Deborah's Discovery

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Copyright

  About the Book

  When Deborah Woods meets American oil magnate John Parvin III at a London party, her world is thrown into confusion. Having just ended her long-term relationship and handed in her notice at work, she readily accepts an invitation to stay at his luxurious renovated castle in the Orkneys.

  But once there she learns his desires, and those of his friends, are more complex and bizarre than she had realised. What looked like being a romantic holiday soon turns into a test of sexual bravery where wanton behaviour is rewarded with exquisite pleasure...

  About the Author

  Fredrica Alleyn is the pseudonym of an author who also writes crime and horror fiction. She lives in Lincoln.

  She is the author of Cassandra’s Chateau, Cassandra’s Conflict, Dark Obsession, Deborah’s Discovery, Dramatic Affairs, Fiona’s Fate and The Gallery, all available from Black Lace.

  Fredrica Alleyn also writes as Marina Anderson and is the bestselling author of Haven of Obedience.

  Deborah’s Discovery

  Fredrica Alleyn

  Black Lace novels are sexual fantasies.

  In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.

  Chapter One

  DEBORAH HAD NEVER felt less like a party in her life, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that she needed to re-establish some useful contacts within the publishing industry now that the Americans had taken over Pegasus, the company where she was currently working as a fiction editor, she wouldn’t have gone.

  As she pulled on the black Lycra skirt and crossed the room to choose a suitable top from her wardrobe, she noticed that her answerphone was flashing. After a moment’s hesitation she decided to ignore it. It was bound to be Mick, telling her about some marvellous part he was up for and begging her to take him back again. The simple truth of the matter was, she couldn’t afford to take him back either emotionally or financially, and so she left the message for when she returned. She was late enough for the party as it was.

  Finally grabbing at a black silk camisole top and a scarlet and black bolero jacket she checked her make-up and hair in the mirror and dashed from the room, hoping she could find a taxi quickly.

  She was lucky for once, and by eight-thirty she was at Chrissy’s luxury flat in Mayfair, fighting her way through the throng of chattering authors, editors, agents and occasional minor ‘party celebrities’ who turned up at every possible party on the off-chance of getting their photo in the papers. They were wasting their time here, she thought, because only the publishing trade magazines were likely to be interested in this particular excuse for free food and drink; the introduction of Chrissy’s new editorial director.

  Chrissy saw her tall, blonde-haired friend cross the room and managed to fight her way to her side. ‘I thought you weren’t going to make it! What kept you?’

  Deborah shrugged. ‘The usual things; work, a message from Mick that I …’

  ‘I thought you and Mick were finished?’

  ‘We are, but after four years it isn’t that easy to remove someone from your life. Besides, I miss him.’

  ‘He was a lazy sponger and you’re better off without him,’ Chrissy said firmly. ‘I’ll introduce you to Gavin, he’s the new director we’ve just taken on and he’s absolutely gorgeous. He’s thirty-one, dark-haired and brooding and best of all, single!’

  ‘One dark-haired brooding man in four years is more than enough thank you, Chrissy. Look, is there any chance we could have a talk about work. The thing is …’

  ‘Work?’ Chrissy’s eyes opened wide and she gazed at Deborah in surprise. ‘If you want to talk serious work, ring my secretary and fix a date for lunch, Debbie! Look, I’ve got to see Gavin. Even if you don’t want to meet him there are plenty of people who do, that is what the party’s for! Drinks are in the other room. You probably know everyone here.’

  As Chrissy turned away, Deborah sighed to herself and drifted towards the far room. Of course she knew everyone there, the trouble was this was the first time she’d been to a party without Mick for a very long time and it hurt. It hurt almost as much as what was happening to her at work.

  A bartender had been hired for the evening and he handed Deborah a glass of champagne. She took a sip and then grimaced as she realised it wasn’t very good, in fact it was vile. Cheap champagne, loud chatter and not an interesting person in sight she thought to herself, wondering why she hadn’t stayed at home. She should have remembered that no one talked serious business at parties like this.

  At that precise moment a man walked in through the doorway whom she didn’t know and who was certainly interesting. He was huge, at least six foot, three inches tall and built like an American footballer who still had his pads on underneath his cream suit, with its unusually long jacket. At a rough guess Deborah put him in his early forties, and quite apart from his height and build he was noticeable for his thick mop of grey hair and a pair of incredibly piercing blue eyes which were surveying the room intently.

  When his eyes found Deborah’s his gaze stayed fixed on her and she ran her hand through her long fair hair in an instinctive gesture of femininity. He stared even more intently and then smiled broadly at her, showing a set of impossibly perfect white teeth. He muttered something to the slim, dark-haired man at his side and then walked purposefully towards Deborah. Much to her amusement he didn’t have to push his way through the crowd, people seemed to automatically melt away to allow him room.

  When he was about three feet away from her, he held out a massive hand. ‘Hi, I’m John Pavin III, from America as you’ll doubtless have worked out from the accent. My friends all call me Pavin.’

  An American! Deborah felt like screaming in frustration. For a moment she’d felt a wonderful surge of sexual attraction, something that hadn’t happened to her for so long she’d decided it had vanished along with Mick, and now he had to turn out to be an American, one of the enemy.

  John Pavin saw the answering gleam of appreciation die out of the light brown eyes of this exquisite English-rose type beauty and wondered what he could have done wrong.

  Deborah managed to hold out her hand in return, but she knew that her voice was cool as she introduced herself. ‘I’m Deborah Woods, known to my friends as Debbie, or Debs,’ she responded.

  ‘You in publishing?’

  ‘Of course. This is a publishing party. Don’t tell me you and your countrymen are going to take over Chrissy’s publishing house as well. She’s spent ten years building this up, can’t you leave anything alone?’

  ‘Hey! I’m not buying up anything that belongs to your friend, I’m only here …’

  ‘To see if there’s anything left worth having?’ Deborah finished for him, her cheeks flushing with irrational pent-up fury, really directed at what was happening to her at work.

  The American’s smile became more cautious and he released her hand, which he’d been holding in a grip so tight it was beginning to hurt. ‘Look honey, I don’t know what you’ve got against Americans but I can assure you …’

  ‘That you’re only here so that you can have a small stake in our wonderful culture? That’s bullshit and you know it. O
nce you take over, culture’s a dirty word, and everything gets run by accountants. God, you’d think your own country would be big enough for you, but no, you have to come here and turn us into a load of fast-book companies; the McDonald’s of the literary world.’

  John Pavin hardly heard the words the gorgeous blonde girl was uttering because he was totally bewitched by her looks and her accent. Tall, slim and, until she’d suddenly turned on him, seemingly cool and remote she’d aroused instant desire in him. The fact that she didn’t appear to like him or his fellow countrymen one bit didn’t bother him, he was rather enjoying the flush of temper on her cheeks. It helped him picture how she’d look at the height of passion. She also had the most wonderful mouth, the slightly pouting lower lip making an intriguing contrast with the slim upper one. He was a connoisseur of the opposite sex, and knew a passionate woman when he saw one. He’d stake all he owned on Deborah Woods being very passionate indeed, and if he moved at the right pace she might even provide him with some companionship on his remote island in the Orkneys next month. His mouth went dry at the prospect of taking her there to meet his carefully selected group of friends.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ demanded Deborah, having finally run out of accusations to hurl against him concerning the invasion of Americans into the world of British publishing.

  The American gave a lopsided grin. ‘Deborah, there’s not a lot I can say. You see, I’m in oil.’

  For the first time in her life Deborah wished that the floor would open up and swallow her. She knew that she’d been behaving badly, haranguing him without provocation, but to discover that he wasn’t in publishing at all was unbearable. The hectic colour ebbed from her cheeks and her eyes widened while her lips parted and she stared up at John Pavin in dismay. ‘You’re not in publishing?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry. I mean, it was inexcusable of me. I’ve had the most ghastly day, well ghastly few weeks to be honest. I came out in a vile mood and …’

  ‘And I just happened to step into the firing line, is that right?’

  Deborah was relieved to find that he didn’t seem annoyed, in fact if anything he sounded amused. ‘Yes, I’m afraid you did. Look, I think I’ll get off home. I wasn’t in the mood for a party anyway, and now …’ She looked up at him again, aware that it was unusual for a man to tower over her in the way he did, and gave an apologetic smile. ‘Believe me, I’m not usually this rude. You caught me on a really bad day. I hope everyone else you meet here is a lot nicer than me!’

  She turned to go but his right hand moved with surprising speed and caught her by the elbow. ‘Did you drive yourself here?’

  ‘No, I came by taxi.’

  ‘I’ll run you home.’

  ‘No, honestly that’s all right. I couldn’t possibly let you. Not after the way I carried on! There are always loads of taxis along this road.’

  ‘Look, it’s a pretty boring party and I’m not that keen to stay myself. You’ll do me a favour if you let me drive you home. Don’t you think you owe me that?’

  Deborah hesitated. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. Okay, I’ll just tell Chrissy I’m going.’ She hurried through the rooms looking for her friend, finally finding her with a soulful-looking man who she assumed was the so-called gorgeous Gavin. The large American would have eaten him for breakfast she thought with a smile.

  ‘Chrissy, I’m off,’ she whispered. ‘I’m really tired and that man over there, the tall American who’s like something out of Dallas has offered to run me home so I thought I’d go. I’ll call you at the office.’

  Chrissy’s eyes flew to where John Pavin III was waiting by the door. ‘Debs, you do know who that is, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure, someone big in oil. Well, big in anything come to that!’

  ‘Debbie, he is the John Pavin III, one of the thirty wealthiest men in America. He also has the reputation of being an incredible womaniser and fantastic in bed, although none of his ex-wives or girlfriends ever talk about him so we don’t really know any juicy details.’

  ‘He’s running me home, Chrissy, not taking me through the Kama Sutra page by page. I must go, see you soon.’

  ‘If he does offer to go through the Kama Sutra I should let him!’ laughed Chrissy as her friend walked away. And when she turned back to chat animatedly with her new editorial director he didn’t seem quite as attractive to her as he had done before she’d taken a good look at the Texan millionaire.

  Deborah had expected a large, tasteless car, but John Pavin was driving a black Saab and he drove surprisingly carefully through the London streets as she directed him to her flat. She couldn’t help noticing the size of his hands on the steering wheel, the wide spread of the fingers and the way his nails were cut neatly back. She wondered what hands like that would feel like on her breasts and thighs. Mick’s hands had been slender and light, artistic hands she’d called them. There was nothing artistic about this man’s hands, but they looked very capable.

  ‘Still mad at me?’ he asked abruptly.

  Deborah jumped, wondering what on earth she was doing letting her thoughts wander like that. Since she and Mick had parted three months earlier she’d only had two brief, unsatisfactory one-night stands and had resolved to put sex on the back burner for a while. She decided her erotic daydreaming must be the result of the sudden lack of sex in her life.

  ‘Of course I’m not mad at you,’ she replied quickly. ‘It wouldn’t be logical considering you’re in oil! Mind you, I can’t help wondering what you were doing at a publishing party that was held to introduce Chrissy’s new editorial director to everyone who counts?’

  ‘I went with a friend,’ he said casually. ‘The friend is in publishing, so it’s probably a good job you let rip at me and not him!’

  ‘What company’s he connected with?’ queried Deborah.

  ‘I’ve no idea. To be honest, I’m not a reader. Is there anywhere round here I can park?’

  ‘If we’re lucky there should be a space round the back of the flats, yes look, over there. Would you like to come in for coffee?’ she added, thinking it was the least she could do after her earlier rudeness.

  The American slid the car smoothly into the space and followed Deborah on foot round to the front entrance of the flats and up the stairs to her top floor apartment.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit untidy,’ she said awkwardly, remembering the way she’d dashed out earlier. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone to come back with me.’

  He looked carefully at her. ‘I don’t have to stay for coffee. If you’d rather I went…?’

  Deborah shook her head. She definitely didn’t want him to leave. There was something about him that was extremely attractive but she wasn’t sure if it was the almost overwhelming impression of rugged masculinity or the fact that she now knew he was rich and powerful that was attracting her. She’d always found successful men irresistible, until she met Mick, who was the complete opposite.

  ‘There should be somewhere you can sit down,’ she promised him with a laugh, and opened her front door. The laugh died in her throat and she stared around her flat in horror. Clothes, CDs, pictures and ornaments were strewn all over the floor and where her TV and video had stood there was now just an empty space.

  ‘Hey, you weren’t exaggerating!’ the American said softly. ‘This is probably the biggest mess you can get.’

  ‘I’ve been burgled, you idiot!’ snapped Deborah, her legs turning weak. ‘Even I’m not stupid enough to mislay my television set. And look at my CD rack, half of my favourite operas are missing. I’d better check the bedroom.’

  ‘Wait!’ The American caught hold of her arm. ‘Let me go. Someone might still be here.’

  Deborah hadn’t thought of that, and she moved quickly towards the phone. ‘I’m calling the police. No doubt they’ll tell me it’s happening to someone every four minutes but I still think they should be told. Besides, if any of my jewellery’s gone I’d like it back. Some of
it’s been handed down from …’ She tailed off as she saw a note written in Mick’s familiar hand pinned to the cork board over the telephone.

  Couldn’t get you on the answerphone so came and took my things anyway. I couldn’t find my red silk shirt anywhere. Please send it on when it finally surfaces. By the way, I got the job. Hope you’re missing me but knowing you, you’ll miss the TV and video more.

  Mick

  Deborah stared at the note then snatched it down and crumpled it up into a ball. ‘How could he?’ she shouted furiously. ‘He had no right to take half the things he has. He never paid for anything while he lived here. I kept him for four years and now he has the nerve to turn round and …’

  ‘Who?’ asked the American. ‘Just who the hell’s done this?’

  Deborah had forgotten he was there for a moment. When she looked at him, he saw that her eyes were filling with tears. ‘I’m sorry, John. It’s my ex-lover. We split up three months ago and he’s been on at me to take him back. Now he’s obviously lost patience and decided to move out everything he considers his, but nothing was his apart from his personal possessions, nothing at all!’

  ‘Tell me where he lives and I’ll go round and fetch your stuff back,’ he said swiftly.

  Deborah didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the thought of this huge, muscular man turning up on Mick’s doorstep and marching out with her TV while her ex-lover looked on.

  ‘No. It doesn’t matter,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s better that he’s gone for good, I just wish he’d done it in a nicer way.’

  ‘I guess it wasn’t a friendly split?’

  ‘No, John, it wasn’t.’ Deborah’s hands were clasped tightly together in front of her and she was rigid with shock and tension.

  The American moved closer to her. ‘Call me Pavin, honey. I hated my father and when he died I didn’t want people calling me by his name. Let’s face it, John Junior isn’t exactly appropriate for someone of my build.’