The Price of Retribution Page 7

  She said, holding up a bottle, ‘I’ve also found some brandy, but I think it’s what Della uses for cooking, so I can’t vouch for it.’

  He grinned. ‘No point being snobs in an emergency. Where do you keep your glasses?’

  ‘Top cupboard on your right.’

  As she spooned the freshly ground coffee into the percolator and added boiling water, the aroma filled the air, replacing the faint, expensive hint of musk that she’d detected from the cologne he wore.

  When she’d decided to let him in, it was with the fixed intention of provoking him into making a pass, and then reporting him to the police for sexual harassment.

  But wiser counsels had soon prevailed. The fact that she’d admitted him when she was alone and only wearing a bathrobe would do her case no good at all, she admitted silently. Besides, he’d said he wouldn’t pounce, so she would have to make all the running—another serious black mark against her.

  And the fact that this was Della’s flat, and her friend totally disapproved of what she was doing stopped her in her tracks, at least for tonight, and warned her to think of something else.

  ‘I’m hoping this might relax you,’ Caz remarked, handing her a rounded crystal glass. ‘You look like a kitten caught in headlights—as if you don’t know which way to run. Am I really so scary?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, of course not. It was just—such a surprise. Besides, I’m not really dressed for entertaining.’

  If she’d expected some leering riposte, she was disappointed.

  Caz frowned slightly. ‘I should have telephoned ahead. Warned you I was calling round, or maybe made a date for a more convenient time.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you?’

  ‘Considering the amount of twitch in the air, maybe I should reserve my reasons for another time too.’

  ‘I have a better idea,’ Tarn said. ‘Why don’t we just—start again.’ She held out her hand. ‘Good evening, Mr Brandon. What an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘Change Mr Brandon to Caz,’ he said, the warm strong fingers closing round hers. ‘And it will become an unmitigated pleasure.’

  And I’m an unmitigated fool not to throw this brandy over you here and now and scream what you’ve done to your face—tell you what a bastard—what a love rat you are. Although you wouldn’t recognise or understand the word ‘love.’ And, anyway, you’d just shrug it off and walk away. Water off a duck’s back. But some day soon, you’ll be made to care…

  She allowed her long lashes to sweep down in demure concealment, in case he read the truth in her eyes. ‘Very well—Caz.’

  ‘A moment I might have missed if I’d called in advance,’ he said softly as he released her hand. He paused. ‘So where’s your flatmate this evening?’

  ‘At a hen party. Someone’s birthday.’

  ‘You didn’t want to go?’

  She sent him a wry glance. ‘I decided to settle for a quiet night in.’

  ‘Which I’ve spoiled,’ he said softly. ‘However, your loss is my definite gain.’

  She set a tray with cups and saucers, adding a jug of cream. Caz carried it into the sitting room, placing it on the small table in front of the sofa, and she followed with the percolator. She sat at one end of the sofa, and he occupied the other, stretching long legs in front of him.

  ‘I like the shampoo you use,’ he commented unexpectedly. ‘Apple with a hint of vanilla.’

  Tarn busied herself pouring coffee, leaning forward so that the swing of her hair could conceal the sudden warmth invading her face.

  She said, ‘You’re—very perceptive.’

  ‘I’m on a steep learning curve,’ he said. ‘Finding out about you.’

  Her throat tightened nervously. Was he serious? Given his money and resources, if he really started to probe her background, what might he not unearth?

  With a supreme effort, she kept her voice light, and her hand steady as she passed him his coffee. ‘Well, that shouldn’t take long. There isn’t very much to discover.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ he said slowly. ‘I suspect it could take a lifetime.’

  He reached for his brandy glass and raised it. ‘To us.’

  She drank without repeating the toast. ‘Isn’t that still slightly presumptuous?’

  ‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘I simply have to win you round to my way of thinking, that’s all.’

  Her breathing quickened. ‘And if I can’t be won?’

  ‘Do you mean “can’t”?’ he asked. ‘Or is it really “won’t”?’

  She moved a restive shoulder, replaced her glass on the table. ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Whichever it is, you’ll find I don’t give up easily.’

  There was a silence, then she said jerkily, ‘Mr Brandon—Caz—this whole conversation is making me—uneasy. I think you should drink your coffee and leave.’

  ‘I’m sorry if you feel uncomfortable with the situation.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now, I was thinking it was like a foretaste of the future. Me—back from business trip. You—with your hair just washed and no makeup. Both of us enjoying a nightcap together, knowing exactly how the evening will end, but content to wait. To savour every lovely moment.’

  His gaze rested on her startled, parted lips then moved down to the flurried rise and fall of her breasts under the concealment of her robe.

  He added with sudden roughness, ‘For God’s sake, Tarn. Don’t you know that I’m nervous too. Have you forgotten what I said the other night?’

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘I—I haven’t forgotten anything.’

  ‘You said earlier that we’d start again, and that’s what I’m asking for. A chance to prove to you that I mean what I say. And we’ll go at your pace, not mine. That’s a promise. When you come into my arms, it will be because you want to be there.’

  His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Now relax, and drink your coffee, while we discuss our first real date.’

  She gasped. ‘You—really don’t give up, do you?’

  The hazel eyes glinted. ‘You’d better believe it. And at the same time please understand that you have nothing to fear.’

  No, she thought. You’re the one who should be afraid.

  She picked up her cup and drank, regarding him over its brim. ‘So what do you have in mind for this date?’

  ‘I thought we might go to the theatre. I have tickets for the opening of the new Lance Crichton play next Wednesday.’

  Her brows lifted in disbelief. ‘Heavens. Sprinkled with gold dust, I presume.’

  ‘Almost,’ he admitted. ‘Are you interested?’

  Her eyes danced. ‘I think it’s an offer I can’t refuse. I saw Payment in Kind on Broadway and loved it.’

  ‘Then I hope you’ll tell him so. He got rather a mauling from some of the New York critics.’

  She drew a breath. ‘You mean I could meet him. Are you serious?’

  ‘I’m sure it could be arranged.’

  Tarn thought then shook her head regretfully. ‘The play’s quite tempting enough. I think that meeting Lance Crichton would turn my head completely.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re not so easily overwhelmed.’

  He drank the rest of his coffee and stood up.

  ‘You’re leaving?’ The words were involuntary, and so, she realised with shock, was the note of disappointment in her voice.

  ‘That was what you wanted a few minutes ago,’ he said. ‘If you remember. And I’ve got what I came for, so I’m quitting while I’m ahead. It’s wiser and probably safer.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.’

  There was a sudden, odd tension in the room, making her skin tingle. Forcing her to catch her breath.

  She made a business of scrambling to her feet. ‘I—I’ll see you out.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said equably. At the front door, he turned, looking down at her. ‘If you asked me to stay, I would.’ His voice was gentle, but the hazel eyes were asking questions for which, to her
horror, she could find no answer. She looked back at him, mutely, pleadingly, and he nodded as if she’d spoken.

  He said, ‘Then I’ll be in touch.’ He took a strand of her hair and lifted it to his face. ‘Apples and vanilla,’ he said, and went.

  Tarn leaned against the closed door, trembling. Dear God, she thought weakly, just for a moment there I was actually tempted. And he—he—let me off the hook. How shameful is that?

  She washed up the cups and glasses, emptied the percolator and put everything away as if she’d spent the entire evening alone. She’d tell Della he’d been there—of course she would. But in her own time, which certainly wasn’t tonight. She needed to get her head straight before she broached the subject.

  In her room, she took off her robe and reached for her nightgown. But, on impulse, she let it drop to the floor, and slid into bed naked. The sheets were cool against her heated skin, the fabric a caress that tantalised, offering arousal without satisfaction.

  Eyes wide, staring into the darkness, she moved restlessly, languorously, aware, deep within her, of a scald of yearning, as unwelcome as it was unfamiliar.

  It was wrong to feel like this, she told herself feverishly. Wrong and hideously stupid. None of the men she’d met in the past had affected her in the same way. She’d enjoyed their company—even found it pleasant to be held—kissed—but never wanted more. Had not grieved when it ended.

  At the same time, she’d wrinkled her nose derisively at the thought of Mr Right waiting patiently just off-stage.

  Not that Caz Brandon would ever figure in that category for any woman, she added hastily. Unless of course it was Ginny Fraser. According to Della, they seemed well-matched. Another ‘celebrity couple’ in the making, smiling for the camera if not for each other.

  And maybe, with the prospect of younger talent climbing the television ladder behind her, Ms Fraser would find a different kind of limelight sufficient compensation for her husband’s practised womanising.

  ‘They’re welcome to each other,’ Tarn whispered, turning on to her front and burying her face in the pillow. ‘And, once this is over, I—I have my career to get back to.’

  She tried to think of the next Chameleon project. A couple of tempting names had been dangled in front of her, but ghost-writing was a two way street. She would have to meet the subjects and talk to them. See if there was any kind of rapport which could develop into a platform of mutual trust and liking. A prospect that they would eventually open up to her completely, maybe even tell her things about themselves they hadn’t guessed until then.

  That was the best foundation, and while it was being established, either party could simply walk away. It happened, and sometimes she’d been sorry, but often relieved, scenting trouble ahead.

  And now, suddenly, there was Lance Crichton, she thought. One of the most successful playwrights of his generation, yet a man who’d always shunned personal publicity, letting his work speak for itself.

  But a man who undoubtedly had a story waiting to be told, if approached in the right way. Only she’d come across him at totally the wrong moment because she couldn’t put out even the most discreet feeler without the risk of self-betrayal, she reminded herself, sighing. Until her work here was done, Chameleon had to remain another closely guarded secret.

  And so did the way Caz Brandon could make her feel, she thought, and shivered.

  ‘You found her diary?’ repeated Professor Wainwright. ‘May I see it, please?’

  Tarn lifted her chin. ‘I’d prefer to give it to Evie,’ she said quietly. ‘She’s always kept a diary from being a small child. Written in it every day. It was almost an obsession with her. I thought that having it back might help with her treatment.’

  ‘I think I am the best judge of that, Miss Griffiths. Her case is a complex one. But the diary could be useful in other ways.’ He held out his hand and Tarn hesitated.

  ‘First, will you tell me something, Professor?’

  ‘I cannot guarantee that. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Her mother told me Evie had taken an overdose but I didn’t find anything like that when I cleared her bathroom.’

  ‘The police removed them. They are a very strong brand, known abroad as Tranquo, and not legally available for sale in this country. I gather their possible side-effects mean that they never will be so licensed. However, supplies of this drug, among other illicit forms of tranquillisers and stimulants, are regularly smuggled in for sale on black market networks.’

  ‘Smuggled in? By whom?’

  He shrugged. ‘No-one is quite sure, but people who travel abroad a great deal on perfectly legitimate business, and therefore have not attracted the attention of the police or customs authorities are natural suspects.

  ‘It is believed a lot of them are bought by the rich and famous initially for their own use, but then recommended to their friends and acquaintances. Because these drugs work, Miss Griffiths, in spite of their inherent and serious risks.’ He paused. ‘They also cost a great deal of money.’

  ‘But Evie couldn’t possibly have afforded anything like that,’ Tarn protested. But Caz could, she thought. And he travels constantly. Could it be even remotely possible…

  And found her mind closing against the thought.

  ‘Well, that is something the police will wish to discuss with her when she has recovered sufficiently.’

  Tarn stared at him. ‘And you think that’s all right, do you? Have you forgotten that Evie’s not a criminal but a victim, driven to total desperation. And you must know why,’ she added fiercely.

  ‘Let us say a clearer picture is beginning to emerge.’ He was unruffled. ‘Now, may I have the diary?’

  She surrendered it reluctantly, and watched him place it in a drawer of his desk.

  She said, ‘And may I go and see Evie?’

  ‘Not today, Miss Griffiths. I regret that you’ve had a wasted journey, but you are obviously upset, and it would be better to wait until you are calmer, and able to accept that what we do here is for your foster sister’s ultimate good.’

  She said, ‘It may be a long time before I believe that.’

  ‘Also I would prefer her not to know that we have her diary.’ He paused. ‘In future, perhaps you should telephone in advance and make sure your visit is convenient.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and rose from her chair. ‘I shall. But let me assure you, Professor Wainwright, that nothing I’ve done or shall do for Evie will ever be wasted.’

  The theatre bar was crowded, and alive with an excited buzz of conversation.

  No doubt in anyone’s mind that this was an occasion, thought Tarn drily as she waited for Caz to return with their interval drinks.

  She’d felt as if she was strung up on wires as she’d dressed for the evening, choosing a plain black knee-length shift topped with a taffeta jacket striped in emerald and black. Her hair she’d fastened in a loose knot on top of her head, and she wore jet pendant ear-rings.

  She looked, she thought judicially surveying the finished article in the mirror, the image of a girl ready for a date with the most attractive man she’d ever met.

  Not at all like someone who’d spent her recent days and nights wondering whether or not that same man might be a drug smuggler, and if she should take her suspicions to the authorities.

  Eventually, she’d told herself wearily that she was crazy. Because being a womanising bastard and love rat did not make Caz Brandon a felon, much as she might wish it. And watching him get his just deserts did not necessarily mean jail.

  Della had arranged to be elsewhere when Caz came to pick Tarn up.

  ‘I don’t trust myself not to scream, “She’s out to get you, and not in a good way,”’ she’d commented candidly.

  Tarn said with difficulty, ‘Dell—this isn’t a joke.’

  ‘No,’ Della returned. ‘In my view, it has all the makings of a tragedy. But that’s your choice, honey.’

  Now Tarn watched as he threaded his way through th
e general melee carrying her spritzer and his own Scotch and water. It took a while because he was constantly being halted to respond to greetings.

  When he reached her side, Tarn said, ‘Do you know everyone here tonight?’

  ‘I know some, but I think a lot of the others believe they know me because of some past introduction.’ His voice was rueful. ‘If I had to remember their names, I’d be in difficulties.’ He handed over her drink. ‘Here’s to Act Two.’ He added softly, ‘And I don’t necessarily mean the play.’

  ‘Ah, but I do.’ She sent him a smile. Made it teasing. ‘It’s absolutely wonderful—especially as I haven’t the faintest idea what to expect next.’ She gave a faint whistle. ‘Lance Crichton certainly knows how to put the audience’s emotions through the wringer.’

  Caz nodded. ‘When Bateman made that last entrance, I thought the woman next to me was going to fly out of her seat.’

  Tarn shuddered. ‘I thought I might too. Although I’ve never heard of the actor who plays him. Proving how out of touch I am.’

  ‘Rufus Blaine? He did a season at Stratford in minor roles, and people at the time were saying he was a star in the making. I think this Bateman portrayal has confirmed that.’ He paused. ‘Curious, isn’t it, how the wicked usually get far more interesting roles than the good?’

  Tarn shrugged. ‘It sometimes seems the same in real life.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little cynical?’

  ‘Probably.’ She added lightly, ‘Blame it on Bateman, and the shocks in store for us. I can hardly wait.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ He hesitated. ‘I was afraid you were regretting having accepted my invitation.’

  ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘You seemed very quiet when I came to pick you up.’

  ‘Did I? Perhaps I find dating the boss a daunting prospect.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that I might be a little daunted too?’

  ‘Frankly, no. Why should it?’

  He said slowly, ‘Because you’re different. There’s something guarded—unfathomable about you, Tarn.’

  Why—because I’m not a pushover, falling enraptured at your feet?

  ‘A woman of mystery?’ she asked, brows lifted. ‘Flattering but untrue, I’m afraid. What you see is what you get.’