Читать книгу Hawk's Prey - Кэрол Мортимер, Carole Mortimer - Страница 4

‘AND if those threats were genuine, Whitney—which I think they are—you could lose a lot more than the story!’

She suppressed the shiver of apprehension that tingled down her spine at Martin’s exasperated warning. She didn’t doubt for a moment, either, that the threatening telephone calls she had received during the last week were genuine. The two made here to the newspaper had thrown her a little, but she had been working here two years now and accepted that very often the people involved didn’t like the idea of a story being written about them; their displeasure was part of the territory. But the call she had received last night warning her off the Beresford family had shaken her up enough for her to mention it to Martin Groves, her editor at the daily newspaper she worked for. Last night’s call had been made to her home, and she had an unlisted number!

‘It’s my story, Martin,’ she maintained stubbornly, her chin raised challengingly.

‘Bill could do just as good a job.’

‘Better,’ she acknowledged tightly, an angry flush beneath her high cheekbones. ‘But it’s my story,’ she reminded him again tautly, not willing to accede to his demand that she pass her information on to someone else.

‘Corruption in local councils has been covered before,’ he dismissed scornfully.

‘Maybe,’ Whitney conceded abruptly. ‘But I’m this close,’—she held the thumb and index finger of her left hand centimetres apart—‘to proving that Tom Beresford is involved in most of it.’

Martin shook his head. He was a thin man with sparse grey hair, grandfather to a girl not much younger than the one seated before him. But even paternal pride couldn’t make him claim that his granddaughter’s beauty came anywhere close to Whitney Morgan’s. From the top of her ebony head, her uptilted, violet coloured eyes, and ethereally lovely face, to the slender grace of her five-foot-seven body, she was a beauty. In the hard-bitten profession she had chosen for herself that beauty had been as much of a hindrance as a foot in the door. It was far from the only drawback he knew she had had to overcome.

‘That close isn’t close enough,’ he told her harshly. ‘I run a newspaper, not a suicide squad. I told you to lay off the Beresford story days ago,’ he added sternly before she could interrupt.

She hadn’t relished the idea of telling him about the calls, had expected this anger at the fact that she hadn’t done as asked and dropped the story. But she hadn’t been able to forget what she already knew, the fact that innocent people were being affected, incentive enough for her to ignore Martin’s order, knowing he would be the first to congratulate her if she came through with a story for him.

‘He’s as guilty as—–’

‘Whitney, you know that old gangster joke about going for a swim with concrete shoes?’ Martin cut in pointedly. ‘Well Beresford wouldn’t be joking,’ he added drily, now that he had her full attention.

Whitney studied him warily, uncertainty in the wide violet eyes. ‘You’re just trying to frighten me,’ she dismissed finally.

He sighed. ‘Am I succeeding?’

‘No!’ she lied. Of course she was frightened!

He stood up forcefully. ‘Whitney, the man is a barracuda! He wouldn’t even bother to gobble you up himself, you’re too unimportant and scrawny for him; he’d leave you to one of his minions.’

She knew exactly what Tom Beresford was like, knew that he ran an English version of the Mafia. In his early sixties, a big rough-diamond of a man, he ran an empire in England that was almost as powerful as the one across the Atlantic, although Whitney had found no connection to them during her investigation.

‘I’m glad you told me that, Martin,’ she laughed abruptly. ‘I’m lunching with him today.’

‘What?’

She winced at the expected reaction to her announcement. But if what Martin said about the concrete shoes was true she at least wanted someone to know who had been the last person she had seen! Martin looked ready to explode, though, his small wiry body tense with disbelief. Maybe she had been a little rash inviting Tom Beresford out to lunch, but with the security he had surrounding his privacy how else was she supposed to talk to the man himself? He had accepted the invitation, hadn’t he! But after what Martin had just said she couldn’t help wondering if they made concrete shoes in size five!

‘I’m sure you heard me, Martin,’ she sighed. ‘We’re meeting at the restaurant in twenty-five minutes.’

‘Which restaurant?’ His eyes were narrowed.

‘Now, Martin—–’

‘I just want to make sure I have the right river dragged,’ he told her blandly.

‘There is only one river going through London,’ Whitney chided drily at his effort to frighten her out of keeping the appointment.

‘At least you had the sense to arrange to meet in town,’ Martin scowled. ‘What on earth possessed you to meet the man himself? Don’t tell me,’ he sighed resignedly. ‘You wanted to give him the chance to defend himself!’

‘He couldn’t do that,’ she said with certainty. ‘But if I challenge him with what I already know he just might let something slip.’

Martin gave her a pitying look. ‘How long did you say you’ve worked on the National?’

‘Two years.’ She told him what she knew he already knew, probably down to the day! ‘I know, people like Tom Beresford don’t let things slip out,’ she sighed. ‘I’m not completely stupid—–’

‘You could have fooled me,’ he derided hardly. ‘Just what are you hoping to achieve?’

Her eyes flashed deeply violet. ‘I hope to show Mr Beresford that I’m not easily frightened off!’

Martin’s expression softened at the disclosure. ‘I admire your spirit, Whitney—–’

‘But you also deplore it!’ she finished drily.

‘It stinks,’ he acknowledged tautly. ‘Hawk will have to be told about this—–’

‘No!’

‘Whitney—–’

‘I said no,’ she bit out harshly, the thought of Hawk knowing about this sending her into a panic. She could just imagine his reaction.

‘He owns the damned newspaper, Whitney,’ Martin reminded her exasperatedly.

She was well aware of who and what Hawk was. And James Hawkworth – the last person to actually call him James was probably still trying to pick themselves up from the floor!—was not a man she wanted to get into an argument with. And she had no doubt that his reaction to what she was doing would be the same as Martin’s. But for a very different reason.

‘There’s nothing to tell him—–’

‘One of his reporters receiving threats comes under the heading of something, Whitney,’ Martin cut in determinedly. ‘And I know Hawk is going to want to know about them. What did you say?’ He looked at Whitney suspiciously as she mumbled something under her breath.

Her face was flushed as she looked at him challengingly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It matters,’ he bit out grimly. ‘Although I can see you aren’t about to repeat it. I just want you to know that my decision to take you off the story—–’

‘If you try to do that I’ll go to another newspaper,’ she told him stubbornly.

‘Whitney!’

‘I mean it, Martin,’ she told him in a calm voice. ‘I’ve worked too long and too hard on this one to just calmly let it go.’

He looked at her with narrowed eyes, sighing his defeat in the face of her determination. ‘We’ll see what Hawk has to say about it.’ He maintained control of the situation with the threat. ‘Maybe he’ll decide that your pretty little body isn’t worth saving,’ he added grimly. ‘Or maybe he’ll agree with me that a reporter’s life is worth more than a story!’

‘Someone has to do something about Tom Beresford!’

‘Then let the law deal with him!’

‘They don’t seem to be able to get the evidence on him.’

‘And you do, I suppose,’ Martin scorned.

She sighed, knowing she didn’t have enough for them to print the story either. ‘We both know what Hawk’s answer is going to be,’ she said disgustedly.

‘Do we?’ Martin taunted. ‘I haven’t noticed him leaping to your defence lately.’

Whitney felt her cheeks pale. She knew Martin was only being cruel to be kind when he mentioned Hawk’s lack of interest in her recently, that he just wanted to shock her into realising what she was getting into any way that he could. But she was too sensitive of Hawk’s dismissal of her from his life to feel anything but mortified about Martin’s reference to it. Most of the people that worked on the newspaper knew of the history of her closeness to Hawk, but a lot of them had put it from their mind as Hawk continued to ignore her existence, seeming to accept that she was unconcerned with the situation, too. Only Martin had guessed how very much Hawk could still hurt her by his indifference.

‘Tell him what you like, Martin,’ she said wearily. ‘I’m going through with my decision to meet Tom Beresford. If Hawk’s the newspaper man that I think he is then he’ll approve of what I’m doing.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’ her editor grated.

She shrugged. ‘That will be your problem.’

‘Only until he catches up with you,’ Martin warned derisively.

‘As you just pointed out, why should he bother?’ she dismissed bitterly, glancing frowningly at her wristwatch, diamonds studded about the slender gold face and strap, a twenty-first birthday present from Hawk the previous year. Her twenty-second birthday the previous month had passed without even receiving a card from him. She dismissed the memory impatiently, tossing back her mane of below shoulder-length hair to look at Martin. ‘I’m going to be late if I don’t leave now—–’

‘Whitney—–’

‘For goodness’ sake, Martin,’ she scorned, ‘stop acting like an old woman.’

Anger flared in dark brown eyes at the taunt. ‘Someone should have put you over their knee a bit more when you were a child!’

‘ “Someone” didn’t dare,’ she taunted.

‘OK, Whitney,’ he conceded wearily. ‘Go to lunch with Tom Beresford. I’ll be here to help pick up the pieces when you get back. If you get back,’ he added softly.

A lot of her anticipation for the meeting had gone with Martin’s disapproval of the idea; she had expected him to show a little more enthusiasm for what she had already achieved. No doubt the threat of Hawk’s disapproval had a lot to do with his reaction, but he really needn’t have worried; Hawk had made it obvious he no longer gave a damn what happened to her. But no doubt he would have something to say when he received the bill from the exclusive restaurant on her expenses! She could hardly have invited Tom Beresford to the local McDonald’s.

She had dressed with great care that morning for her luncheon appointment, knew she was going to need all the cool poise she could muster to bluff her way through what she had insisted to Tom Beresford’s assistant was a human-interest story. In view of the threatening telephone calls it was going to be a double bluff, Tom Beresford obviously knowing exactly what her interest in him was! But there were plenty of other things she could ask him about besides the local councils issue, one of them being his rise from the eldest son of a Yorkshire miner to a property and building tycoon who was rumoured to be under consideration for a lifetime peerage in the New Year’s Honours List next year for his contribution to British industry. If you were unaware of the corruption that had enabled him to make that meteoric rise in the building industry, then he did indeed appear a worthwhile candidate for the honour.

But Whitney had literally stumbled across his involvement with a councillor who had been sacked for taking bribes, and the deeper she looked into Tom Beresford’s luck in receiving big building contracts from several of the councils, the more she had been convinced he was the one making the pay-offs. Six months of investigation had convinced her she was right. But she was going to need more than she had to convince Hawk to run the story; he only dealt in solid evidence, not beliefs.

She gave the maître d’hôtel her name once she reached the restaurant, allowing him to take her over to the table where Tom Beresford was already seated; she knew every inch of the man’s lined and craggy face, had numerous photographs that she had taken during her study of him. But for today she was just another interested reporter; it wouldn’t do to show she had instantly recognised him in the crowded room.

This morning her mirror had reflected back a coolly sophisticated young woman, her slender body shown to advantage in the pale lilac dress that made her eyes appear more violet than ever and gave a blue-black sheen to her loosely curling hair, its thickness cascading half-way down her back. Whitney was no fool, knowing that her height gave her an advantage over a lot of men, and with the three-inch heels on the black sandals that she wore she knew she was going to tower over Tom Beresford’s five-foot-eight frame by a couple of inches.

Her wish was granted as Tom Beresford politely rose to his feet once the maître d’hôtel had brought her to the table, and she smiled her satisfaction as she shook his hand before sitting down in the chair held out for her, ordering a glass of wine at the query, the man seated opposite her already having a glass of whisky in front of him.

A quick glance at the table to the side of them confirmed that Tom Beresford had brought along Alex Cordell and Glyn Briant, the two men she had learnt were his ‘minders’ or bodyguards, and whom he preferred to call his ‘associates’. She had half expected the two men to be seated with them, the two of them accompanying him everywhere he went, but resisted the impulse to ask him why they weren’t and instead gave him a brightly glowing smile. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this meeting,’ she told him truthfully.

‘Really?’ Pale blue eyes looked at her coldly, although his mouth curved in answer to her smile.

Whitney felt her control of the situation slipping a little. Martin’s comparison to a barracuda had been wrong; this man was more like a shark, watching and waiting before he struck. But they were in a crowded London restaurant, for goodness’ sake; what could he possibly do to her here!

She pushed the unsatisfactory—to her—answer to that to the back of her mind, giving him a guileless smile. ‘Everyone likes to hear a success story, don’t they?’ she encouraged.

‘Do they?’ he drawled.

She gave a light laugh. ‘You must know that they do.’

‘Miss Morgan.’ He spoke in a bored voice. ‘What new angle on my success do you think you can come up with that the supplement of a—more prestigious—newspaper hasn’t already covered?’

She had read the article that had been run a couple of months ago, had been amazed at the gullibility on the part of the newspaper. But that was half of Tom Beresford’s success; the majority of people had no idea of the underhand methods he had used to get where he was. It was only if one dug deep enough, as she had, that the stench began to be apparent.

She gave him a sharp look as she thought the question over. Were the gloves to be taken off immediately then? No, she didn’t think so; not yet, anyway. ‘I write for a daily newspaper, Mr Beresford, with a circulation of two million a day. My story on you would run over two to three days.’

‘I’m really not in need of the free advertising, Miss Morgan,’ he drawled derisively.

Anger flared briefly in her eyes at his condescending tone before it was quickly dampened. Losing her temper with the man wasn’t going to help one bit!

‘Think of the New Year’s Honours List,’ she encouraged warmly. ‘The story of the ingenuity and success of your enterprise can only encourage all those young people leaving school without any prospect of employment that there’s hope for them after all.’

His mouth twisted sardonically. ‘Flattery, Miss Morgan?’ he mocked.

This man may once have been the ‘rough diamond’ she had thought him to be but the years had refined him, and his wealth had given him an arrogant confidence that was daunting. At sixty-two, he should have been paunchy and balding like Martin was, but Tom Beresford still had a head of thick silver hair, the very distinction of the style indicating the expensive cut, his body still lithe and athletic beneath the light grey suit and even paler grey silk shirt he wore. She was quickly learning, as he spoke with smooth assurance, that he was a man in complete control.

‘Not at all, Mr Beresford,’ she dismissed lightly. ‘Your story could be uplifting for a lot of people.’

‘I wasn’t aware James Hawkworth ran stories like this in his newspaper,’ he returned drily.

Whitney raised dark brows. ‘I wasn’t aware I had told you which newspaper I worked for.’

‘You didn’t,’ he confirmed smoothly. ‘A man in my position doesn’t meet just anyone who telephones out of the blue claiming to be a reporter. I naturally did my homework on you.’

‘Naturally,’ she echoed tightly, knowing just how intense that ‘homework’ had been. How had he got her unlisted telephone number?

‘And of course Geraldine recognised your name straight away,’ he added softly, his eyes narrowing as he waited for her reaction to the mention of the woman he had taken as his second wife after years of being a widower.

Geraldine. She still hadn’t recovered from the shock of finding out that Geraldine was married to this man, couldn’t begin to imagine how the other woman could prefer this man, for all his polished manner and wealth, to Hawk.

‘It isn’t exactly a common name,’ she acknowledged tautly, thoughts of Geraldine always having the effect of making her hackles rise. How Hawk could still love the woman—–? But he did, probably always would, even though she was now married to another man. Whitney didn’t particularly want to be around when he was told she was doing an exposé on Geraldine’s husband.

‘After meeting you and witnessing first-hand your uncommon beauty I can quite understand Hawk’s interest in you,’ Tom Beresford murmured appreciatively.

Whitney stiffened at the unexpected—and unwanted—flattery. ‘Didn’t Ger—your wife—also tell you that’s all over now?’ she said tightly.

‘You still work for him,’ he shrugged.

‘I’m treated like any other employee,’ she defended hotly. She wasn’t the one that was supposed to be on the defensive, damn it!

He raised thick silver brows. ‘I had no idea reporters earned enough money to be able to buy themselves five-thousand-pound watches!’

She blushed. ‘Mr Beresford—–’

‘I’m sorry, Whitney, that was a little personal of me,’ he held up his hands in apology. ‘I hope I can call you Whitney?’

‘Of course,’ she confirmed tautly, her eyes flashing deeply violet.

‘Shall we order?’ he enquired softly, signalling for the waiter as she abruptly nodded her consent to the suggestion.

For all the notice Whitney took of her fresh salmon salad it might as well have been the tinned variety. She had felt, before meeting him, that her in-depth knowledge of Tom Beresford gave her the edge in this interview; she had soon learnt how wrong she had been. Tom Beresford was adept at only choosing to talk about the things he wanted to, politely blocking off any questions that went beyond that invisible barrier he had erected. After almost an hour and a half, when she watched him make his way through a four-course meal and then coffee and brandy, Whitney had had enough, not tasting any of her own food in her agitation. And she was no nearer to finding out anything about his involvement with the local councils from his own lips than she had been when she first made the connection six months ago.

‘Why don’t you invite your bodyguards to join us for coffee?’ She deliberately antagonised him in the hope of getting some reaction by mentioning his two constant shadows.

Laughter in the pale blue eyes was not the reaction she had been hoping for! ‘Glyn and Alex know better than to intrude on me when I’m in the company of a beautiful woman,’ he drawled.

It was the second time he had called her beautiful, and Whitney found she didn’t like the idea of this man finding her attractive.

‘Don’t worry, Whitney,’ he assured mockingly, his eyes predatory. ‘You can’t become contaminated just by my acknowledging your beauty. That was what you were afraid of, wasn’t it?’ he taunted.

She became flushed at his correct assessment of her feelings. ‘What did you—–?’

‘I’m sure Hawk must have complimented you on your beauty numerous times,’ he cut in smoothly.

She gave him a frowning look. ‘Could we leave Hawk out of this?’

‘Of course,’ he agreed easily. ‘I don’t exactly enjoy talking about my wife’s previous lover.’

Whitney could have told him that had been in the plural rather than the singular, that Geraldine had never been satisfied with just one man in her life. But, like Hawk, he didn’t look as if he wanted to hear anything derogatory about the woman he had fallen in love with after several years of grieving for his previous wife. What was it about Geraldine that inspired such love! Her father had always said Geraldine was a man’s woman, and as far as Whitney was aware the other woman had never tried to inspire friendship among her own sex.

‘Mr Beresford, what did you mean a few moments ago when you said I could become contaminated by you?’ She returned to what had bothered her about the statement; was it an admission of some kind on his part?

‘You’re the rich young socialite, I’m the son of a miner,’ he shrugged casually. ‘But I think over the years I’ve managed to eliminate most of my northern accent?’ He met her gaze mockingly, seeming to guess that before meeting him she had expected him to be something of a country bumpkin, for all of his wealth and power.

‘Obviously so,’ she conceded with a cool nod, gathering up her bag and notebook. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Beresford, but I really do have to be going now.’

He gave an inclination of his head. ‘I’ve enjoyed our little chat. I trust I’ll see a copy of your story before it goes to print?’

Not the story she intended writing! ‘Of course,’ she nodded, indicating to the waiter that she would like the bill. She had felt that Tom Beresford had been laughing at her all during lunch, that he was probably finding the exorbitant prices for the meal at the restaurant of his choice highly amusing, too.

His hand reached for the bill first, meeting her questioning gaze with bland implacability. ‘As I’ve enjoyed this meeting so much I insist on paying for our meal.’

Whitney blushed at his mockery, feeling more foolish than ever. Martin was going to fall off his chair laughing when she told him what a mistake this had been. ‘The National can afford it,’ she told him stiffly.

‘I insist, Whitney,’ he told her in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘Please don’t hesitate to contact me again if you need any more information for your article,’ he invited derisively.

And I’ll get you measured up for the concrete shoes, Whitney thought furiously as she left the restaurant after giving a mocking inclination of her head to the two watchful ‘minders’.

The man had been pleasant, not a hint of a threat to his tone, and yet Whitney knew she trusted him even less now that she had actually met and spoken to him. Maybe it was the constant coldness of his eyes even when he laughed, or perhaps the complete assurance of his manner, as if he knew himself to be invincible, but she suddenly knew he was guilty of everything she thought he was.

She had too much of an uneasy knot in her stomach to feel jubilant at the knowledge, knew that she still had a long way to go before she had all the facts together, and that Tom Beresford had no intention of letting her write those facts. ‘Know your enemy,’ they said. Well, she knew hers now, and she wished that she didn’t.

She knew that she had also been hoping for some sort of breakthrough, despite her denial earlier to Martin. But Tom Beresford was as likely to calmly hand over the combination of his safe as he was to deny or confirm her suspicions about him. Damn the man, he—–

‘Miss Morgan?’

‘Yes—–’ She was prevented from turning around to face the man who had spoken to her by one hand being placed on her shoulder and the other clamped about her wrist. ‘What on earth—–?’

‘Walk over to the car, Miss Morgan.’ He directed her towards a long black limousine with darkened windows. So that she couldn’t see out or other people couldn’t see in? ‘Don’t make a scene,’ the man urged as she began to struggle.

‘Make a—–! You can’t do this to me!’ she protested indignantly. ‘We’re in the middle of a crowded street!’

‘I’ve already done it, Miss Morgan,’ the man told her with satisfaction as he urged her inside the back of the car so that she stumbled slightly, the door closing behind her before she could straighten and face her accoster.

She frantically pulled at the door handle. Locked! Her panic increased as she heard the low purr of the car engine being started, banging on the black glass partition between her and the man now driving the car; she could see out of the window after all, which meant no one was supposed to see in!

The partition window lowered only enough for her to be able to see the back of the man’s head, his hair thick and dark, a pair of enquiring brown eyes meeting hers in the driving mirror. And as Whitney had never bothered to take note of the colour of eyes of Tom Beresford’s two dark-haired ‘minders’ it could be either of the men driving the car.

‘Yes, Miss Morgan?’ His voice was cajoling, as if he found the situation amusing.

‘Stop this car immediately and let me out of here!’ she ordered with a confidence that had long deserted her. She had been kidnapped, for goodness’ sake!

‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ he shook his head.

Whitney sat forward on the edge of her seat, wishing she could see more of the man through the inch-wide gap at the top of the glass than the back of his head and a pair of amused brown eyes! The man was sick if he actually enjoyed abducting terrified women off the street and then watching them squirm. ‘I—–Where are we going?’ she demanded weakly, her head starting to spin as the seriousness of what was happening to her washed over her. She was too young to die!

‘Not too far,’ he answered non-commitally.

They were driving towards the river! My God, Tom Beresford had been so incensed by her nerve in daring to question him the way that she had that he was getting rid of her right now!

‘Look,’ she moved closer to the glass, smiling at the eyes in the driving mirror, knowing he couldn’t see her smile but hoping he could tell what she was doing by the warm expression in her eyes. ‘I realise you’re probably paid very well for doing this sort of thing—–’

‘Very well,’ he confirmed softly.

She swallowed hard. ‘I have some money of my own, enough to recompense you for letting me go, I’m sure. And look—–’ She desperately held up her wristwatch for him to see. ‘This is worth a few thousand pounds.’ God, he was actually smiling now!

‘It’s very nice,’ he said disinterestedly, ignoring the watch after only a cursory glance.

Whitney breathed raggedly; how much was a life worth nowadays! ‘I have other jewellery I can give you. And money. I’m sure I—–’

‘I’ve been paid to do a job, Miss Morgan,’ he cut in patiently. ‘And I always deliver.’

Oh my God! Whitney fell back against the black leather seat, random thoughts flitting through her brain in panicked succession. This couldn’t actually be happening to her, it was like something out of an old Edward G. Robinson movie! And she would bet he had lost count of how many of his enemies had met this fate during his film career.

But prevalent in her thoughts was the knowledge that she would never have the chance now to tell Hawk how much she loved him.

Her heart sank even further as she saw they were rapidly approaching the Thames, her thoughts becoming hysterical now. Where did the man keep his supply of concrete? Maybe he would just tie a rock to her body and hope for the best.

Body …!

She couldn’t just meekly sit back and meet her fate like this. This sort of thing just couldn’t happen in the capital of England in broad daylight!

She sat forward so that she could meet the man’s gaze again, her heart pounding rapidly. ‘Look, I think there’s been some sort of mistake,’ she began cajolingly. ‘I’m not—–’

‘I’ve made no mistake.’ He shook his head. ‘I was told to bring Whitney Morgan here, and that’s what I’ve done.’ He had parked the car while they talked, climbing out now to open her door for her.

‘Here’ was a marina for luxury yachts. My God, they weren’t going to dump her body here at all but take her out to sea and throw her overboard! She was not a strong swimmer and she knew she wouldn’t stand a chance if thrown into the icy Channel. And the chances of her being picked up were about nil. Which was probably the idea.

Then she saw the name of the gleaming white yacht moored closest to her.

And the man watching her with narrowed eyes from the top of the gangway.