needed her help, maybe—just maybe—she could use this need to her advantage.
She dressed in a pale pink summer frock, and then, because she didn’t want to antagonize DeRohan, wrapped a silk scarf about her hair so he wouldn’t know she’d cut it. She went downstairs, made arrangements with Hudson, and put on a sober pleasant face. Then she entered what had once been her father’s study, a smaller salon where DeRohan had set up headquarters, with Hudson following behind, carrying a tray.
DeRohan looked up from the desk, where he’d been reading his mail. “Ah, my loving wife,” he drawled.
“I heard you’d returned. Since it’s such a hot day, I thought you might like some citronade.”
Hudson laid the tray on a crescent-shaped table below her father’s portrait, then left quietly.
DeRohan was watching her with the trenchant glare that always made her want to turn her back, lest he see too much in her eyes. “To what do I owe this extraordinary reception?”
“I’d like to speak with you. Calmly, unemotionally.”
He tossed his mail aside. “That should be a novelty. I’ve had my fill of histrionics for one day.”
She poured him a drink from the icy pitcher, then turned to find him standing by her side. Repressing the instinctive urge to draw back, she handed the glass to him, and indicated the formal sitting area, offering, “Please, have a seat.”
He dropped into one of the petit point chairs, took a sip, then looked over at her as she sat across from him on the settee. “I confess, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
Jules sat with her back straight, folded her hands in her lap, and took a deep breath for courage. “DeRoh—” she began, then corrected herself carefully, “Dominic.”
She waited to see if the never-before-used familiarity aroused his cynicism. It didn’t. He seemed poised to listen.
Heartened, she continued. “I’ve done a great deal of thinking since you arrived the other day. And I’ve decided to do what you’ve asked. I shall help you with the Shah.”
His eyes narrowed. “Will you now?”
“Yes.”
“You will willingly help me.”
“Yes.”
“But you want something in return.”
“I do.”
“And what is that?”
“My freedom.”
“Your…freedom.” The ice tinkled in his glass as he swirled it in his hand. He took another sip, idly, then set the glass on the table next to him.
Jules rushed on. “Somehow, through no fault of our own, we’ve fallen into a tragedy. I don’t have to tell you this so-called marriage that’s existed between us for four years is a cruel farce. It’s never been consummated. It’s been a prison for the both of us. Surely your feelings for me have been every bit as acrimonious as mine have been toward you. There’s no use raking over the past and hurling accusations at one another as to how we fell into the situation. None of that matters now. What matters is that we end it. Peacefully. Amicably.”
She looked up to see that his face hadn’t changed. He considered her words for a moment, then asked, “How would you suggest we do that?”
“A simple annulment.”
“I see,” he said quietly. “You want me to admit, for all the world to know, that our marriage was never consummated.”
“A divorce, then. I’m certainly willing to protect your reputation in return for my freedom. I don’t want anything from you. I shall take my house and my jewels. Only what’s truly mine. We’ve been apart for a year now. Surely during this time you’ve come to realize that we have no future.” She leaned forward, pressing her clasped hands together. “Please, Dominic. Can’t you be reasonable and see that this is the only solution for us?”
For an entire minute, he didn’t move. Then he reached over, took another sip of the citronade, and sat back in the chair, thinking deeply about all she’d said. Another interminable time passed as Jules pressed her hands together so tightly, they went numb. She forgot to breathe. She waited, encouraged by his thoughtful silence, but afraid to hope.
Finally, his eyes turned to her and he said, “Never. Not in a million years.”
All her hopes came crashing in around her. “You cad! You let me go on, knowing you never had any intention of—”
“You listen to me carefully, Juliana. I—will—never—let—you—go. You made a bargain with me. I’ve coddled you long enough. You’ve had your year of ridiculous mourning. Now you’re going to start living up to your responsibilities.”
“My responsibilities,” she spat out at him, “ended when you pushed my father into blowing out his brains with the gun you left for him in this very room. Our end of the bargain was paid for with his blood.”
“Whatever your father did—and why—has nothing to do with the bargain you made with me. You belong to me. And you always will.”
It was too much. Vaulting to her feet, she ripped the scarf off her head, displaying the bobbed hair that was the symbol of her rebellion. “I don’t care what you do or what you say. I will never belong to—”
He rose up and sprang on her, gripping her arm and wrenching it until she cried out, cutting off her words. “What did you do to your hair?”
“I cut it not two minutes