Читать книгу Love's Golden Spell - William Maltese - Страница 6

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU’RE LUCKY you’re dark complexioned,” Christopher said. He was sitting behind a large oak desk. “That bit of redness will fade, and you’ll look even more beautiful in your new tan.”

“Call off your goons, damn it!” Janet said. If she had originally looked upon the two men as her salvation, her opinion had changed when they’d driven her back to Lionspride.

“Bill and Karl, this is Janet,” Christopher said, pyramiding his fingers beneath his chin. He looked disgustingly cool and calm, but then he hadn’t been trudging in the South African sun. Janet, on the other hand, looked a sight, and she didn’t need a mirror to tell her that.

“Ma’am,” Bill and Karl said in unison. They’d been supremely polite until she’d tried to force her way out of the moving car. Even then, they had done nothing but keep her from jumping out and hurting, maybe even killing, herself. She should thank them instead of calling them names—except they had brought her back to Christopher. She was no better off than she had been a couple of hours earlier, although she was considerably more tired. And no matter what Christopher said, she felt the tightness of sunburn across her forehead.

“That’s all for now, men,” Christopher said. “I’ll have Ashanti show Janet upstairs—that is, if she’s finally decided to cooperate.” Ashanti appeared: a man-robot getting messages via telepathy.

Bill and Karl left, Janet staying where she was. Christopher ignored her, attending to his paperwork. He looked up several minutes later, pretending surprise to find her still there. He made a great show of checking his wristwatch. “I really wouldn’t recommend any walks after dark,” he said.

“I refuse to believe this is happening!” Janet said, leaving the room. He would have left her standing there until doomsday.

“Miss Westover?” It was Ashanti, trying to perform the task Christopher had assigned him.

The view through the drapery-banked windows confirmed it was getting dark. Even with no wild animals around, Janet wouldn’t tempt fate after nightfall. “Okay, Ashanti,” she said, resigned—temporarily—to defeat, “where’s this room?”

‘This way, please,” Ashanti said, leading the way to the sweeping stairway that reminded Janet of a set from Gone with the Wind.

Once in the room, she locked the door and looked for a telephone. There was none. The room wasn’t one Janet remembered. She had never been in all of the rooms of Lionspride. Christopher used to joke that he hadn’t, either.

The bathroom was well stocked, complete with expensive perfumes. Everything was obviously designed for the use of not one but a procession of women, of whom Janet was merely the latest.

Christopher had never married. The press kept Janet informed, because no matter what Christopher Van Hoon did, he made the papers. He was interesting copy, tremendously good looking and tremendously rich. That he hadn’t married gave Janet satisfaction long after her marriage to Bob.

The bathroom mirror confirmed that she looked like hell. Her sunburn, though, wasn’t as bad as she’d thought.

She started running the water in a bathtub as big as a swimming pool, liberally adding bath salts from two of six available jars of the stuff. The result was so inviting, she got into the tub before it was filled. She used her sore feet to turn off the faucets, then leaned back, closed her eyes and relaxed her weary bones.

Qwenella Fairchild might have enjoyed the luxury of this sunken tub, Janet mused. Christopher had dated her in the States. That, too, had made the gossip columns. Qwenella was an ex-Playboy Bunny and centerfold. Compared to her, Janet looked like a man. Then, there had been the high-fashion model who had gone from the cover of Vogue to a big movie contract. Compared to her, Janet looked like a Playboy bunny. Then, Lady Bellona Morrel, who was related by blood to the Princess of Wales.

“Who knows, I may marry you when you grow up,” he had told Janet sixteen years before. The sun was hot that day, a huge ball of molten gold behind blue-gum trees. Christopher’s hair was long over his ears and collar. He looked like a young lion. “If you ever do grow up,” he had added with a laugh, and kissed her.

She roused herself from a drifting lethargy, concentrating on her lips, sensitive from his most recent, stolen, kiss. What a world of difference between their first kiss and this last one. What a world of difference between the loving youth and the hateful man.

She hadn’t stopped thinking of Christopher when she married Bob. Some of those thoughts she hadn’t minded—those concerned her plans to get back at the Van Hoon family. Others, though, were betrayals of her father and of her wedding vows. That Vincent Van Hoon was dead and buried, her husband murdered by guerrillas in Central America, didn’t make such thoughts less disturbing. She was never physically unfaithful to her husband during the years of their marriage; but, every woman indulged in fantasies. It didn’t mean she didn’t love Bob. It didn’t mean she loved Christopher, either.

She came out of the bath like Venus from the sea, reaching for one of the Turkish towels monogrammed with the Van Hoon crest: a full-mane lion against a sun disk. She dried herself quickly, dispelling her disturbing thoughts. She needed her wits, and her memories were betraying her. She had been crazy, basing so many daydreams on an incident that had happened sixteen years ago.

She found a black silk dress on the bed. She hadn’t put it there, and the door was locked. This didn’t mean anything. It was Christopher’s house, and he had the keys. He must have been there while she was in the bath, the bathroom door ajar. He must have watched ever so silently, and—

She was letting her imagination run away with her because of one unpleasant kiss meant to scare her. He had laid out the dress to scare her, too. He was getting back at her for her plan to blacken the Van Hoon name. Scaring, though, was as far as it went. Christopher, with all the willing women he could have, wasn’t going to force himself on her. Janet wasn’t a little Miss Nobody. She was a well-known personality in the States and in five foreign countries that syndicated Animal Kingdoms in the Wild. She could cause one helluva big stink that not even Van Hoon money could gloss over.

He was playing a game. She could play games, too. She walked over to the bed and lifted the dress for closer inspection. It was a Valentino: simple, expensive and with a revealing neckline. She checked the closets and dresser drawers for accessories.

He knew her correct size at a glance, because the dress fit like a glove. If the bodice was tight, the effect was sexy. It was so sexy, she wouldn’t have worn the dress in public, but only the servants and Christopher would see her here.

She unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway, surprised when she wasn’t confronted by guards. She could enter one of the other bedrooms to find a phone, but her rescue party would be spotted before it reached the house. Besides, she wasn’t as frightened as she had been.

She paused at the top of the stairs, her fingers poised delicately on the highly polished banister. Her gaze followed the long downward curve of the railing, her mind flashing to long-ago rides with her and Christopher astraddle the thing. At eighteen, he had argued that he was too old for such antics, yet Janet hadn’t had that much trouble changing his mind.

Janet was older now and wasn’t dressed for a ride, but the temptation was too great. She assumed an experimental sidesaddle position, more weight on her feet than on her derriere. By the time she made her slow slide to the bottom, the silk dress was hiked well above her knees. She felt ridiculous when she slipped off, feeling more so when she realized Christopher was watching. It wasn’t possible to guess how long he had been there.

He was dressed in a white dinner jacket with black tie, the jacket and white shirt contrasting attractively with the darkness of his tan. His cufflinks were small asterisks of gold.

“I used to be quite a tomboy,” she said, recovering enough poise to speak. “Sometimes, I’m afraid, there’s a reversion to childhood.”

“Yes? Well, you could have easily fallen and broke your pretty neck,” he said unsympathetically. He was the one who once had fallen from this particular banister, but reminding him would reveal too much. With a small cut on his forehead, he’d remained undaunted, immediately going back for another ride. Maybe the small crescent-shaped scar was still there, waiting for her to brush back the attractive tumble of his blond hair to find it.

“Where’s supper? I’m starving!” she said, taking the last three steps to the marble floor. Her tone of voice said she was now in control.

“I’ll do my very best to satiate your every appetite,” he said suggestively. He was insinuating more than food, but she let his double entendre pass without comment.

“So, let’s eat!” she said, sweeping grandly past him and leading the way to the formal dining room. A long teak table, set for two in the intimacy of one corner, was illuminated by three beautiful chandeliers. “I presume the head of the table is your spot?” she said. She would have said more to emphasize her new mood, but he was giving her a strange look.

“It has taken you an astoundingly short time to find your way around my house,” he said.

Janet had made a very dangerous mistake by leading her host to a room she had supposedly never seen. But she was far better at subterfuge than she expected when she said, “It’s a knack I’ve always had,” tossing off his observation as less than it was. “Most women have it. It comes with the territory.” She walked to the table, not surprised when Ashanti was there to pull out her chair. Christopher hesitated, finally joining her.

They were served hotchpotch of curly kale, a hearty Dutch stew of cabbage, potatoes, sausage, salt, butter, pepper and chicken stock. The stew was anything but pedestrian, served as it was from a large Delft soup tureen into matching soup bowls and accompanied by a 1947 South African Cabernet Sauvignon from the Groot Constantia vineyards outside Cape Town. The wineglasses were Baccarat.

“You say you’re going to Great Zimbabwe?” Christopher asked when they paused in their small talk about the food. Janet had told him her travel plans earlier, using them as her excuse for avoiding this very meal.

“I guess it’s Great Zimbabwe, Zimbabwe, isn’t it?” she said, and recalled her earlier confusion at the apparent redundancy. Great Zimbabwe was once only a group of impressive archaeological ruins on a high plateau in Rhodesia, she knew. When Rhodesia became officially independent from Britain in 1980, Zimbabwe also became the name of the new country, and Great Zimbabwe now also referred to the game reserve surrounding those ruins.

“The camera crew and I are going to spend some time with a government group,” Janet continued. She didn’t mention elephants. Christopher’s promise to show her the Ivory Room was more of a bonus for her than he imagined. “We’ll stop off in Salisbury first.”

His right hand realigned the lush blond hair that tumbled almost to his golden eyes. She longed for the fluid movement of those silky strands through her fingertips.

“I was at the Great Zimbabwe ruins not long ago,” Christopher said, putting Janet on her guard. He eyed her over the elaborate place settings, his eyes luminous and hypnotic. “There was a government team there, then,” he added. “An encampment of soldiers, too, for that matter.”

“Soldiers?” Janet asked nervously. Soldiers hinted of more unexpected dangers.

“There’s a heavy poaching problem in the area,” Christopher said. “The troops have been sent in to stop it.” He, no more than Janet, mentioned elephants, but he sure1y knew which animals concerned the Great Zimbabwe research group. He knew how interested Janet was to see his Ivory Room.

He was taking her attempt at revenge too lightly—not that he seemed to recognize it as revenge. Her motivations probably didn’t matter to him—he was that confident she wasn’t a threat. He had not only let her crew leave with the tapes but had hinted at giving her more ammunition by showing her what was in the basement.

She was at a decided disadvantage. Her memories were interfering, while he thought her nothing more than a busybody television hostess. She would tell him who she was. If nothing else, that would assure him of her determination.

But she caught herself in time. She couldn’t let more tender emotions take control. Her best chance for success was in getting the tapes to the States, editing them to emphasize the now extinct animals tacked so proudly on the Van Hoon walls. There would be footage shot at Great Zimbabwe about elephant herds endangered not only by encroaching civilization but by people like the Van Hoons who had encouraged the poaching epidemic in their eagerness to stockpile ivory.

She couldn’t spoil her plans because she wanted Christopher to laugh as he once laughed, or because she wanted the sparkle back in his eyes instead of the glaring suspicion and distrust she saw there. She was a fool if she let those wants make her act rashly. There was no bringing back the past. Too much water had passed under the bridge. Christopher had probably not forgotten or forgiven the daughter of a man his father hired, used, and fired. And that was her fault. She had left him, had refused to answer his letters, not vice versa.

She had been only thirteen, after all, and needed desperately to blame someone. She had blamed him—herself, too. She and Christopher had chalked up too much happiness, and her father was the forfeit. Years later, of course, she realized the extent to which big business and politics were linked—business and politics concerning gold and Vincent Van Hoon’s desire to control it—neither of which had anything to do with two adolescents enjoying each other’s company. By then, though, it was too late to go back. It was too late to go back now.

“Koeksisters,” Christopher said, startling her out of her reverie. Most of the dishes were cleared. She looked at him, embarrassed and confused.

“Are you all right?” he asked, sounding and looking genuinely concerned. Perhaps he was afraid she was suffering a delayed reaction from heatstroke.

“I’m fine,” she said. It was a lie. She wasn’t fine. She was hoarding memories as if they were priceless treasures. But revealing them to Christopher risked exposing them as nothing more than cheap imitations. “You were saying something about your sisters.” He didn’t have sisters. She knew that. She knew all about him. He neither knew nor cared about her.

“Koeksisters,” he repeated, watching her more closely. “It translates ‘cake sisters,’” he said, no doubt encouraged by the focusing of her eyes. “Braided dough, deep fried, and then chilled in syrup of water, sugar, cream of tartar, ginger, cinnamon and glycerine.”

“Oh?” She laughed, picking up her fork and stabbing the pastry with apparent relish. “Delicious!”

They were served a chilled South African Riesling from a vineyard outside of Stellenbosch.

“South African wines were at their best in the nineteenth century,” Christopher said. “They enjoyed a vogue in England and France that no other non-European wines have matched, not even your superb American vintages. However, something happened to that quality that has wine experts guessing—rather like Falernian, the most celebrated of ancient Roman wines. Praised by Pliny and Horace as being ‘immortal,’ Falernian was uncorked to rave reviews for centuries. Today, those same hillsides are yielding wine that, while good, is by no means extraordinary and definitely not immortal.” He pushed back his chair, and Ashanti appeared to assist Janet with hers. “But I promised you more than supper and wine trivia didn’t I?” Christopher said. He started to take her arm, disappointing her, perversely, when he didn’t follow through.

They walked through several rooms, each emphasizing the house’s largeness. The Van Hoons had come a long way since Petre Van Hoon arrived from the Netherlands with his few personal possessions. The founder of the Van Hoon dynasty had lived in a mud shelter like the local natives. This house, with its silk-covered walls, gilded cornices, antique furniture and crystal chandeliers completely overshadowed those humbler beginnings, the opulence further widening the gap between Janet and Christopher. These Chinese porcelains, Japanese bronzes, Persian rugs, and Louis Quinze pieces could attract the wealthiest and most beautiful of women.

The Ivory Room was in the basement, reached by a curving flight of stairs behind a Gobelin tapestry. The narrowness of the stairs brought Janet and Christopher into constant contact, but neither made the move to descend single file. Janet reached the bottom feeling breathless, and not just because of the exercise.

“It’s only a bit farther,” he said. His smile flashed white in the dim lighting. It was a perfect spot for him to take advantage, but he didn’t. Janet was disappointed, since she had decided how to handle it: not with fighting but with a bored acceptance—up to a point.

They stopped in front of a massive door that was too large to open into the narrow corridor. Christopher unlocked it and put his shoulder to it. It moved sideways, showing blackness in the space beyond.

“Here, give me your hand,” he instructed.

She hesitated, embarrassed for doing so. If he were going to attempt something, he wouldn’t ask for her hand. He’d take it. “It’s dark in there,” she said, stating the obvious.

“Which should make you feel particularly safe,” he said. She didn’t see how. He laughed. “I prefer my lovemaking with the lights on. I don’t know about you, but I like to see what’s going on.” He reached for her hand. She didn’t give it to him, but she didn’t resist, either. There was a comforting familiarity to his fingers closing around hers. She trusted her intuition and followed him through the opening.

Déjà vu: the caves of the Molapong Valley where she, with far less hesitation, had entrusted herself to the safekeeping of a younger Christopher Van Hoon.

He slid the door closed behind them, excluding all light. Being so close to him made her heart flutter. She gasped when his supportive fingers slipped free, leaving her helplessly adrift. “Christopher?” she asked the darkness.

The lights came on. He was amusing himself at her expense. He could have reached the switch from the outside. At Molapong, he had worn the same expression after telling her they were lost and then, magically, leading her to safety.

“Are you having fun?” she asked sarcastically. Her question was superfluous. Of course he was having fun! They were in an empty room with cement ceiling, walls and floors. This was a joke!

“Now don’t get your tail in a knot,” he said, mirth bubbling over with each word. “Everything in this world has its price. My amusement is certainly cheap enough for what you’re getting out of the bargain.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Janet said, an expansive wave of her arm encompassing the room. “I certainly don’t get to see the likes of this every day, do I?”

“Ye of so little faith!” he condemned, and laughed as he had laughed at Molapong. The strain in his face dissolved, unmasking a Christopher years younger. His eyes twinkled. His dimples sank deeper as his smile widened. She wanted to touch his cheeks with her fingertips and explore those indentations.

She was distracted by the grating of metal against metal. One whole wall was moving. Janet watched, fascinated. She had been on the verge of saying something stupid. Had he waited one minute longer before pressing the button, he would have heard her confessing everything.

She was walking a fine line: on one side her loyalty to her dead father and to her dead husband; on the other her desire to salvage something for herself before it became too late. The thing she kept forgetting was that Christopher didn’t offer salvation. He hadn’t understood the girl turning away from him. He wouldn’t understand the woman coming back.

She focused on the macabre reality of the room beyond the wall. On all sides, stacked in niches and on special supports designed to store them, one on top of the other, were thousands of elephant tusks. She was staggered by the sheer number. She had no idea what the collection was worth. Never in her wildest imagination had she thought to see this much ivory in one place.

She turned accusingly on Christopher, aware deep down that the tragedy behind this grisly collection was only one of her excuses for coming to Africa.

“How many elephants did you kill to give the Van Hoon empire this?” she asked, her voice trembling. He had hunted with Vincent before he met her. He had proudly shown her a gazelle killed on an afternoon hunt with his father. She had taken one look at the lifeless delicate animal, and been sick to her stomach. He’d promised he wouldn’t kill another. His father, furious at such a silly promise, had boxed his ears, calling him a sissy.

The boy who made that promise wasn’t the man whose handsome face was now showing none of the amusement of a few moments before. “I do all my hunting with a camera, remember?” he said, his voice so frosty it froze her to the quick.

“I want out of here,” she said. A constriction in her heart made further speech impossible.

She didn’t wait for his permission to leave. She managed to maneuver the sliding door, and then took the hallway to the stairs. If she tripped silent alarms on the way out, she didn’t care.

She headed for the library, expecting Ashanti to appear out of the woodwork to intercept her. She didn’t see anyone. She did see the Baccarat decanter of cognac standing on one of the elegant library tables.

She was cold, very cold. The burn of the brandy going down helped. She poured herself another swallow, sitting down in the nearest chair. She was trembling. She shut her eyes, trying to get control of herself. When she opened her eyes, Christopher was in the doorway watching her.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded, her nerves on edge.

She expected an immediate sarcastic reply, but he didn’t answer for several long moments: When he did, his voice was strangely distant, even apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you reminded me of someone.”

She felt the shivers dancing along her spine. “Of whom?” she asked in a whisper so low she wasn’t sure she said anything. Her breathing stopped. It was erratic when it returned.

“I don’t really know of whom,” he admitted.

She wanted to cry out that she reminded him of a thirteen-year-old girl he once knew, but a large lump in her throat wouldn’t let the words slip past. There was little point in bolstering a memory so weak it was beyond recall.

She was on the verge of tears, and she wouldn’t be able to explain them. She was saved by Ashanti. “Mr. Geiger is here to see you, Mr. Van Hoon,” Ashanti announced.

“Excuse me, Janet,” Christopher said, and left the room. By the time he returned with the man, Janet had regained her composure. “Janet Westover, Donald Geiger,” Christopher said.

Donald nodded in her direction. He was in his forties, his short stocky body poured into soiled pants and shirt. His black hair was graying, his lips narrow, his suspicious brown eyes shifting from Janet to Christopher and back again. He was nervous.

Christopher locked the door. Janet came to her feet, not appreciating the smile Christopher gave her.

“Don’t mind Janet’s apparent paranoia,” Christopher said. He was talking to Donald but looking at her. “She sees me locking the door and lets her imagination run rampant.”

Donald was embarrassed. “Maybe I should come back later,” he said, proving he was as ill at ease as he looked.

“Nonsense!” Christopher said. “Janet is anxious to be entertained, and she hasn’t been pleased with the job I’m doing. Maybe she’ll be more receptive to what you have to offer.”

“Maybe I should go?” Janet suggested.

Christopher wasn’t accepting that alternative, either. “Don’t be silly, Janet,” he said. “Who knows, you might find this the most interesting part of your stay at Lionspride.”

“Really, I—” Donald began but was interrupted.

“For the moment, we’ll just pretend Janet isn’t here.” Christopher said.

He was baiting her. He was enjoying her discomfort in front of Donald. He was encouraged by the flashes of anger in her eyes. She had gone through so much that day it was difficult not to strike out at his sarcasm, but she controlled herself.

“Donald?’ Christopher said, evidently pleased that Janet couldn’t or wouldn’t speak. He went to his desk and slid his paperwork to one side. From one of the side drawers, he took a square of black velvet and spread it over the cleared surface. “Let’s see what we have, shall we?”

Donald was as glad as Janet that Christopher’s attention had shifted. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small sack closed off at one end with a drawstring. His large fingers expertly loosened the string. He tipped the bag and spilled out a stone onto the black velvet. The stone was a rough octahedron, and it was the color of Christopher’s eyes, complete with dark specks that marred an otherwise translucent surface.

“Yes, that is nice, isn’t it?” Christopher said. If his attention was diverted from Janet, it wasn’t for long. “Do come on over, Janet!” he insisted. “You’re not going to see this every day. And it’s one aspect of the Van Hoon enterprise that has nothing whatsoever to do with blood sport. Or is it only the killing aspects of the family that interest you?”

She came to the desk and stood by it, drawn to the gold of Christopher’s eyes rather than to the gold of the bauble on his desk top.

Christopher took a jeweler’s loupe from a drawer. He picked up the rock and began a thorough examination of it. For a moment, he was totally occupied, and Janet willed herself not to wish that he would find her half as exciting as he found that piece of colored stone.

“Exceptional!” he said, putting the loupe to one side and rolling the glassy octahedron between his large and powerful fingers. How exciting those fingers would feel lovingly touching her skin, His attention shifted from the stone to Donald, Janet seemingly out of the picture. “What do you think?” he asked. “Thirty-two carats if we shoot for flawless?”

“Rubel said thirty-four,” Donald answered. “He recommends we do it with a heart cut.”

“Here, Janet,” Christopher said, tossing her the stone. She caught it purely out of reflex. “What do you say?”

“What is it? Topaz?” she asked. When she and Bob were looking for her engagement ring, she had seen a yellow topaz. It wasn’t as big as this stone, though.

Donald gave an audible intake of breath that dismissed Janet once and for all. Christopher’s golden eyes sparkled more than the uncut gem.

“It’s a diamond, Janet,” Christopher said, shaking his head and clicking his tongue in mock disappointment. “I thought every woman knew a diamond when she saw one. Aren’t they supposed to be a girl’s best friend?”

“It’s honey colored,” she said, putting the stone back on the velvet. Donald’s reaction, more than Christopher’s statement, told her it was indeed a diamond. She was nervous with a stone that would cut to thirty-four carats, much heavier (more valuable) than Elizabeth Taylor’s much ballyhooed ring. She rubbed hands together, renewing the warmth Christopher had passed to her through the cool crystal.

“It’s a fancy,” Christopher said. “Impurities make it that color.”

“They make it a damned sight more expensive, too” Donald interjected, dispelling the notion that impurities equated with inferior quality, in this instance.

“Right,” Christopher agreed. “We are always exceedingly pleased when one of these babies turns up.”

He picked up the telephone on the desk, his gaze on Janet. There was humor in his eyes. Again, he had made her appear foolish. “Bartlet, will you send Samuels around front with the car, please?” he said into the mouthpiece before replacing the receiver. He walked over to the door and unlocked it. “I’m afraid Donald and I have things to discuss that you’d find horribly boring, Janet,” he said. “I hope you’ll accept my apologies for cutting our evening short.” He smiled that same maddening smile. “I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.”

“That won’t be necessary, I assure you,” Janet said, more affected by her dismissal than she would admit.

“Feel free to take the dress with you as a consolation prize,” he called after her, making her skin turn hot with embarrassment. She knew what Donald Geiger was thinking. “You certainly look better in it than the other women did,” Christopher added. His amused laughter was still ringing in her ears when she reached the top of the stairs. She was tempted, but she didn’t slam the door of the bedroom. She refused to give him the satisfaction.

She had no intention of keeping the dress. The tapes were all she wanted from him. By tomorrow, they would be safely on a plane for Seattle. Whatever glimmer of hope she had had of dissociating him from his despicable father was shattered.

The zipper stuck in her hurried attempts to shed the offensive silk, and she began to panic during the following moments of struggle. She couldn’t go back to the library for help, but the alternative was to tear the dress. She couldn’t ruin something so lovely that, by her standards, was so extravagantly expensive, even if Christopher cared less.

“Thank God!” she said, heaving an audible sigh of relief when the zipper came loose.

She changed, knowing Christopher would be curious about the delay. He would think she had misgivings about leaving Lionspride. The sooner she set him straight on that score, the better.

Ashanti was waiting patiently at the front door. There was no sign of Christopher. Janet was the last thing on his mind at the moment. A large golden diamond was more interesting than a busybody come to do him mischief. At least that’s the way Janet saw it.