Читать книгу Taken By The Maverick Millionaire - Anna Cleary - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

MARCUS RUSSELL was dead. Tom, his brilliant, ruthless son, had taken charge of his empire. On the Friday morning of the memorial service, two weeks after the old media magnate had been buried under a Hunter Valley gum tree, cathedral bells rang out across Sydney Harbour, summoning the rich and powerful to pay their respects.

In the dressing room of his hotel suite, Tom Russell gave his reflection a critical last glance. His charcoal suit was cut with the required elegance, enhancing the athletic power of his well-made frame. Likewise, his ebony shirt of finest Italian fabric, his pearl silk tie and hand-stitched shoes. If his blood pressure was slightly elevated, the tense little beat in his temple was contained. His steel-grey eyes held the usual degree of sardonic assurance, his harsh, tanned face the control.

No one would guess the nightmare he was living.

He held out his hands and accorded them grim approval. Steady as a rock.

With his raven hair cut crisp and close, he was as groomed, sleek and polished as any of the race of high-flying billionaires he belonged to. Used to belong to. And would again.

He clenched his lean hands. If—if he could keep the lid on.

* * *

From her desk at the Sydney Clarion’s newsroom, Cate Summerfield could see the Russell yacht, its flags at half-mast, embarked on a graceful honour lap of Sydney Harbour.

‘Just look at that,’ Cate glowered, narrowing her green eyes. ‘It’s probably worth enough to feed Africa for a decade.’

The schooner bowed to the swell, its white sails billowing against the glittering blue. It had been reported that Tom Russell had outfitted the luxury vessel into a floating hospital, so the waves could lull his dying father to sleep on the days he could find no rest.

It was a far cry from the care Cate could afford for her darling gran. The frail souls at the Autumn Leaves Nursing Home counted themselves lucky even to have beds to rest their aching old bones in. The nurses didn’t even have time to feed the helpless ones. Patients like Gran, who was on the waiting list for heart surgery, had to rely on their relatives to come in and help them eat their evening meals. It was probably that cold reality that had spurred Cate to be unusually terse in the obituary she’d written for the media mogul.

She’d done thorough research, digging through the archives of all the rival news chains—Russell’s own, even the powerful Wests. Conscientious in her attempts to achieve balance, she hadn’t shrunk from quoting some of his harshest critics, including a choice selection of the epithets his enemies had used to flay him. The piece was her best so far, in her modest opinion. Honest, she’d judged it, though Marge on the neighbouring desk had called it ‘biting.’

She’d held her breath after she’d filed it, but it had made it past the legal hawks and gone to press. Afterwards people in the newsroom seemed to look at her differently. Steve Wilson, the Clarion’s star reporter and resident heartbreaker, had stopped referring to her as Blondie for at least a day, and Harry, their Chief of Staff, whom she’d never seen show any emotion in two years, had raised his eyebrows and whistled.

Still, even a work of art wouldn’t win her a spot on the front page. That would go to the journalist lucky enough to cover the memorial service.

Cate turned her gaze to the newsroom. Though early, already above the ceaseless background buzz of the television monitors the room was alive with the tapping of keyboards, and the constant ringing of the phones.

‘The sharks are circling.’ Marge winked towards a little cluster of glory chasers gathered around the news desk.

The news journalists were lounging about, swapping languid yarns, but everyone knew what they were after. They were waiting for Harry to announce whom he’d chosen to represent the Clarion at the memorial, salivating for the chance to corner Tom Russell.

Cate’s money was on Steve, who boasted more contacts than Telstra. Even though she’d been engaged to him for a stressful forty-seven days, and knew how clever he was, to her mind Barbara, whose lovely face and sleek hair accompanied a razor-sharp brain, or tough, experienced Toni, who chewed politicians for breakfast, were equally deserving. They all had a special sort of gloss that had nothing to do with conditioning treatments.

She sighed and pushed a long, wavy strand of her pale hair back behind one ear.

If—when—she joined that elite group, she’d write stories that mattered. She’d build up a readership, renegotiate her salary. Make it big with a few stories, earn some respect…

Cate grimaced. Dream on, girl. The Clarion was renowned for its fearless battle against corruption in high places. It had taken down many a politician or dishonest businessman, but she couldn’t take personal credit for any of them. In her two years there, she’d worked on everything except the columns that counted.

On the night their engagement had crashed, among other vicious remarks Steve Wilson had made about what he called her obsessive concern for Gran, he’d sneered that she was too soft to make a top news reporter. Even Marge said she tried too hard to think the best of people.

They couldn’t be more wrong. Underneath Cate’s annoying curls, pale skin and the soft curves bequeathed to her by some Scandinavian ancestor, she was tougher than she looked. Long before Gran’s heart emergency, she’d been dying to rip open the fat underbelly of the privileged rich and expose them with her brave, incisive words.

All she needed was a chance to report on someone living. Dead people, even dead media legends, didn’t generate scoops. Scoops went with live players. And if she was ever to get off Obituaries, a scoop was what she had to have.

She leafed back through her photo file to a rare shot she’d unearthed of Tom Russell. Now, he was alive. At thirty-four, his harsh, sardonic face with his glinting grey eyes, arrogant cheekbones and firm, masculine chin, was stirring in its vitality.

‘Did you manage to dig any dirt on him?’ Marge said, peering over at the image, her lively brown eyes alight with interest.

Cate hesitated. She’d dug up heaps on old Marcus. It had been easy.

As a young woman, Gran had worked for one of his big dailies, before he’d sacked her and some of her colleagues in order to turn his respected newspaper into a trashy tabloid. Everything he’d done since had only reinforced Gran’s anger with him.

Gran had never missed an opportunity to point out the evils of his ways. Even in Cate’s eyes he’d done nothing of value with his wealth, except to indulge his own extravagant tastes and flamboyant lifestyle.

His son, though, was a more elusive target. Tom Russell had spent a number of years in England, running the Russell media enterprises there. Gran had never had much to say about him.

‘I only found what everyone knows,’ she said, handing Marge the photo. ‘You know, about how he came back here to take over a few years ago when the old man first took ill.

The ruthless strategic war he’s waging against Olivia West’s chain—’

‘Not to mention the ruthless strategic war he’s waging against us.’

Cate shrugged. ‘Well, he is a businessman. It’s strange, though. I couldn’t find a thing about his private life, except the tragedy, of course. Nothing at all about girlfriends.’

The truth was that, since the death of Tom Russell’s wife in a car accident in England a couple of years ago, very little of a personal nature was ever reported about him. He was never seen at the big society bashes or charity dos.

‘His wife was somebody famous, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she a scientist?’

Marge nodded. ‘Medical research. Some genetic studies, I think.’

‘Well, she doesn’t sound like the usual trophy wife men like him seem to go for. Are you sure there would be dirt?’ Cate met Marge’s cheerful, cynical gaze. ‘Maybe Tom isn’t over her death.’

‘Oh,’ Marge scoffed, ‘give me a break. She died two years ago, but I’m sure I heard they were separated long before that. Anyway, a man like him knows how to move on. You can’t be that rich without being a villain, one way or another. He’s a man. And a very attractive one.’ She gave the photo a tap. ‘Think of the world he’s been brought up in. He’d have women by the boatload.’ She frowned at Cate. ‘Now, don’t you start going soft on him. I thought you said you’d given up being sucked in by heartless machos.’

‘I have.’ Cate’s gaze was uncontrollably drawn towards the vicinity of the desk. She was over Steve. She really was. It was hard to believe she’d ever had to creep to the ladies’room to cry when he’d flaunted his girlfriends at the Friday after-work pub session, though, humiliatingly, on the rare occasions she was now able to join them, everyone still looked at her to see how she was taking it.

‘I definitely am,’ she assured Marge. ‘But you still have to give people the benefit of the doubt. Just because Tom looks like that…and has that unfortunate background…’

Unmoved by the counsel for the defence, Marge shook her head. ‘Sorry. It doesn’t look good for him.’

Cate frowned. At twenty-five she was hardly naïve,especially after her brief, soul-destroying plunge into lunacy with Steve, and she had to acknowledge the likelihood of Marge’s words. Tom Russell had been brought up by a father whose endless stream of actresses and models must have caused serious pain for his succession of wives.

She studied the photo. Was he as callous as Gran had so often described his old man? Those cool grey eyes roused an unquiet little buzz in her insides. Her gaze shifted to his mouth. A lot could be deduced from a man’s mouth. His had been chiselled in severe lines and was wide and firm, the upper lip straight, the lower one very slightly fuller. There was no softness there, though more than a suggestion of irony. He didn’t need to spike up his hair to make himself look taller.

She turned the photo sideways. Sexy, from all angles.

‘Cate.’

She started. It took a second for it to filter through to her that Harry had come out of his huddle with the news editor, and seemed to be looking her way.

Her? He wanted her?

She pushed her chair back and rose to stroll the length of the newsroom, vaguely conscious of Steve’s, Toni’s and Barbara’s startled gazes whipping around to stare.

At the desk the others looked up to watch and listen while Harry’s sharp eyes appraised her from beneath his bushy brows.

‘Your Russell obit wasn’t all that bad,’ he stated.

She gazed at Harry through a mystified fog. Were there bells ringing somewhere? Then pleasure, sharp and furious, streamed through her to her toes. ‘Oh. Oh, thank you. Thanks, Chief. Thanks very much,’ she stammered, feeling her ears turn pink.

She continued to babble her thanks, but Harry ignored her.

‘See what you can make of the memorial,’ he instructed with laconic calm. ‘The business people, the politicians who’ve been invited, who’s in and who’s out—the tone of it. Above all, watch Tom Russell. Who he talks to, who his friends are. Take Mike with you. They’re not allowing cameras inside the cathedral, but get there early and see who you can catch on the red carpet. There’s a lunch in some undisclosed location. Press are excluded.’

She nodded. A huge, joyous whoop had risen inside her and threatened to burst out, but Harry wasn’t the sort to encourage a hug, so she squashed it down.

‘Oh, and, Cate—security will be tight. Don’t forget your pass. And don’t even think of trying to get to Russell. He’s a dangerous man to cross.’

She nodded with appropriate newsroom nonchalance, and turned to stroll back to her desk. The little cluster of ace reporters fell back silently to allow her through. She permitted herself one glance at Steve Wilson. He was frowning hard, his ginger spikes quivering, his blue eyes narrowed. Pity itmade him look slightly cross-eyed. She should have noticed that sooner.

Everything—the day, the sunshine streaming in through the window, the newsroom—felt suddenly fantastic, as if it was her day. She grabbed some notebooks, pencils and her miniature tape recorder and stuffed them into her handbag. Then she paused a moment to glance down at her dress, beginning to show signs of washing stress. Not quite the thing for a society memorial.

Black. She needed something black.

A vintage suit she’d bought from Rhapsodie, the boutique down the road from her Kirribilli boarding house, was itching for a new outing. She glanced at her watch. Nearly eight thirty. The service was slated for noon and she and Mike, her photographer, would need to set up at least two hours earlier. Time enough to catch the train home.

She found Mike in the canteen, poring over the racing page. She had a hurried conference with him, and a bare thirty minutes later was running up the stairs of the Lady Musgrave.

Her eighties suit was a stunning fit. The slim skirt fell to just above her knees, while the jacket had big, sewn-in shoulder pads and a severely shaped bodice with a modest, though deep-cut neckline. Extremely flattering to her breasts, although hanging the press pass around her neck rather ruined the effect. She tried clamping the pass to her jacket hem, considered it with a frown, then took it off to worry about later.

The other nineteen occupants she shared the boarding house with had left for work, so she had the bathroom to herself. In the presence of black, her blonde hair had turned to a pleasing silvery ash. With no time to waste, she subdued the mass by tying it in her nape with a black velvet ribbon. Black heels and pearl earrings completed the effect.

Not too much later, dressed to kill in vintage Carla Zampatti, she found Mike at the rear of the cathedral with his camera, leaning his long, lanky bones against a brick wall.

Streets had been cordoned off to control traffic, and the cathedral precinct was quiet, apart from a battalion of security guards prowling the boundaries, mobiles to their ears, and an occasional black-clad cleric hurrying across the grounds. There were a couple of big, expensive cars in the visitors’ car park, but no other sign yet of the rich and famous.

A team of television journalists arrived to set up in the front. Cate exchanged mobile codes with Mike, and went to reconnoitre the cathedral.

A security guard with a shaven head was stationed in the porch. She showed him her press ID, and after a growled warning not to even dream of trying to use her mobile inside if she didn’t want it confiscated, he consulted a list before allowing her to pass. She grinned to herself. Fat chance they had of enforcing that rule.

A reception table had been set inside the door, and she helped herself to a programme, which included a sketchy seating plan. As she’d expected, the pews allocated to the press were at the rear.

The cathedral’s soaring interior was cool and dim. At once the deep hush washed over her, reminding her it was some time since she’d been in a church. Awed by the graceful lines of the architecture, she strolled about, examining the stained glass and reading wall inscriptions.

Two women carrying magnificent flower arrangements bustled in from the transept aisle. Cate paused, drinking in the atmosphere. Even the presence of a couple of security guards lurking behind pillars, keeping a watchful eye on her in case she broke into some anti-Russell guerilla activity, couldn’t dilute the spiritual repose of the place.

A priest attending to something in the chancel looked hard at her as if he knew a red-hot sinner when he saw one, and, shamed, she slipped into a pew. She sent up a small prayer for her grandmother. Perhaps heaven wanted vengeance for the damage she’d caused Gran, because a small nagging need she’d been vaguely conscious of for some time suddenly became compelling.

The priest finished his preparations and hurried away. Cate gazed after him. Down that aisle, she knew, were the vestry and church offices. There had to be a ladies’room. Should she risk it, though? She wasn’t sure the general public were allowed into the inner reaches of the cathedral.

The sound of voices alerted her to the arrival of more guests. She noticed that the security men were both scanning the people crowding the entrance. Taking advantage of the distraction, she rose to her feet. It was now or never.

Hoping she looked like a woman with nothing to hide, she walked coolly down towards the altar, asserting her feminine right to visit the ladies in her dignified gait. No one intercepted her, and when she made a quick turn into the transept aisle, and saw a long, wide hallway stretching ahead, she was grateful to see it devoid of either security or clergy. With her heart hammering at the strange guilt attached to stealing around a church like a thief, she hastened past a couple of unmarked doors, not daring to open them for fear of surprising someone, and turned into the vestry.

A maze of rooms opened from it. There was one with a piano, a robing room lined with alcoves hung with priestly vestments, and a business office adjacent to a small meeting room. In the office the computer was running, as though someone had recently stood up from it and taken a temporary break.

She hesitated, feeling more like a trespasser with every step, then spotted a promising door on the other side of the meeting room. To her relief, it belonged to a tiny washroom, with a small washbasin below a rust-flecked mirror, and a toilet cubicle redolent of disinfectant. To her grateful eyesit looked like heaven.

Afterwards, when she’d washed her hands and tidied some wisps straying from her silvery mane, she opened the door, prepared to exit, then froze. There was movement in the meeting room.

Instinctively she pushed the toilet door to, not quite closing it for fear of alerting the security guard, priest, or whoever, of her presence, while she summoned enough nerve to sashay forth with careless aplomb.

She strained her ears. Had she imagined the sound? Almost at once then the clack of a woman’s heels approached and came to a halt somewhere alarmingly close by.

She nearly dropped dead with fright when a rather throaty, feminine, cigarette-husky voice said, ‘Oh, Tom. Commiserations about your dad. I’m so terribly sorry. I know exactly what you’re going through.’

There was a curt, masculine murmur of response.

Cate closed her eyes and prayed that Tom Russell was not the man outside the door about to discover her breaching his costly security arrangements.

‘And as if it wasn’t enough losing your father, without some of the rubbish being printed about him. Did you see that disgusting obituary in the Clarion?’

Cate stopped breathing.

‘I saw it.’

Though the tone was grim, the deep voice had a dark, liquid quality. Like liquid velvet. Dark, dark brown velvet. Black, even.

‘Where do those jackals get the nerve?’ the female voice went on. ‘All that hogwash about editorial independence. Will you sue?’

Cate’s heart jumped into her throat, then Tom Russell said, ‘Wouldn’t they love that? I hope I have more subtlety. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with Miss What’s-her-name. In my way.’

A chill shivered down Cate’s spine. In his way. What was his way?

He spoke again. ‘Eventually they’ll all work for me. For us. Won’t they, Livvie?’ Cate pricked up her ears, then felt ashamed. She was acting like a voyeur. What she should do now was to walk out there, excuse herself, and make a swift, dignified exit. And she would. Just as soon as she screwed up the courage.

Her heart thundered so loudly she felt sure they must hear it, for the woman’s voice issued through with perfect clarity.

‘That’s why I need to talk to you. It’s about our deal.’

There was urgency in the woman’s tone.

‘This isn’t a good moment, Liv. As you might be able to imagine, I have things on my mind today.’ The response was polite, but Cate detected a sardonic tinge to it.

‘Well, how about this afternoon? After the lunch?’

‘Impossible. I have urgent meetings scheduled that can’t be postponed.’

‘Nothing is more urgent than this,’ the woman hissed. ‘Listen to me, Tom. Everything’s at risk. Malcolm has heard something. He’s playing every card he can to hold up the divorce. Somehow he’s got wind of the merger, so he’s asking for a much bigger slice of the company.’ She paused, then added, ‘My grandfather didn’t build an empire for it to end up being controlled by the likes of him.’ There was a hoarse vehemence to the contralto voice.

Cate’s ears rang with the possibilities. She had a sudden inkling into the woman’s identity. Surely that voice was familiar. With her heart thumping, and careful to make no sound, she moved to the door and risked putting her eye to the crack.

Her gaze lighted on a portion of long leg encased in some dark, expensive fabric, brushing a highly polished black masculine shoe. Next to the shoe rested an elegant black briefcase. Then the man moved further into her view, and her heart lurched in her chest.

It was Tom Russell all right, in the living flesh, negligently leaning his tall frame against an ornately carved piece of church furniture. Though his hands were shoved carelessly into his trouser pockets, there was a coiled tension about him. His black eyebrows were lowered over his cool grey eyes as he scoured his female companion with an alert, intelligent gaze.

Forget what Marge had said about him being attractive. He was so hot he sizzled.

Cate moved her head, trying to see the woman, but she only caught a rear-view glimpse of gleaming copper hair confined at the nape in a sophisticated black snood. It was enough though, she thought with wild excitement. The next words, as abrasive as sandpaper in Tom Russell’s stern, accusing voice, confirmed her suspicion.

‘I thought you understood how crucial secrecy is at this stage, Olivia. Bloody hell, what sort of a businesswoman are you?’

Olivia. The woman was Olivia West.

Cate’s brain buzzed into overdrive. She was onto the scoop of the century. What her editor would give to know this. Russell’s joining with the West Corporation. It would be the merger of the tabloid Titans. This was more than mere front page stuff. This meant headlines.

She had to get out of there and write it. In a sudden brilliant inspiration, she shoved her hand into her bag and connected with the minuscule cassette recorder Gran had given her. Her heart skipped an excited beat. Here was a golden opportunity. She’d be the toast of the newsroom. What reporter could resist? Although—Harry was pretty firm on the ethics of recording people without their knowledge. Her fingers hovered over the button while she waged a war with her conscience. Regretfully, the thought of Harry’s flinty gaze, and his strictures about the journalism code won.

At the same time as the powerful redhead’s response floated through to her she realised, with a sinking feeling, it was too late to announce her presence. Already, she knew too much.

She surrendered to the inevitable and put her eye to the crack again, in time to catch a glimpse of Tom Russell prowling about with his lithe, long-legged stride.

And he was worth watching. Though he seemed tense, it was clear that underneath the sombre black shirt, the pearl grey silk tie, the Armani—the suit could be nothing less—his lean, long bones, muscle and sinew were all working together in a veritable symphony of co-ordination.

Unfazed by his critical tone, Olivia West was launched into a feisty come-back. ‘It could just as easily have been someone from your side who leaked. Anyway, Malcolm doesn’t really know anything for certain, he’s just guessing with that diabolical genius he has for ferreting things out about people. He only wants to hurt me. I need your help with this.’

Tom Russell shot back, ‘I never let domestic arrangements interfere with business. Yours are hardly my concern.’

‘But this does concern you,’ Olivia West retorted. ‘Look at it this way. I won’t go on with our merger until I’m free and clear of Malcolm. And if he manages to hold up the court process for three or more months—and he can if the court believes his claim is worth investigating—our deal will collapse. You know it must.’

Every line of Tom Russell’s big, lean frame was charged with impatience. ‘Well, for pity’s sake, make a deal. Give him enough of what he asks for to make him feel he’s scored something.’

‘I’ve given him enough,’ Olivia said fiercely. ‘I’ve given him everything. He’s taken everything. He’s not getting any more of my company. But that’s not even the reason he’s doing this. It’s not about the money. It’s about you.’

Tom Russell came to a sudden halt, right in Cate’s line of vision.

She stayed glued to the sight, until Olivia West spun in to obstruct the view. Despite the media baroness’s artful makeup, her face was strained. Her glossy red lips were compressed and she held her hands, gloved in slinky black lace, clasped in front of her voluptuous chest.

Cate frowned. Was that much cleavage strictly appropriate for a church service?

Olivia turned her back, spoiling Cate’s view of her. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m sure you know Malcolm has always been insanely jealous of you. Some fool’s informed him of the times we’ve met to negotiate, and he’s had the ridiculous idea that you and I are—together. Perhaps even contemplating marriage.’

Tom Russell stood very still, then said, his voice dangerously soft, ‘Now, how could he possibly get an idea like that?’

Olivia must have felt the sudden scary escalation in the tension, because she attempted to lighten it with a husky laugh. ‘Well, it’s not so outrageous, is it? We’re both attractive people, both high achievers, our backgrounds are similar, we have things in common… Everyone knows how perfect you and Sandra were together. But you’ve been without a wife a long time, Tom. Sooner or later…’ The unmistakable purr in her voice made Cate squirm with discomfort. Was Olivia testing the water in hopes of seducing Tom Russell? Marrying him?

‘My wife is dead.’ The rebuke hung on the air, as stinging as a face slap.

Cate caught her breath in the charged little silence that followed. Tom Russell’s feelings for his wife must still be very raw. Still, she felt a wave of sympathy for Olivia. If he’d spoken like that to her she’d have cringed.

But the glamorous redhead was made of tougher stuff, because she managed a careless laugh. What a remarkable woman, Cate marvelled. To possess such self-control. How fabulous to be able to maintain her poise after such a forbidding rejection.

‘Well, there’s no need to look so stern, Thomas. I’m only reporting what Malcolm has dreamed up in his fevered brain. And because he believes it, he’s looking for ways to hurt us by holding up the divorce.’ She added, her voice as soft, distinct, and every bit as steely as Tom Russell’s, ‘And until my divorce goes through, darling, there will be no merger. And you and I will both lose a lot of money.’

‘Then you must advise him of the truth very quickly, Livvie.’ The icy chill permeated the store-room door with bluetooth penetration.

‘He’s not likely to believe what I tell him, is he? Look, the answer’s simple enough. All you need to do is to show him you have another woman.’

Tom Russell gave an incredulous laugh. ‘What other woman?’

‘Now, now, Tom.’ Sly amusement stole into the low voice. ‘Don’t try to tell me you can’t come up with a woman—like that.’

Tom Russell surveyed her grimly. ‘I think you’ve been reading your own tabloids, Olivia. Forget it.’

‘For goodness’ sake, can’t you follow in your old dad’s footsteps for a week or two and find some nubile little actress to flash around the town? It’s only for a few weeks.’

‘I’m not my old dad,’ Tom Russell said, his voice ominously soft.

There was a small, tense silence, then Olivia West snapped,

‘Think about it.’ She crossed into Cate’s view, stepping up to Tom and boldly placing her hands on his shoulders. In her chic black dress, her curvaceous figure looked formidably seductive. ‘We both have a lot to lose, don’t we, darling? How much do you want your merger?’

With implacable calm Tom Russell detached her and pushed her away. ‘Not enough to deceive some woman. For God’s sake, I’m a businessman, not some tabloid Don Juan.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ Olivia exploded hoarsely, swinging away from him. ‘Hire a woman. You only need to let Malcolm see you with her a couple of times. Once I get my divorce, you’ll have your merger. And I’m not deceiving Malcolm. For your information it was he who—’ Her voice grew strident with emotion. ‘Look, in a few minutes time this church will be packed with people, and a good number of them will be actresses who work for your television network. Some of them, I’m willing to bet, have already been employed in more ways than one by your old dad. Pick one of them. Offer her money.’

Cate nearly gasped out loud at the audacity of the woman. How would Tom Russell take such a crack about his father? She strained to hear, but the abrupt click of a door closing suggested that Olivia had delivered her parting shot, and stalked off.

Cate sagged with relief. Thank heavens. Now Tom would follow, and she could creep from her hiding place and hightail it back to Mike.

There was the sound of a chair scraping, and the room fell quiet. She moved to the opening in the door to check that the coast was clear, and came up short. To her intense annoyance Tom Russell was still there at the table, frowning over some papers.

Damn the man. She fretted with impatience. People would have started to arrive by now and she’d be missing her chances. She exhaled a frustrated breath, then took a harder look at him. In his unconsciousness of being under scrutiny, the lines in the tanned skin around his eyes and mouth suddenly seemed more deeply etched, as though from tiredness or strain. She felt a stir of sympathy. Perhaps even a Tom Russell could spend sleepless nights grieving. The loss of a parent was no small thing, as she could testify.

She sighed, and, bracing for a wait, closed her eyes and leaned back against the sink.

A shrill jangling broke out at her feet and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

It was her mobile phone.

She stood paralysed for helpless seconds while the ghastly tune went on. Then adrenaline rushed to her rescue and she was overcome by a false, fatalistic calm. She plunged her nerveless hand into her bag, brought the phone up and held it to her ear.

‘All right, Mike,’ she said. Her soft voice crashed into the charged silence. ‘I won’t be long.’

She did the only thing possible. She put the phone away, and, her limbs stiff with embarrassment, jerked the door open and walked out of the ladies’ room, straight into the big, iron-hard frame of Tom Russell.