Читать книгу His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 10

‘YOU had dinner with him?’ Della stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘With the Demon King? How—and why?’

Tarn shrugged. ‘I was working late, he came back for his briefcase and we met. It was just—happenstance.’

‘If one can believe in such a thing,’ Della said with a touch of grimness. ‘So tell me about it.’

‘He took me to a wonderful restaurant, great food, fabulous wine—and he came on to me.’

‘In what way?’ Della leaned against the kitchen worktop. ‘The direct approach? “My place or yours?”’

‘Far from it.’ Tarn poured herself some coffee, and refilled Della’s beaker. ‘A well-practised speech full of love, romance and “the first time I saw you” stuff.’ She gave a contemptuous snort. ‘My God, even if Evie wasn’t involved, I’d want to see him get his comeuppance. It shows how little respect he has for women. He must think I’m a total idiot if he expects me to fall for that old routine.’

Della’s eyes widened. ‘So, your life has been punctuated by men laying their lives at your feet, is that what you’re saying?’

‘No, of course not.’ Tarn frowned. ‘But—oh, hell, you know what I mean.’ She paused, then added casually, ‘Besides, the entire world knows he’s seeing Ginny Fraser from the “Up to the Minute” show.’

‘Seeing each other’s brains out, by all accounts,’ Della agreed cordially. ‘Therefore you haughtily rejected his unwanted advances and swept off into the night. Right?’

Tarn shifted uncomfortably. ‘Not exactly.’

‘What then?’

‘He asked if he could have dinner with me again, and, naturally, I said I’d think about it.’

‘Well, naturally,’ Della echoed ironically. There was a silence, then she sighed. ‘Tell me something, Tarn. If Evie didn’t feature in this scenario, and you’d simply met Caz Brandon at a party and you’d spent time together, and he’d suggested another meeting, would you have said “Yes” to him?’

‘No,’ Tarn said passionately. ‘Never in a million years. Because I don’t go for arrogant, all conquering men.’

‘Hmm,’ said Della. ‘Some might say you’re being a trifle picky, but that’s your choice.’ She paused again. ‘However, I’ve always had a bad feeling about this scheme of yours, and, somehow, it’s getting worse all the time. So—if you do go out with him again—what then?’

‘Nothing,’ said Tarn. ‘Not next time, the time after that, or any time at all. I give him enough encouragement to keep him interested, but he stays strictly at arms’ length until he’s actually desperate. And then I choose the time and place to tell him that he’s an uncaring swine and why I wouldn’t have him if he came gift-wrapped.’

‘But do you really think he’ll care—given that he’s apparently one of the major bastards of the western world? Maybe he’ll just shrug and walk away.’

‘That would depend on how many other people are around at the time. And mud sticks. He’ll find himself being talked about in ways he won’t like. So I hit him twice—firstly in his belief he’s sexually irresistible. Secondly in his self image as the great publishing tycoon. He’ll know I’ve been laughing at him all the time, and he’s going to have to live with that for the rest of his life.’

‘Sweet suffering saints,’ said Della. She shook her head wonderingly. ‘You really intend to go to those lengths? A public denunciation?’

‘Of course,’ Tarn said defiantly. ‘Ever since I re-read Evie’s letters, and saw how much in love she’d been with him. When I realised exactly what he’d done. How appallingly he’d treated her.’

‘And do you also realise how easily you could come unstuck?’ Della demanded roundly. ‘He’s not a boy but an experienced and very attractive man, so you may not find him as easy to distance as you think. And when he finds he’s been made a fool of, things could get even trickier.’

Tarn shrugged. ‘It’s a risk worth taking. Besides, as I’ve told you, he doesn’t appeal to me.’

There was a loaded silence, then Della said quietly, ‘Honey, it’s still not too late to ditch the plan and run.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re concerned for him!’

‘I’m concerned for you. Tarn—this is all so out of character. You’re not the vengeful type.’

‘I’m learning to be.’

‘Then stop now, while you can, before any real damage is done, to you or him. Hand in your notice, head back to the States, or, if you feel like a change, find a place to rent in Europe and resume real life.

‘Evie may have had a rough time, but she might get over it much more easily if you’re not there dispensing sympathy and muttering vengeance.’

‘You didn’t see her.’ Tarn spread her hands. ‘See the terrible state she was in—and all down to that utter bastard.’

‘But you can’t spend your future protecting Evie from unsuitable men,’ Della objected. ‘Or dealing with the consequences if she gets drawn in. She’s got to learn to look after herself—to discriminate between the decent guys and the rats.’

‘She hasn’t anyone else.’ The same words she’d used earlier to Caz Brandon.

‘That is so not true,’ Della said firmly. ‘Actually, if you did but know it, she does have a mother. Who rang up earlier, as it happens, in a state over Evie’s flat. It seems the landlord wants it cleared out if she’s not coming back, and there’s some rent owing too. Apparently La Mère Griffiths is passing up this belated but golden opportunity to take on some of the responsibility for her daughter and wants you to sort it out instead. So no surprises there.’

‘It’s not altogether her fault,’ Tarn said, with a faint sigh. ‘Uncle Frank took care of everything. Until he died, I don’t think she’d ever had to pay a bill or speak to a bank.’

‘And he passed the over-protective mantle on to you.’ Della nodded. ‘Well, that makes a kind of sense.’

‘And Caz Brandon has got to learn that having power and money does not absolve you from all sense of decency,’ Tarn added fiercely. ‘Before he destroys some other poor girl’s life.’

‘Then I just hope you’re not numbering Ginny Fraser among his unfortunate victims.’ Della finished her coffee and rinsed the beaker. ‘In the ruthless ambition stakes, she could probably leave him standing.’ She moved to the door. ‘Sweet dreams, honey, and tomorrow, please wake up cured. Or even slightly more sane would do.’

But if anything Tarn only felt more determined when she opened unwilling eyes in response to the radio alarm next morning. She’d had a restless night, interspersed with brief, uneasy dreams. Things she preferred not to remember in the light of day.

She paused while cleaning her teeth and studied herself in the bathroom mirror. There were shadows under her eyes, and her cheekbones looked stark in their prominence. Not really the kind of look to appeal to a would-be seducer.

I need to relax, she thought. Smile more, or he could change his mind and walk away. And I can’t let that happen, because, whatever Della may think, he’s asked for everything that’s coming to him.

‘Congratulations,’ was Lisa’s greeting as Tarn entered the All Your Own editorial suite. She shook her head. ‘You’re the original dark horse, my girl, just full of surprises and succeeding where others could only fail. I can hardly believe it.’

My God, Tarn thought shakily. Someone must have seen me with him last night, and word’s got round already. This was not what I’d planned at all. The opposite, in fact.

She tried to speak steadily. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, my pet, that you seem to have waved some kind of magic wand and turned dear Annetta into a writer.’ Lisa picked up the draft script and waved it like a flag. ‘This can actually go into the schedules. In fact, I’m debating whether we should build on this and do a whole series of celeb stories, that is if you’re prepared to pick up the slack and spin the straw into gold.’

‘Chameleon’ on a small scale, Tarn thought ironically. This was getting rather too close to reality. And why hadn’t she seen it coming?

She marshalled a smile. ‘That sounds a marvellous idea. But do you think the accountants will wear it?’

‘They will if Caz tells them to.’ Lisa’s expression was catlike. ‘And maybe we can offer him a sweetener by including Ginny Fraser on the list.’

Pain, sudden and astonishing, twisted inside Tarn like a sharpened knife. But somehow she let her smile widen. Become conspiratorial. ‘Then let’s go for it. What have we got to lose?’

Lisa nodded. ‘I’ll send a proposal up to him as soon as he gets back.’

‘Oh.’ Tarn paused on her way back to her desk. She kept her tone casual. ‘Is he away somewhere?’

‘Paris, Madrid, then Rome,’ said Lisa. ‘One of his usual rounds.’

So much for forward planning, thought Tarn wryly. She’d dressed that morning in a brief black skirt that showed off her slim legs, teaming it with a scoop-necked white top that might be deemed by the purists as a fraction too low for office wear, and she’d left her hair loose.

She’d been so sure he’d waste no time in finding an excuse for their paths to cross again, or press for an answer to his invitation in some other way. Had been bracing herself, in fact, for a summons. So, why hadn’t he mentioned his trip the previous evening?

Because he didn’t have to, she told herself, biting her lip as she stared at her computer screen. Because last night he acted on an impulse which he probably regretted just as quickly, and this is the cooling-off period. When he returns, he’ll have other things on his mind and he can allow the whole thing to slide quietly into oblivion.

Which takes me right back to square one.

She bit her lip, and switched on her computer. She’d worry about that later when she’d finished work. Now she needed to concentrate.

But when the working day was over, there was Aunt Hazel to attend to. She’d phoned twice, the first time to make sure Della had passed on her message—’I thought she seemed very casual’—and the second to remind Tarn she’d need to call round and pick up Evie’s key and the address.

When Tarn arrived at Wilmont Road, she found her foster mother peevish.

‘I thought you were never going to get here.’ She picked up an envelope. ‘The rent money’s in here. Six hundred pounds in cash, as he insisted.’ She pursed her lips. ‘How very unreasonable people can be, harassing me like this when he must know I’m half out of my mind with worry. But at least it means my girl will be coming back here to her own home when she’s better.’

‘I suppose he’s entitled to be paid,’ Tarn said mildly. ‘And to look for another tenant.’

‘Oh, poor Evie.’ Mrs Griffiths shook her head, tearfully. ‘She should never have gone to live in that flat. I knew no good would come of it.’

And this time, Tarn could only agree.

Evie had said that Caz had arranged for the move, so Tarn expected her cab to drop her at some smart apartment block. Instead she found herself outside a tall house in a busy street filled with identical buildings, many of which had clearly seen better days. She walked over chipped paving stones past a row of over-stuffed wheelie bins, wondering if Aunt Hazel had sent her to the wrong place.

But one of the keys fitted the front door, and she walked into a narrow hall. There was only one door clearly leading to the ground floor flat, where Mrs Griffiths had said the landlord lived, and most of the remaining space was occupied by a bicycle leaning against one wall, and a narrow side table littered with junk mail pushed against the other.

If he owns the place why doesn’t he clear it up a little, thought Tarn pressing the bell. She rang twice and waited, but there was no reply, so she mounted the uncarpeted stairs to the next floor and Flat Two.

She unlocked the door with faint trepidation, wondering what she would find, but the interior turned out to be a distinct improvement. The small square hall was flooded with light from a big window overlooking some overgrown but attractive back gardens.

The bedroom, she saw, was directly opposite the entrance, its half-open door revealing an unmade bed and the kind of serious clutter a hurricane might leave in its wake.

Tarn wondered, with a faint shiver, if that was where Evie had been found, and hastily turned her attention to the comfortably sized living area with its galley kitchen, accessed by three shallow steps down from the hall.

The carpet and furnishings were not new but they looked clean and in reasonable nick. She’d seen very much worse in her travels.

But this was still far from the kind of love nest that she would ever have envisaged for Caz Brandon. Evie must have been totally blinded by passion not to realise she was being offered a pretty third-rate set-up.

But she wasn’t here to speculate, she reminded herself, or even to build up her resentment and bitterness towards Caz, although this visit was simply confirming everything she’d thought about him. Her job was to clear out Evie’s stuff.

There was an inventory pinned to the galley notice board, which demonstrated that Evie had been content to stick with what was provided and make no individual additions to the utensils, or the china, glassware and cutlery either. But then cooking had never been a big thing to Evie.

Nor had the living space benefited from her attention. Every cushion, picture, and sparse selection of ornaments was also listed.

So Tarn was forced to face the bedroom, and the cramped en-suite shower room which opened off it.

It was unlikely Evie would wish any reminders of the room, she thought as she stripped the bed, and bundled the bedding into a plastic sack, before filling a hold-all with Evie’s clothes and shoes. Although, from a psychological point of view, she realised, it might be better to get rid of all of them too, and start again from scratch.

Emptying the wardrobe didn’t take much doing. For a girl who’d been living the high life with a millionaire boyfriend, Evie didn’t seem to have a lot of clothes, and what there was didn’t rate highly on glamour, thought Tarn, wondering what had happened to the chiffon and lace wedding dress as she emptied the small tallboy.

The drawer in the bedside cabinet would only open fractionally, and she realised something was stuck there. After a brief struggle and a bruised knuckle or two, she managed to release it and extract the culprit, which turned out to be a square, leather-bound book.

Of course, she thought. It’s Evie’s diary. I should have known. And she must be missing it. In the past, she probably hasn’t missed a day without writing in it. I wonder if they’d let her have it at The Refuge. It might be therapeutic for her.

She slipped it into her shoulder bag, then returned to the drawer. Small wonder it had stuck, she thought, discovering an envelope bulging with paperwork which she decided to take with her too, in case there was something incriminating about Caz among its contents. And under the envelope, she found a scrapbook. One glance told her that every single newspaper cutting and photograph that filled its pages featured Caz. And maybe all this material explained why there were no actual framed photographs of him in the flat. Unless, of course, Evie had never been given such a keepsake.

Whatever, this will not be going with me, she told herself grimly, adding the scrapbook to the bin bag.

Then, as she felt further towards the back of the drawer, she encountered something else—a small square jeweller’s box covered in black velvet.

She opened it and gasped aloud at the blaze of the stones that glittered like ice-blue fire in Evie’s engagement ring.

My God, she muttered under her breath. No wonder she believed every rotten lie he told her. Each of them must have cost an entire carat. But why on earth did he bother? Unless it had always been intended as a kiss-off payment, she thought, wincing.

She closed the box with a snap, and dropped that into her shoulder bag too.

The shower room was easily cleared, all the half-used toiletries swept into the bin bag along with the remains of the packs of painkillers, indigestion tablets and Evie’s contraceptive pills, which were all that the small medicine cabinet over the washbasin contained.

No sign of the sleeping tablets Evie had used for her overdose.

She fastened the tie handles on the plastic sack and carried it back into the bedroom, where she stopped, gasping.

A man was standing in the doorway, thin and barely above medium height with very pale blond hair and light blue eyes, dressed in a grey suit with a faint silky sheen that whispered expensive.

He said softly, ‘Exactly who are you? And what are you doing here?’

This, thought Tarn, recovering her breath, must be the troublesome landlord.

She said crisply, ‘Quite obviously I’m removing Miss Griffiths’ possessions as requested. But perhaps it’s a trick question.’ She paused. ‘And I have your money.’

The fair brows lifted. ‘Do you indeed? Well, that is good news.’ He glanced around. ‘Do I take it that Evie will not be returning?’

Tarn stared at him. ‘But you know that already. You told her mother you wanted to re-let the place.’

‘Ah.’ The thin mouth stretched into a smile. ‘I think there’s a slight misunderstanding here. My name is Roy Clayton and I actually live upstairs, another of Bernie the Bloodsucker’s hapless tenants. I heard someone moving around down here, came to investigate and found the door unlocked.’

‘But you didn’t ring the bell,’ said Tarn.

‘Er—no. Evie and I weren’t on such formal terms.’ He paused. ‘And you are?’

‘Her sister.’

‘What a charming surprise. I didn’t know she had one.’ His smile widened a little. ‘Such a dreadful thing to have happened. You must all be devastated. I was the one who found her, you know, and called the ambulance.’

‘No,’ Tarn said. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘So is she fully on the road to recovery? And can she have visitors, wherever she happens to be?’

‘She’s making satisfactory progress,’ Tarn returned. ‘But she’s not up to seeing people yet.’

‘What a pity.’ He glanced round the room again, his gaze lingering on the suitcase and the empty bedside cabinet, while Tarn took a quick look at her shoulder bag beside the chest of drawers, checking that it hadn’t been disturbed because Evie’s ring was in there.

He added, ‘Bernie should have told me that she wasn’t coming back. I could have saved you a journey and a job, and cleared the place for you.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ Tarn said untruthfully. ‘But it’s probably a task better suited to her family.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ The curiously pale eyes rested on her. ‘You mentioned something about money?’

She looked back at him, bewilderment mixing with her unease. ‘Yes—but I thought you were the landlord wanting his rent.’

‘Oh, dear, another disappointment,’ he said lightly.

‘You mean Evie owed you too?’ She drew a dismayed breath, bracing herself. ‘If you’ll tell me what it was for and how much, perhaps something could be arranged.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly put you to so much trouble,’ he said. ‘And it’s really quite a trivial matter. Besides, I’m sure Evie and I will be running into each other again. One of these days. When she’s better.’

He paused again. ‘Now I’ll leave you to your toil. Do tell Evie next time you see her that I was asking about her. You won’t forget, will you?’ Another swift smile, and he was gone.

Tarn stayed where she was, uncomfortably aware that her breathing had quickened, and the plastic sack in her hand seemed suddenly to be weighing a ton.

Oh, pull yourself together, she told herself sharply. He’s just a concerned guy from upstairs. You’re letting this whole Caz Brandon thing knock you sideways, make you imagine every man you come across is a potential threat.

On the other hand, as she went downstairs, she found the genuine article waiting for her, bald and tattooed in a football shirt and denim cut-offs.

‘Bernie Smith.’ He gave her a hard look. ‘You’re not the woman I talked to.’

‘No, that was Miss Griffiths’ mother.’

He grunted. ‘Got the rent?’

Tarn handed over the envelope and watched him count it.

‘Seems to be all there,’ he said. ‘Lucky I don’t charge for having the place cleaned. And the inconvenience—paramedics and police swarming all over. Gives a place a bad name.’

‘Difficult to see how,’ Tarn said, giving the hallway a disparaging look before dropping the keys into his hand.

‘No need to be so high and mighty,’ he called after her, as she left. ‘And I’ll be checking that inventory, no danger.’

But I shall not, Tarn thought, as she hailed a cab, be mentioning any of this to Aunt Hazel.

‘Are you sure you won’t come to Molly’s birthday bash tonight?’ asked Della. ‘She said you’d be more than welcome.’

Tarn shook her head. ‘I’m going to have a long bath, wash my hair, and go through the stuff in the envelope yet again, in case I’m still missing something.’

‘Like a proposal of marriage from Caz Brandon in writing?’ Della wrinkled her nose. ‘You can’t sue for breach of promise any longer.’

Tarn sighed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of that. I’m just trying to make sense of it all. To correlate the weird flat with that amazing ring, the chainstore clothing with the millionaire lifestyle.’

‘A noble ambition,’ said Della. ‘And I’m sure Evie would do just as much for you.’

Tarn bit her lip. ‘But you must admit it’s strange.’

‘Strange is not the word. And at the risk of turning into Cassandra whose warnings were also ignored, I say again that you should drop the entire mess, and get back to your own life.’ She gave Tarn a minatory glance. ‘A decision that Mr Brandon may also have made.’

‘Apparently he was bankrolling her,’ Tarn said unhappily. ‘There were some nasty letters from the bank and a credit card company in the envelope, but a week later she’s writing in her diary that she no longer has any money worries, “thanks to C.”’

‘Exactly,’ said Della. ‘He must have realised she was a total flake, especially where money was concerned, and that he’d be lucky if she didn’t bankrupt him.’

‘But he was going to marry her,’ Tarn argued. ‘Why didn’t he sit down and talk to her if there was a problem? Try to work things out?’

Della shrugged. ‘Maybe he did, and found it was stony ground.’

‘There’s also a load of stuff about the MacNaughton Company,’ Tarn said, producing a sheaf of papers. ‘Whoever they are.’

‘Now there I can help,’ said Della. ‘They’re a cleaning firm, incredibly high-powered, lethally expensive, and very discreet, exclusively employed by the mega-rich and famous. They appear like good elves, perform their wonders and vanish.’ She frowned. ‘But from what you’ve said, Evie’s flat wouldn’t be their usual stamping ground, even if she could afford them.’

‘I gather from her diary that Caz Brandon fixed her up with them too,’ Tarn said wearily. ‘Though there wasn’t much sign that professional cleaners had ever been there.’

Della was silent for a moment. ‘The guy upstairs—was he attractive?’

‘He gave me the creeps.’

‘But you, honey, are not Evie. Could she have been two-timing her fiancé with the neighbourhood watch, do you suppose?’

‘Never in this world,’ Tarn said with emphasis. ‘No-one who was seeing Caz Brandon would give Roy Clayton a second glance.’

‘Is that a fact?’ Della said affably. ‘How very interesting that you should think so.’

She picked up her bag and walked to the door. ‘If you get tired of your mysteries, Sherlock, we’ll all be at the Sunset Bar,’ she threw over her shoulder as she left.

An hour later, Tarn was wishing she’d taken up the offer. Wrapped in a towelling robe, her hair curling damply on her shoulders, she was ensconced in a corner of the sofa, re-reading Evie’s diary and getting more depressed by the minute.

The contrast between the almost hysterical happiness at the beginning of her relationship with Caz and the agonised descent into despair when it ended was almost too painful to contemplate.

‘What can I do? I can’t go on?’ were words repeated over and over again. But Tarn had an odd sense from the later entries that Evie was not just wretched, but frightened too, because ‘What will happen to me? Where will I go?’ also cropped up with alarming frequency.

What did he do to her? she thought.

She reached for the beaker of coffee she’d made earlier, realising with a grimace that it was now cold. She closed the diary, put it on the floor with the envelope, and rose to go to the kitchen.

She was waiting for the kettle to boil when the door bell sounded.

Della must have forgotten her key again, she thought, although it seemed rather early for the birthday celebrations to have ended.

A teasing remark already forming in her mind, she walked to the front door and threw it open.

And stood, as if turned to stone, as she stared at her caller.

‘Good evening,’ said Caz Brandon, and he smiled at her.