The Price of Retribution
Sara Craven
Hell hath no fury… To Tarn Desmond family is everything. So when merciless tycoon Caspar Brandon all but destroys her sweet sister, Tarn is determined to make this notorious playboy pay… Caz is intrigued by the pure beauty of the new girl in his office – no one has ever said no to him before, and if anything that’s just doubled his ruthless desire for her!As Tarn sinks deeper into her deception her resolve falters under Caz’s sensual onslaught. She hasn’t banked on revenge costing her the ultimate price: her heart…and her body!“Like a fine red wine Sara Craven just seems to get better and better.” – Victoria, Retired, Belfast
Get a grip, Tarn castigated herself as she scanned the menu.
If he finds you attractive, make the most of it. If he was anyone else you’d be relishing the situation and wondering how soon you could begin to flirt a little.
And all this talk of him avoiding office entanglements is just garbage. He’s making that perfectly clear right now.
But if Caz is to suffer as much as he deserves then you need him to be more than simply attracted to you. He has to want you so badly that it’s like a sickness with him. A sickness for which you will never provide the cure.
About the Author
SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills and Boon in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge—the Professionals.
Recent titles by the same author:
THE END OF HER INNOCENCE
WIFE IN THE SHADOWS
THE HIGHEST STAKES OF ALL
HIS UNTAMED INNOCENT
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
The Price of
Retribution
Sara Craven
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PROLOGUE
July
THIS flat was smaller than his previous one, yet now it seemed strangely vast in its emptiness, an echoing space, rejecting him as if he was an intruder.
He stood in the doorway of the sitting room, his gaze moving restlessly over the few items of furniture that had been delivered over the past week.
There were the two long, deeply-cushioned sofas in dark green corded velvet, facing each other over the custom-made, polished oak coffee table. The bookcase, also in oak, the first of three ordered from the same craftsman. The thick cream rug, circular and luxurious that fronted the carved wooden fireplace.
A fairly minimal selection, yet all things they had chosen together, planning to add to them—over time.
Only there was no time. Not any more.
His throat muscles tightened to the point of agony, and he dug his nails into the palms of his clenched hands to dam back the cry that threatened to burst from his lungs.
And down the hall, behind the closed door of that other room—the bed. Memories he could not allow himself to think about.
He wasn’t even sure what he was doing here. Why he’d come back. God knows, it hadn’t been his original intention.
Brendan and Grace had pressed him anxiously to go back and stay with them, but he couldn’t face the thought of their shocked sympathy, however genuine and well-meant. Couldn’t stomach the prospect of being treated as walking wounded. Or feeling the complete fool he undoubtedly was.
His mouth tightened as he remembered the barrage of cameras and shouted questions waiting for him outside the registry office as he walked alone down the steps. He’d been spared nothing, and tomorrow the papers would be full of it. The tabloids would probably feature him front page.
But there were issues that mattered far more than the destruction of what had become his cherished privacy.
Decisions would have to be made, of course. The furniture disposed of. The flat put back on the market. That was the easy part. It could be done at a distance by other people, in the same way that flights and reservations for a suite in an exclusive resort hotel in the Bahamas had already been cancelled. The special orders for flowers and champagne rescinded. The plans to charter a boat in order to visit some of the other islands shelved.
However, retrieving himself from the wreckage of his life would be a very different matter. But there he could at least make a start.
He turned and walked swiftly down the passage, to the room he’d designated as his working space. Not to be confused with the similar room next door, although both had been rudimentarily equipped with a desk and chair, a filing cabinet and a shredder.
He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted the crumpled sheet of paper which he’d carried with him since that morning. He did not attempt to read it again. There was no need. He could have recited its contents from memory—something else that must stop right here and now.
He unfolded the letter, put it down on the desk, smoothed it flat with his fist, then fed it into the shredder, which accepted the offering, reducing it to fragments with its swift high-pitched whine.
It was done. Now all he had to do was erase it from his brain. Not so simple a task. But, somehow, he would manage it. Because he must.
He glanced at his watch. There was nothing more to keep him here. But then, there never had been. Waiting for him now was a different hotel suite, this one bland and anonymous. No intimate dinner for two to be anticipated, no vintage champagne on ice or rose petals on the pillows. And, later no eyes, drowsy with shared fulfilment, smiling into his.
Just a bottle of single malt, one glass, and, hopefully, oblivion.
At least until tomorrow when, somehow, he would begin his life again.
CHAPTER ONE
The previous April…
‘BUT you don’t understand. I’m meeting someone here.’
As the sound of the girl’s voice, husky with desperation, reached him across the room, Caz Brandon turned from the group he was chatting to at the bar, and looked towards the door, his dark brows raised in faint annoyance. Only to find his irritation changing in a flash to interest as he surveyed the newcomer.
In her early to mid-twenties, he judged, medium height, slim, and rather more than attractive, with a mass of auburn hair falling in gleaming waves past her shoulders. Wearing the ubiquitous little black dress, sleeveless and scoop-necked, like many of the other female guests, but setting her own stamp upon it with the slender skirt split almost to mid-thigh, revealing a black velvet garter set with crystals a few inches above her knee.
An intriguing touch, Caz decided with frank appreciation. And one that offered grounds for speculation. Although, admittedly, this was hardly the time or the place to let his thoughts wander, however agreeably, when he was entertaining the European and Southern hemisphere editors who worked for his company, prior to the strategy meetings which would begin in the morning.
‘I’m afraid this is a private function, madam, and your name is not on the list.’ Jeff Stratton, who was handling security for the reception, spoke quietly but firmly.
‘But I was invited.’ She took a card from her evening purse. ‘By this man—Phil Hanson. Look, he even wrote the place and the time for me to meet him on the back. If you’ll just get him, he’ll confirm what I say.’
Jeff shook his head. ‘Unfortunately there is no Mr Hanson listed among those attending. I’m afraid someone may have been having a joke with you. However, I regret that I must still ask you to leave.’
‘But he must be here.’ There was real distress in her voice. ‘He said he could get me a job with the Brandon Organisation. It’s the only reason I agreed to come.’
Caz winced inwardly. The situation seemed to be morphing from a simple security glitch into a public relations problem. If someone had been making free with his company’s name in order to play an unpleasant trick on this girl, he could hardly shrug and turn away. It had to be dealt with, and he, rather than Angus, who headed his PR team, was the one on the spot.
He excused himself smilingly to the rest of the group and walked purposefully across the room.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Miss…?’ And paused interrogatively.
‘Desmond,’ she said, with a slight catch of the breath. ‘Tarn Desmond.’
Seen at close hand, she was even lovelier than Caz had first thought, her green eyes over-bright as if tears were not too far away, and her creamy skin flushed with embarrassment. While her hair had the sheen of silk.
‘And whom did you come here to meet?’ he prompted gently. ‘A Mr Hanson, you said? Did he claim a connection with the Brandon Organisation?’
She nodded. ‘He said he worked for a Rob Wellington in Personnel. That he’d introduce me to him.’
Caz swore under his breath. This was getting worse all the time. He sent a silent signal to Jeff who melted unobtrusively away.
‘I’m afraid we have no employee called Hanson.’ He paused. ‘How well do you know this man?’
She bit her lip. ‘Not very. I met him at a party a few nights ago. We got talking and I mentioned I was looking for a job. He said he might be able to help, and gave me this card.’ She added with faint weariness, ‘He seemed—nice.’
Caz gave the card a brief glance. It was a cheap mass-produced thing, with the name Philip Hanson printed in ostentatiously flowing letters, but no other information, not even a mobile phone number. But the time and place of this reception was written quite unmistakably in capitals on the back.
The deception was quite deliberate, he thought, if inexplicable. Tarn Desmond had been sent here.
He said easily, ‘Well, this is an awkward situation, Miss Desmond, but it doesn’t have to become a crisis. I’m sincerely sorry that you should have been misled like this but there’s no need for us to add to your disappointment.’
He paused again. ‘You must allow me to make amends. May I get you a drink?’
She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘Thank you, but it might be better if I did as your Rottweiler asked—and simply left.’
Infinitely better, Caz thought wryly, at the same time aware of his own reluctance to see her go.
‘But not totally empty-handed, I hope,’ he said. ‘If you want to work for the Brandon Organisation, why not contact Rob Wellington through the usual channels and see what’s available?’ He smiled at her, noting the beguiling fullness of her lower lip, and heard himself add, ‘I’ll make sure he’s expecting to hear from you.’
The look that reached him from beneath the long, darkened lashes was frankly sceptical. Clearly, she didn’t want to be made a fool of a second time, and who could blame her?
‘Well—thank you again,’ she said, and turned away. As she did so, a breath of the scent she wore reached him—soft, musky and sexy as hell, he decided as his senses stirred. And he was treated to another glimpse of the glittering crystals on that garter as she departed.
If she’d come here to make an impression, it had certainly worked on one level, he thought ruefully as he returned to the bar. But she would need better credentials than that to convince his Head of Personnel that she deserved a place in the company. Rob was in his forties, happily married, and quite impervious to the charms of other women, however young and alluring.
As for himself, thirty-four and conspicuously single, he needed to put the delectable Miss Desmond out of his mind, and get back to the serious business of the evening.
But that, he discovered, was not as easy as he thought. Like her perfume, she seemed to be lingering on the edge of his consciousness long after the reception was over, and he was back in his penthouse apartment, alone, with all the time in the world to think. And remember her.
Tarn walked into the flat, closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, eyes closed as she steadied her breathing, before crossing the hall to the living room.
Della, who owned the flat, was sitting on the floor absorbed in painting her toenails, but she glanced up at Tarn’s entry, her expression enquiring and anxious. ‘How did it go?’
‘Like a breeze.’ Tarn kicked off her high-heeled sandals and collapsed into a chair. ‘Dell, I couldn’t believe my luck. He was right there in the bar. I saw him as soon as I went in.’
She grinned exultantly. ‘I didn’t even have to get past security and go looking. And he was across almost as soon as I went into my spiel, oozing charm and concern. He swallowed every word, and wanted more. It was almost too easy.’
She took the card from her bag and tore it up. ‘Goodbye, Mr Hanson, my imaginary acquaintance. You’ve been a great help, and well worth the effort of getting this printed.’
She looked back at Della. ‘And thanks for the loan of the dress and this pretty thing.’ She slipped off the garter and twirled it round her finger. ‘It certainly hit the target.’
‘Hmm.’ Della pulled a face. ‘I suppose I should congratulate you, but I still feel more like screaming “Don’t do it”.’ She replaced the cap on her nail polish, and looked gravely up at her friend. ‘It’s not too late. You could still pull out and no harm done.’
‘No harm?’ Tarn sat up sharply. ‘How can you say that? When Evie’s in that dreadful place, with her whole life destroyed—and all because of him.’
‘You’re being a bit hard on The Refuge,’ Della objected mildly. ‘It has a tremendous reputation for dealing with all kinds of addictions as well as mental problems, so it’s hardly a dreadful place. It’s also very expensive,’ she went on thoughtfully. ‘So I’m surprised Mrs Griffiths can afford to keep her there.’
‘Apparently they’re obliged to take a quota of National Health patients as well.’ Tarn paused. ‘And don’t look so sceptical. Chameleon may have earned me a lot of money over the past few years, but not nearly enough to fund Evie at a top private clinic. I swear I’m not paying her fees.’
She drew a shuddering breath. ‘When I came back and saw her there, realised the state she was in, I swore I’d make him pay for what he’s done, and I shall, no matter how long it takes, or what the cost,’ she concluded fiercely.
‘Well, that’s precisely it. You see, I was thinking of a totally different kind of harm,’ Della returned, unperturbed. ‘The potential cost to you.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Tarn was instantly defensive.
Della shrugged. ‘I mean that when push comes to shove, you may not find it so simple to deliver the death blow and walk away, leaving the dagger in his back. Because you lack the killer instinct, my pet. Unlike, I’ve always thought, the eternally fragile Evie.’
She allowed that to sink in, then continued, ‘For heaven’s sake, Tarn, I know you’re grateful to the Griffiths family for all they’ve done for you, but surely you’ve repaid them over and over again, financially and in every other way. Do you still have to come galloping to the rescue each time there’s a problem? Surely there’s a moment to say—”Halt, that’s enough,” and this could be it. For one thing, what about your career? Yes, the kind of work you do requires you to seem invisible. But you shouldn’t actually become so in real life. You can’t afford it. Have you thought of that?’
‘I always take a break between projects,’ Tarn returned. ‘And by the time negotiations have been completed on the next deal, this will all be over, and I’ll be back in harness.’
She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. ‘Besides, I promised Uncle Frank before he died that I’d look after Aunt Hazel and Evie, just as he always looked after me. As I’ve told you, they only decided to become foster parents because they thought they couldn’t have children of their own. Then, when Evie was born, they could have asked Social Services to take me away.’
She sighed. ‘But they didn’t, and I’m sure that was his doing rather than Aunt Hazel’s. I was never the pretty docile little doll she’d always wanted. That became abundantly clear as I grew up. But I couldn’t blame her. Looking back, I probably gave her a very hard time.
‘But losing Uncle Frank knocked them both sideways. They were like boats drifting on the tide, and they needed an anchor. I can’t ignore them when they need help.’
‘Well, if Evie reckoned on Caz Brandon becoming the family anchor in your place, she gravely miscalculated,’ Della said with a touch of grimness. ‘He isn’t a man for serious relationships with women. In fact, he’s famous for it, as you’d know if you hadn’t been working abroad so much, and only back for flying visits. Evie, on the other hand, has been right here all the time, and should have been well aware that he’s not the marrying kind.’
She hesitated. ‘I’m playing devil’s advocate here, but is it possible she may simply have—misunderstood his intentions?’
There was a silence, then Tarn said huskily, ‘If so, it was because he meant her to do so. That’s the unforgivable thing. Del—she’s really suffering. She trusted that bastard, believed every lie he told her.’ She shook her head.
‘She may well have been incredibly naïve, but I’ve seen him in action now, and he’s quite a piece of work. The arch-predator of the western world on the look-out for another victim.’
She gave a harsh laugh. ‘My God, he even asked me to have a drink with him.’
‘Which you naturally declined.’
‘Yes, of course. It’s much too soon for that.’ Tarn’s lips tightened. ‘He’s going to find out just what it’s like to be strung along endlessly and then discarded like a piece of trash.’
‘Well, for God’s sake, be careful.’ Della got to her feet. ‘Caz Brandon may like to love them and leave them, but he’s no fool. Don’t forget he inherited a struggling publishing company seven years ago and has turned it into an international success.’
‘The bigger they are,’ said Tarn, ‘the harder they fall. And his business achievements don’t necessarily make him a decent human being. He needs to be taught that you can’t simply take what you want and walk away. That eventually there’s a price to be paid. And I intend to teach him precisely that.’ She added tautly, ‘For Evie’s sake.’
‘Then all I can say is—rather you than me,’ said Della. ‘And now I’m going to make some coffee.’
Left to herself, Tarn sank back against the cushions, trying to relax. She didn’t really need coffee, she thought. She was hyped up quite enough as it was, the adrenalin still surging through her. And this was only the first stage of her plan.
The next big hurdle, of course, would be getting a job at the Brandon Organisation. This evening was a walk in the park compared with that.
But you can do it, she told herself robustly. There’s a lot riding on this—the total and very public humiliation of Caz Brandon. In some way.
For a moment, the image of him filled her mind as completely as if he was standing there in front of her. Tall, broad-shouldered and elegant to his fingertips in his dinner jacket and black tie, his dark hair combed back from a lean incisive face. Hazel eyes, long-lashed under straight brows, a firm-lipped mouth, the nose and chin strongly marked.
Oh, yes, she thought savagely. She could see why Evie had fallen for him so far and so fast. With very little effort, he could probably be—irresistible.
And she gave a sudden shiver.
She’d been in New York when Aunt Hazel’s call had come, she recalled later that night, when sleep remained curiously elusive.
‘Tarn—Tarn—are you there—or is it just that nasty machine?’
She’d known at once from the agitated tone that it meant trouble. In any case, her foster mother rarely rang just for a catch-up chat. And lately there’d been hardly any calls at all, Aunt Hazel, she’d supposed, being totally preoccupied by preparations for Evie’s forthcoming and presumably triumphant marriage.
She said briskly, ‘Yes, I’m here. What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Evie. Oh, God, Tarn.’ The words were tumbling over each other. ‘My poor baby. She’s taken an overdose of sleeping pills—tried to kill herself.’
Tarn heard her with horrified dismay. Evie might be something of a flake at times, but attempted suicide? That was unbelievable. Awful beyond words.
‘Tarn—did you hear what I said?’
‘I heard,’ Tarn said slowly. ‘But why should she do such a thing? In her letters, she always seemed so happy.’
‘Well, she’s not happy now, not any more.’ Aunt Hazel was crying with loud, breathy sobs. ‘Perhaps never again. Because he’s finished with her—that man—that brute she was going to marry. The engagement’s off and she’s had a complete nervous collapse as a result. She’s been rushed into some kind of rest home, and they won’t allow visitors. Not even me.
‘Tarn, I’m going frantic. You’ve got to come home. I can’t be alone at a time like this. I may go to pieces myself. You have to find out what’s going on at this place—The Refuge. They might talk to you. You’re so good at this kind of thing.’
Except, Tarn thought grimly, that would-be suicides and mental breakdowns were well outside her experience zone.
She said gently, ‘Don’t worry, Aunt Hazel. I’ll get the first available flight. But you shouldn’t be on your own. Would Mrs Campbell stay with you till I get there?’
‘Oh, no,’ the older woman said quickly. ‘You see I’d have to explain—and I can’t. No-one else knew about the wedding, apart from us. It was all going to be a totally hush-hush affair. And if Mrs Campbell ever found out, she’d tell everyone that my poor girl’s been jilted, and I couldn’t bear that.’
‘Hush-hush?’ Tarn repeated astonished. ‘But why?’
‘Because that’s the way they both wanted it. No fuss.’ Mrs Griffiths was crying again. ‘Who could have thought it would end like this?’
Who indeed? Tarn thought grimly as she eventually replaced the receiver. And why on earth would the head of publishing conglomerate the Brandon Organisation want his forthcoming marriage to be a secret? Unless, of course, there was never going to be any marriage—and that was another secret that, this time, he’d carefully kept to himself.
Because St Margaret’s Westminster and an all-day party at the Savoy or some other glamorous venue, accompanied by all the razzmatazz at his disposal seemed more the style for a billionaire tycoon.
Not that many of them crossed her path very often, she reminded herself wryly.
She still found it almost impossible to credit what had happened. It was true that her foster mother had always been an emotional woman, and prone to exaggeration yet this time there seemed every excuse for her reaction.
She wandered restlessly round her loft apartment, as she considered what to do.
A flight to Heathrow for the following day was, of course, her main priority. But she had also to deal with the problem of Howard, who would not be pleased to hear that she wouldn’t be accompanying him to the Florida Keys to stay with some friends he had there.
Tarn herself had mixed feelings about the cancellation of the trip. She and Howard had been dating for a while now, but she’d been careful to keep their relationship as casual and platonic as all the others she’d embarked on in the past. Not that there’d been that many.
However, she recognised that this state of affairs could probably not be maintained indefinitely. This invitation was clearly intended to move things to a more intimate level, and she’d accepted, mainly because she could think of no good reason to refuse.
Howard Brenton worked as management editor with Van Hilden International, the company which published the celebrity ‘biographies’ which Tarn now so successfully ghosted under her company name ‘Chameleon’. Which was how they’d met.
He was attractive, amusing and available (three starred A’s on the Manhattan scene). Tarn liked him, but wasn’t sure if love would ever be on the cards. But, she’d eventually decided, perhaps it deserved to be given at least a fighting chance.
After all, what was she waiting for? she’d asked herself with faint cynicism. Prince Charming to gallop up on a white horse, like Evie, who’d been sending her letter after letter rhapsodising over the manifold perfections of Caz Brandon, the man she was going to marry?
But now it seemed that her own warier approach was the right one because Evie’s idol had proved to have feet of clay.
She shook her head in angry bewilderment. How could it all have gone so wrong? And, apparently, so fast? Evie’s last screed, cataloguing in some detail her future husband’s numerous acts of generosity and tenderness had arrived just over a week ago, indicating that her path in life would be strewn with roses. Tarn would have sworn there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind.
Yet there must have been something, she thought. Some small clue, some hint she could trace that would signal all wasn’t well. And if there was, then she would find it.
She booked her flight, left a message on Howard’s voicemail, suggesting they meet for a drink in their favourite bar as soon as he finished work, then went across to her desk.
She opened a drawer and extracted Evie’s letters, collected into a bundle, and secured by a rubber band.
There were a lot of them, each envelope containing page after page of ecstatic outpourings from Evie’s first meeting with Caz Brandon in a classic secretary/boss situation down to what had probably been the last, she thought biting her lip, and she wasn’t altogether sure why she’d kept them.
Unless she’d believed they were some kind of proof that fairy tales can come true. If so, how wrong was it possible to be?
Evie, she thought, had always been a great one for writing things down. As well as the mass bombardment of letters, she’d kept a diary since she was a small child, and later produced reams of poetry to celebrate the girlhood crush of the moment.
She made herself a beaker of tea, settled into her favourite cream leather recliner and began to read.
‘I’ve got the most fantastic job working for the most fantastic man,’ Evie had written in her swift, untidy scrawl, the words leaping off the page. ‘His regular secretary is away on maternity leave, so, hopefully, I’m in for the duration. And after that—who knows?’
Ironically, Tarn could remember feeling relieved that Evie had finally found work that suited her, and also thinking with amusement that all it had taken was a good-looking boss.
Evie’s next letter was a fairly bread and butter affair, but the one after that bubbled with excitement. The boss from heaven had asked her to work through her lunch hour, and had ordered a platter of sandwiches which he’d shared with her.
Well, what was he supposed to do—eat them in front of her? Tarn muttered under her breath.
‘He was asking me all sorts of questions about myself—my interests—my ambitions.’ Evie had gone on. ‘He’s just so easy to talk to. And he smiles with his eyes.’
I just bet he does, thought Tarn. She recalled smiling herself over Evie’s raptures the first time around. But how could she ever have found them amusing?
Curiosity had led her to look at Caz Brandon on the Internet, and she had to admit he was everything Evie had said and possibly more. But why couldn’t I see what he really was? she asked herself as she read on. A cynical womaniser playing with a vulnerable girl’s emotions.
Over the next week, Evie’s hero stopped being Mr Brandon and became Caz instead.
‘Caz took me for a drink after work at this fabulous wine bar,’ Evie confided in her next effusion. ‘It was simply heaving with celebrities and media people and I was introduced to them all. I didn’t know whether I was on my head or my heels.’
After that, the invitation to dinner seemed almost inevitable. Evie gave a description of the restaurant in total detail—the décor, the service, every course they’d eaten and the wine he’d chosen.
Like a child in a toyshop, Tarn thought, sighing.
And the toys kept on coming. There were more dinners for two, plus theatre visits, concerts and even film premieres.
Then, eventually, there was the weekend at a romantic inn in the depths of the countryside.
‘Of course I can’t go on working for him,’ Evie had written. ‘Caz has this strict rule about not mixing business with pleasure, and he says I’m all pleasure. So I’m being transferred to another department.
‘He’s also arranging for me to move into my own flat so that we can be together whenever we wish, but I’ll be protected from people gossiping and drawing the wrong conclusions.
‘I know now what the marriage service means by “to love and to cherish”, because that’s how Caz is with me.’
A gap of a few weeks followed, while the loving and cherishing presumably continued apace, then Evie wrote again.
‘Tarn, we’re engaged. He’s bought me the most beautiful ring—a huge diamond cluster. It must have cost an absolute fortune, and shows how much he must love me. I’m only sorry I can’t wear it to work, but I realise that would hardly be discreet.
‘I can hardly believe he’s chosen me. All his other girlfriends have been so glamorous and famous. But, by some miracle, I’m the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with.’
Well, it was feasible, Tarn had told herself, dismissing her instinctive uneasiness about this whirlwind courtship. Evie was pretty enough to catch anyone’s eye, and her lack of sophistication might come as a welcome relief to a man accustomed to high-powered women.
‘His flat is wonderful,’ the letter had continued. ‘A big penthouse with views all over London, and an amazing collection of modern art. I don’t pretend to understand all of it, but he says he’ll teach me when we’re married.
‘And he has the most incredible bed I’ve ever seen—Emperor sized at the very least. I tease him that he may lose me in it, but he says there’s no danger of that. That however far away I went, he’d find me. Isn’t that wonderful?’
Not the word I’d have chosen, thought Tarn, dropping the closely written sheet as if it had burned her fingers. Or not any more. ‘Hooked and reeled in’ now seemed far more apposite.
The letters that followed were full of wedding plans, the chosen dress, flowers and possible honeymoon destinations, which Tarn had glossed over at the first reading. Now they assumed an almost unbearable poignancy.
And finally, ‘Being with Caz is like having all my sweetest dreams come true. How can I be so lucky?’
Only Evie’s luck had changed, and she’d suddenly discovered what a short step it was from dream to nightmare. So much so, that the thought of life without him had become impossible, and she’d tried to end it.
Tarn sat staring down at the mass of paper in her lap. She thought of Evie, wisp-slender, with her unruly mass of blonde hair and huge blue eyes, the unexpected late-born child, her flaws excused, her foibles indulged. Adored and cosseted for the whole of her life. Expecting no less from the man who, for reasons of his own, had professed to love her.
How blatantly, unthinkingly cruel was that?
Her throat was tight and she wanted very much to cry, but that would not help Evie. Instead she needed to stay strong and feed the smouldering knot of anger deep within her, bringing it to full flame.
She said aloud, her voice cold and clear, ‘You’ve destroyed her, you bastard. But you’re not going to get away with it. Because, somehow, I’m going to do exactly the same to you.’
Several weeks on, the words still echoed in her head. And tonight, thought Tarn as she punched her pillow into shape and curled into the mattress. Tonight she’d taken the first real step on the path to Caz Brandon’s ultimate downfall.
CHAPTER TWO
THE REFUGE was a large redbrick house in Georgian style, standing in several acres of landscaped grounds.
As she’d approached it on her first visit, Tarn, seeing the people sitting around the lawns in the sunshine, had thought it resembled an exclusive country house hotel, until she realised just how many of those present were wearing the white tunics and trousers of medical staff.
And, as she got inside, the illusion of peace and comfort was completely destroyed. She’d known that permission for her to see Evie had been given reluctantly, but she’d not expected to be taken into a small room leading off the imposing tiled hall, obliged to hand over her shoulder bag and informed tersely it would be returned to her when she left, or have to submit to a swift search before being taken upstairs to be interviewed by Professor Wainwright, the clinical director.
And her protest about the way she’d been treated cut no ice with the grey-haired bearded man facing her across a large desk.
‘Our concern is with the well-being and safety of the men and women in our care, Miss Griffiths, and not your sensitivities,’ he told her tersely.
Tarn decided not to argue over her surname and looked him coldly in the eye. ‘You cannot imagine for one moment that I would wish to harm my sister.’
He opened the file lying in front of him. ‘Your foster sister, I believe.’
‘Does it make a difference?’
‘It’s one of the aspects of her case that have to be considered,’ he returned, and paused. ‘You understand the conditions of your visit, I trust.’
Tarn bit her lip. ‘I am not to question her about what happened or the events leading up to it,’ she responded neutrally. Not that I have to as her own letters have told me all I need to know. But I don’t have to tell you that.
She added quietly, ‘Nor am I to apply any pressure on her to confide in me about her treatment here.’
‘Correct.’ He looked at her over the top of his rimless glasses. ‘It is unfortunate that we have had to temporarily exclude her mother from visiting Miss Griffiths, but it was felt that she is an excitable and over-emotional woman and her presence could be less than helpful.’
‘Is anyone else allowed to see her?’
‘No-one.’ He closed the file. ‘This may be reviewed if and when she begins to make progress.’ He pressed a buzzer. ‘Nurse Farlow will take you to her.’
At the door, she paused. ‘I brought my sister some of her favourite chocolate truffles. They were in the bag that was taken from me. I’d still like her to have them.’
‘I’m afraid she is not allowed presents of food at the moment. In future you should check whether any proposed gifts are permitted.’
It was more like a prison than a clinic, Tarn thought, as a sturdy blonde woman escorted her silently through a maze of corridors. And they seemed to be treating Evie more as a criminal than a patient.
Didn’t they understand what had happened here? How Evie had been used by this rich bastard then callously dumped when he’d got all he wanted and become bored? How her attempted suicide was an act of total desperation?
When they eventually halted at a door, the nurse gave Tarn a warning glance. ‘This first visit is for fifteen minutes only,’ she informed her brusquely. ‘At the end of this time, I’ll be back to collect you.’
She opened the door, said, ‘Someone to see you, dear,’ and urged Tarn forward.
Tarn had almost expected a cell with bars on the window. Instead she found herself in a pleasant bedroom with modern furnishings, seascape prints on the neutral walls, and soft blue curtains. Evie was in bed, propped against a pile of pillows with her eyes closed, and Tarn almost recoiled in shock at the sight of her.
Her fair hair was lank, her face was haggard and her body looked almost shrunken under the blue bedspread.
Thank God they’ve kept Aunt Hazel away, Tarn thought, swallowing, or she’d be having permanent hysterics. I feel like bursting into tears myself.
There were a pair of small armchairs flanking the window and Tarn moved one of them nearer the bed, and sat down.
For several minutes there was silence, then Evie said hoarsely, ‘Caz? Oh, Caz, is it you? Are you here at last?’
For a moment, Tarn was unable to speak, shaken by a wave of anger mixed with pity. Then she reached out and took the thin hand, saying quietly, ‘No, love. It’s only me.’
Evie’s eyelids lifted slowly. Her eyes looked strangely pale, as if incessant crying had somehow washed away their normal colour.
She gave a little sigh. ‘Tarn—I knew you’d come. You’ve got to get me out of here. They won’t let me leave, even though I keep asking. They say if I want to get better, I have to forget Caz. Forget how much I loved him. Accept that it’s all over between us. But I can’t—I can’t.
‘They give me things—to help me relax, they say. To make me sleep, but I dream about him, Tarn. Dream that he’s still mine.’
Her fingers closed fiercely round Tarn’s. ‘I didn’t want to go on living without him. Couldn’t face another day with nothing left to hope for. You understand that, don’t you? You must, because you knew what he meant to me. How I built my future around him.’
Tarn said steadily, ‘I suppose so, but ending it all was never the answer, believe me.’ She paused. ‘Evie, you’re a very beautiful girl, and one day you’ll meet another man—someone good and decent who’ll appreciate you and genuinely want to spend his life with you.’
‘But I wanted Caz.’ Her grip on Tarn’s hand tightened almost unbearably. ‘I gave him everything. So how could he reject me like that? Not want me to love him any more?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tarn freed herself gently. ‘But we mustn’t talk about that now or you’ll get agitated and they’ll know. Which means I won’t be allowed to see you again.’
‘And you’re all I’ve got.’ Evie sank back against her pillows, her face white and pinched. ‘Because Caz is never going to come here, is he? I’ve been hoping and hoping, but it isn’t going to happen. I know that now.’
A slow tear ran down her cheek. ‘How could he do this to me? How can he just—walk away as if I didn’t matter?’
Tarn felt the anger rising inside her again, and curled her nails into the palms of her hands to regain her control.
‘But you do matter,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘And one day soon he’s going to find out just how much, and be sorrier than he’s ever imagined.’
She handed Evie a tissue from the box on the bedside table. ‘Now dry your eyes, and try to look as if my visit has done you some good. And next time I come we’ll talk seriously about how to deal with Mr Caz Brandon.’
That night over supper, she said, ‘So what did you think of Evie’s fiancé, Aunt Hazel? Did you ever feel that things weren’t quite right between them?’
Her foster mother put down her knife and fork and stared at her. ‘But I never met him,’ she said. ‘I knew only what Evie told me, and, of course, she absolutely worshipped him.’
‘Never met him?’ Tarn repeated slowly. ‘But how can that be? You mean she never brought him home?’
‘Well, she’d hardly be likely to,’ Mrs Griffiths said with a touch of defensiveness. ‘I mean—he lives in the lap of luxury, and this is such an ordinary little house. But they were planning to give an enormous party when their engagement was announced, and I was going to meet him then.’
‘I see,’ said Tarn, without any truth whatsoever. She hesitated. ‘And you were all right with this?’
‘As long as my girl was happy, I was too,’ said Mrs Griffiths with finality, and the subject was ostensibly dropped.
But it provided Tarn with food for thought during the remainder of the evening.
When Tarn returned to The Refuge a few days later, she was surprised to be accorded a wintry smile by the Professor.
‘I think you will find your sister has improved slightly. She is looking forward to seeing you again.’ He paused. ‘But you will have to remain her only visitor in the immediate future. Have you brought her any messages from anyone else? If so, may I know what they are?’
‘Her mother sends her love.’ Tarn lifted her chin. ‘I hope that’s acceptable.’
There was another slight hesitation before he said, ‘Perfectly,’ and buzzed for Nurse Farlow.
Evie, in a dressing gown, was sitting in the armchair by the window. Her newly washed hair was waving softly round her face, and her face had regained some colour.
‘Wow.’ Tarn bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’ll be out of here in no time at this rate.’
‘I wish,’ Evie said with a sigh. ‘But there’s no chance. That’s been made perfectly clear to me. It’s what happens when you do crazy things. And all because of him.’ She punched her fist into the palm of her other hand. ‘That was the real madness—to believe even one word that he said. To trust him. I ought to have realised he was just using me.’
Her voice cracked. ‘Oh, God, he’s the one I should have tried to kill for what he’s done—not myself. You talked about making him sorry. That’s not enough. I want to make him wish he was dead.’
‘Well, maybe we can.’ Tarn took the chair opposite. ‘But stay calm, honey, because there are some things I need to know from you.’
Evie stared at her, biting her lip. ‘What kind of things?’
‘Stuff you might have told him. About your mother. About me.’
There was a silence, then Evie said, ‘I didn’t tell him anything. He never wanted to talk about family things.’
‘You didn’t find that—odd?’ Tarn spoke carefully.
‘It was the way he was.’ Evie shrugged. ‘I accepted it. Why do you ask?’
‘Because it helps if he doesn’t know I exist. When I meet him, he won’t be on his guard.’
‘You’re going to meet him?’ Evie was suddenly rigid, her colour fading. ‘No, you can’t. You mustn’t. You—you don’t know what he’s like.’
‘But that’s exactly what I’m going to find out,’ Tarn told her. ‘I need to know everything about him, because, in order to damage him, I have to discover his Achilles’ heel—and he will have one. Everyone does.’
She paused. ‘You’re sure you never mentioned me? Told him my name?’
‘No, never.’ Evie shook her head slowly. ‘Why would I?’ She gave a quick shiver. ‘All the same, keep away from him, Tarn. It—it’s not safe. He has powerful friends.’
‘I won’t take any unnecessary risks. The fact that he has no idea who I am gives me a head start.’ Tarn tried to sound reassuring, even if she was bewildered by Evie’s warning. Surely Caz Brandon was powerful enough on his own. ‘But if I’m to cause him the kind of pain he’s inflicted on you, I have to get close to him in some way. Find where the wound will be deepest.’
‘You imagine you can do that?’ Evie whispered. ‘Then perhaps you’re the crazy one. Not me.’
‘I can at least try,’ Tarn returned. She hesitated. ‘I’m not going to mention any of this to your mother. And you shouldn’t talk about it either, to anyone. It has to be our secret.
‘Also, I shall move out of Wilmont Road,’ she added. ‘Go to stay with a friend.’
‘You mean it, don’t you? You’re really going to do this.’ Evie shifted restively in her chair, her face taut, almost frightened. ‘Oh, I wish I’d never mentioned him.’ She added pettishly, ‘Now, I’m starting to get a headache. Perhaps it would be better if you left.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Tarn got to her feet, eying her with concern. She said gently, ‘Evie—this man has to be taught he can’t go through life trampling on people. What he did to you had almost fatal results, and I cannot forget that. You’re in no position to fight back, but I am.’
She tried a coaxing smile. ‘And you really don’t have to worry.’
‘You don’t think so?’ Evie hunched a shoulder and turned to stare blankly at the window. ‘That’s because you don’t know him.’ And she shivered again.
It was her hair that Caz recognised. Even though it was no longer cascading to her shoulders, but decorously confined in a neat braid, and tied with a navy bow which matched her neat pantsuit, there was no mistaking that glorious rich auburn.
He had never really expected to see her again, yet here she was just the same, entering the lift at the fifth floor, glancing at her Blackberry with a preoccupied frown, and apparently quite oblivious to everything else.
He said, ‘It’s Miss Desmond, isn’t it?’
She looked up with a start. ‘Oh,’ she said, and bit her lip. ‘It’s you.’ She paused. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t realise who you were the other evening, Mr Brandon. I feel seriously embarrassed.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Caz paused, his mouth relaxing into amusement. ‘But while I have no wish to add to your discomfort, I should perhaps point out this is the directors’ private lift, and, if spotted, you could get told off for using it.’
‘Oh, Lord.’ She pulled a face. ‘I think that was mentioned, but I forgot and just took the first one to arrive. I apologise again.’
‘Do I take it you’re working here now?’
She nodded. ‘Since Monday.’ Her sidelong glance was part shy, part mischievous. ‘I actually took your advice and applied through the proper channels. Mr Wellington was good enough to hire me—temporarily anyway.’
She paused. ‘Should I get out at the first floor, or travel to ground level and risk a reprimand?’
‘Stay on board,’ he said. ‘If anyone notices, refer them to me, and I’ll tell them we were renewing an old acquaintance.’
‘Ah,’ she said and pressed a button on the display. ‘I think the stairs might be more discreet.’ She added, ‘Sir.’
As the doors opened, she gave him a last brief smile and vanished.
There should be a law, Caz mused, banning girls with legs as good as hers from wearing trousers in the office. Just as there was almost certainly a law condemning his thoughts as a kind of passive sexual harassment, he thought, his mouth curling in self-derision.
Easy, boy, he told himself. Or you’ll break your own golden rule about non-fraternisation. And we can’t have that.
If you need female distraction, ring Ginny Fraser, and see if she’s free for dinner.
He did, and she was, and that should have been the end of it.
Yet, later over lunch in the executive dining room, he heard himself saying, his tone deliberately casual, ‘I bumped into your newest recruit today, Rob.’
‘I hardly deserve the credit for that,’ his Personnel Chief said drily. ‘You did tell me we might receive an application from her. I simply—took the hint.’
Caz stared at him, appalled. ‘Oh, God, surely not.’
Rob Wellington grinned. ‘No, don’t worry. Absolutely not. Laurie interviewed her first, then sent me a note saying she was frantically over-qualified for any of our vacancies, but we’d be mad to pass her up on that account. I had a chat with the lady and agreed. So at the moment, she’s working as editorial assistant in features and fiction on All Your Own covering Susan Ellis’s maternity leave.’
He poured himself some more coffee. ‘Anyway, judging by the reference we got from Hannah Strauss at Uptown Today in New York, Ms Desmond could easily be running the entire magazine single-handed.’
Caz’s brows lifted. ‘If she was such a success in Manhattan, how come she’s back in London, at the bottom of the ladder again and working for comparative peanuts?’ he asked sceptically. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘I asked her about that,’ said Rob. ‘She said she’d come home because of illness in the family, and decided to stay for a while.’ He paused. ‘I have to say she seemed extremely eager to work for us. Should we suspect her motives for any reason?’
‘Maybe we should simply be flattered.’ Caz thought for a moment. ‘Do you know anything about a Philip Hanson? Have we ever employed anyone of that name in any capacity, however briefly?’
Rob frowned. ‘Off-hand, I’d say no. But I can check our records.’
Caz pushed back his chair and rose. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘It’s not that important, and you have enough to do.’
And I, he told himself, will also dismiss the whole business from my mind.
And as a positive move in this direction, when he got back to his office, he asked Robyn, his PA, to send Ginny Fraser some flowers.
Tarn switched off her computer and leaned back in her chair, flexing her shoulders wearily. It had been a fraught few hours, but she knew the task she’d been set was a job well done, and would be recognised as such.
How odd, she thought, that I should care.
Yet, in other circumstances, she knew she might have enjoyed her time on All Your Own. Working on her own as she did now, she’d almost forgotten the buzz of office life. Her colleagues were friendly and professional, and she liked the editor, Lisa Hastings, another recent appointment.
In fact she’d been the first to hear Lisa’s cry of anguish as she scanned the pages of script that had just been handed to her.
‘Oh, God—someone please tell me this is a joke.’
‘What’s happened?’ Tarn had asked Kate who was in charge of the magazine’s layout.
Kate cast her eyes to heaven. ‘You’ve heard of Annetta Carmichael, the soap star? Apparently, when they killed her off as the Christmas Day ratings booster, she decided to take up a new career as a writer, and she’s been offered megabucks for her first novel, a searing exposé of the secret world of television. A woman’s fight to maintain her integrity against a sordid background of tragedy and betrayal.’
She grinned. ‘You can practically hear the axe being ground. However, Brigid, Lisa’s predecessor, thought it would be a great idea to commission a short story from her for an equally generous payment. I think the finished product has finally arrived, well after its deadline, and well short of the required standard.’
‘I’d like to throw it back at her and tell her to start again,’ Lisa was saying savagely. ‘But she’s pushed off to some Caribbean hideaway with someone else’s husband, and is, according to her agent, incommunicado.’
She slammed the pages down on her desk. ‘And we need this. It’s already been announced—”Annetta—Fiction’s Latest Find.”’ She snorted. ‘Fiction’s greatest disaster if this is anything to go by.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Tarn asked.
‘You mean apart from a poor beginning, a boring middle, and a hopeless ending?’ Lisa gave a groan. ‘It needs an instant re-write, but it’s my little boy’s birthday today and I swore to my husband that I would be back in plenty of time for the celebrations. I should have known something would crop up and ruin things.’
Tarn hesitated. ‘Would you like me to take a look at it?’ she asked diffidently. ‘I have done stuff like this in the past, and it would give you a chance to get off as planned.’
Lisa stared at her in open surprise. ‘Are you serious? Because anything you could do—even if it was just sorting out her spelling and grammar—would be a tremendous help.’
Back at her desk, Tarn gave a silent whistle as she looked through the pages. Everything Lisa had said was perfectly justified, she thought grimly. It was a genuine horror.
But she remembered all the endless reams of frightful autobiography, and the rambling taped reminiscences that she’d transformed into readable—and saleable—prose in the recent past.
This at least had the benefit of being short. And, buried inside, were the actual bones of a story.
I’ve never ghosted fiction before, she thought. This will be a challenge. But I’ll have the new draft done when Lisa arrives tomorrow.
The offices were beginning to empty as she began. By the time she’d completed the story to her own satisfaction, boosted by regular visits to the coffee machine, the building was dark and still, with only the occasional security patrols to disturb her concentration.
She printed off the new version, clipped the sheets together and took them to Lisa’s work station.
She returned slowly to her seat, tucking her white blouse neatly back into her grey skirt as she went, then sat down to finish her final cup of coffee.
She was tired and hungry too, having eaten nothing since her mid-day sandwich. But she felt a curious sense of satisfaction all the same.
Just as if I was a bona fide employee, she thought wryly.
But then, she reflected, she’d had little opportunity to be anything else. Since she’d manufactured that meeting in the executive lift two weeks earlier, she hadn’t managed to set eyes on Caz Brandon, even in passing.
She’d been aware, without conceit, that he’d again found her attractive, but there’d been no follow-up on his part, and office gossip said that he and TV presenter Ginny Fraser were a serious item.
Besides, she’d also been told, he never played around at the office. Which just showed, she’d thought angrily, how little they knew. But which also demonstrated that he must have wanted Evie very badly. And if he’d betrayed his own dubious principles once, he could surely be induced to do so again.
However, it was all a bit like the old recipe for Jugged Hare, which began ‘First catch your hare…’
It was also time to visit Evie again, but she would have preferred to wait until she had something positive to report. And heaven only knows how long that will take, she told herself with a sigh.
She slipped on the black jacket hanging on the back of her chair, picked up her bag, and went to the double glass doors, using her security code to activate them.
As she walked down the corridor to the lifts, a man’s familiar voice said, ‘Doing overtime, Miss Desmond?’
Tarn whirled with a gasp, her bag crashing to the floor, as startled as if a ghost had suddenly materialised in front of her.
Only moments before, she’d been asking herself quite seriously if she was wasting her time, and should jettison all thoughts of revenge and simply resume her own life. Now here was Caz Brandon appearing out of nowhere in this otherwise deserted building, as if her thoughts had conjured him up out of thin air.
She said huskily, ‘You frightened me.’
‘I got a hell of a shock too when I came back to pick up my briefcase and saw there were lights on this floor,’ he returned tersely. ‘What are you doing here at this time of night?’
‘As you said—overtime.’ Tarn dropped to one knee and began to retrieve the objects that had fallen out of her bag. ‘But don’t worry. It’s the voluntary, unpaid kind. I had a project I was keen to finish.’
‘Keen isn’t the word,’ he said drily. He picked up a lipstick that had rolled to his feet and handed it back to her. ‘Aren’t there enough hours in the working day for you? And haven’t you got better things to do with your evenings than hang around here?’
‘Most of the time, yes,’ Tarn told him coolly as she rose and fastened her bag. ‘This was a one-off.’
She was playing it all wrong, she knew, but his unexpected arrival had flustered her badly.
Also she felt scruffy in the clothes she’d been wearing all day, and wished she’d put on some more lipstick or at least freshened her scent.
He, on the other hand, looked unruffled and elegant in a dark suit and crimson silk tie.
This is my golden opportunity, she thought. Another one may never come my way and I’ll have simply wasted the last weeks of my life. I’ve rehearsed this scenario so many times, yet suddenly, ridiculously, I can’t think what to say. What to do.
He said abruptly, ‘You look tired. When did you last eat?’
‘I had lunch.’ That should have been a come-on, but all she sounded was defensive.
‘Then I’ll take you out for some food, and a drink. There’s a little Italian place I use that stays open till all hours.’
‘No—please. I’m fine.’ Dear God, this was a Rubicon moment but her brain didn’t seem to be working properly. She rallied. ‘I really can’t put you to so much trouble.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re not.’ His tone was laconic. ‘If you like, consider it a reward for loyalty above and beyond the call of duty.’ He paused. ‘So, shall we go?’
And she heard herself say, in a voice she hardly recognised, ‘In that case—yes—please.’
CHAPTER THREE
THIS was what she had wanted, had tried so unavailingly to plan for, Tarn realised with a kind of wonderment as she walked beside him down the lamplit street. Yet now it had so unexpectedly fallen into her lap, every instinct she possessed was telling her to run away. Fast.
As they approached the kerb, she stumbled slightly and his hand shot out and took her arm.
‘Be careful,’ he cautioned as he steadied her, the warmth and firmness of his clasp seeming to penetrate the fabric of her jacket.
She muttered a word of thanks, longing to wrench herself free but not daring to, furious at her own clumsiness and bitterly aware of the harsh inner tensions which had caused it. Conscious too that, in spite of her dislike of him, her skin was tingling at his touch.
Oh, I’ll be careful, she thought, the breath catching in her throat. My God, I will!
They crossed a road, then another, before walking the fifty odd yards down a side street to the Trattoria Giuliana.
It was busy, the hum of laughter and conversation quietly relaxed and delectable smells of herbs and garlic pervading the atmosphere. Caz was warmly greeted by the smiling proprietor and they were immediately shown to a corner table, where two glasses of prosecco were placed in front of them.
To her shame, Tarn realised her mouth was watering.
Caz raised his glass. ‘Salute.’
She returned the toast haltingly, glad when menus soon followed and she could focus on something other than the man watching her with frank intensity across the table.
Get a grip, she castigated herself, as she scanned the listed dishes. If he finds you attractive, make the most of it. If he was anyone else, you’d be relishing the situation and wondering how soon you could begin to flirt a little.
And all this talk of him avoiding office entanglements is just garbage. Evie wasn’t a one-off. He’s making that perfectly clear right now.
But if he’s to suffer as much as he deserves, then you need him to be more than simply attracted to you. He has to want you so badly that it’s like a sickness with him. A sickness for which you will never provide the cure.
And you’re used to keeping men at arms’ length. You’ve been doing it since adolescence. You can manage it again for as long as it’s necessary.
Besides, he’s the boss and you’re just a lowly handmaid toiling on one of the Brandon Organisation’s many publications, so you have every excuse for maintaining a respectful distance. But, it’s also time to move from awkward to friendly.
She sighed lightly and looked at him her eyes smiling under her sweep of lashes. ‘I seem to be spoiled for choice. As you eat here regularly, what can you recommend?’
He returned her smile. ‘If you don’t object to veal, the Saltimbocca Romagna is usually excellent.’
‘I have no real hang-ups about food,’ she said. ‘I’ll have it, with the gnocchi to start.’
‘And I’ll have the same, but begin with the wild mushroom risotto.’
He gave the order, and they agreed on a bottle of Friulano to go with it.
‘So,’ he said when the waiter had departed, leaving bowls of olive oil and chunks of bread to dip into them on the table.
‘You seem to be enjoying your work on All Your Own. How do you rate it as a magazine?’
Tarn thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I’d say it hits most of its targets.’
‘It certainly used to,’ he said drily. ‘However, the previous editor was keen on attracting a much younger readership.’ He drank some prosecco. ‘The numbers took a dive as a result.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘So that’s why I’ve been re-writing Annetta’s story. It was intended for the youth market.’
‘Re-writing?’ His brows lifted. ‘Is that within an assistant’s remit?’
‘Anything would have been an improvement on the original submission,’ Tarn said, mentally kicking herself. ‘But Lisa will naturally do the final draft.’
‘I wasn’t being critical. I’m seriously impressed.’ He pushed a bowl of herb-flavoured oil closer to her. ‘Try this with some bread. You look ready to fade away with hunger.’
His caring side, thought Tarn, fighting down cold fury as she tasted and made appreciative noises. And it was certainly a lovely restaurant, its tables far enough apart for privacy and set with snowy cloths, gleaming silver and crystal. But its air of quiet luxury was enhanced by a good atmosphere, and later arrivals than themselves were being accorded the same friendly welcome.
I wonder if this was where he brought Evie—that first time, she thought. If he also suggested to her what she might order. Asked if she was enjoying her work.
And Evie would have lapped it up. Unused to places like this, she would have gazed around her, getting more excited by the minute. Unable to believe how lucky she was to be in this glamorous restaurant with this equally glamorous man.
Everything about him spoke money—the exquisite tailoring, the expensive shirt, the plain platinum wristwatch. And all this, allied to the aura of power he carried so effortlessly, added up to a lethal combination.
She was like a lamb to the slaughter, Tarn thought bitterly. And he’s probably used the same first date script with me as he did with her—learned by heart and used to decide whether the girl rates a follow-up rendezvous.
And I have to make it imperative for him to see me again—and not just by accident next time, but because he can’t keep away.
He said reflectively, ‘Tarn. That’s a very lovely name—and unusual too.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A little too much so, I used to think. There can’t be many girls called after a mountain lake, so naturally, when I went to school, I got re-christened “Drippy”.’
His brows lifted. ‘Anyone less so I’ve yet to meet. What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’ Tarn shrugged. ‘Just pretended I hadn’t heard and didn’t care. But the name stuck and followed me from year to year. I hoped they’d get tired of the joke but they didn’t.’
He pulled a face. ‘Kids can be monsters. Have you ever told your parents what they put you through and extracted a grovelling apology?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I never did.’ And paused. ‘Anyway, where did Caz come from?’
He sighed. ‘You’re not the only sufferer. I was born on January the Sixth and my mother insisted I should be called after one of the three Kings, and fortunately she picked Caspar over Melchior and Balthazar or I should have been in even more trouble.’
He smiled at her. ‘So that’s the first thing we have in common.’
‘And probably the one and only.’ She managed to infuse her tone with a note of faint regret.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ She shrugged again. ‘You own the company. I work for it.’
‘And you find that an insuperable obstacle in the way of our better acquaintance?’
‘I think it has to be.’ She gave him a reflective look. ‘And if you’re honest, so do you.’
Except honesty isn’t really your thing, is it, Mr Mighty Publishing Tycoon?
He spoke slowly, his lean, brown fingers toying with the stem of his glass in a way that dried her throat in some inexplicable manner. ‘If you’re asking whether or not I usually date my employees, the answer is an emphatic “No.”’ He added, ‘Besides, this isn’t really a date.’
She flushed. ‘No—no, I understand that.’
‘But it will be next time.’ It was said casually, almost thrown away, and, with that, the wine arrived, followed almost immediately by their first course choices, and Tarn, biting back an instinctive gasp of surprise, was left floundering, even wondering if she’d heard him correctly.
Because it was all happening too fast. And this was not part of the plan at all. He was not supposed to be in control. She was.
She tried to concentrate her whole attention on the gnocchi in its wonderful creamy sauce, but, in spite of herself, found that she was stealing covert glances at him under her lashes. No matter what her secret feelings might be, she could not deny his attraction. Or this slow, almost inexorable build in her physical awareness of him. His mouth—the way his smile lit his eyes, just as Evie had said—his hands…
All of them things she had not allowed for. And what she least wanted to deal with.
But, for now, there was chat. In any other circumstances, an easy, relaxed exchange of views on books, music and the theatre. Perfectly normal and acceptable. But, here and now, feeling more like a journey through a minefield.
Don’t be paranoid, she whispered silently. Where’s the harm in his knowing you like Margaret Atwood and John Le Carré? What does it matter if you prefer Bach to Handel and Mozart to both of them? Is it a state secret that your favourite Shakespeare play is Much Ado about Nothing?
For heaven’s sake, relax. You needed to engage his interest. You’ve succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. So capitalise on it.
The saltimbocca was served, delicate veal escalopes wrapped round prosciutto and sage leaves, accompanied by green beans and lightly sautéed potatoes. The white wine, fragrant as a flower, was poured.
Caz raised his glass. ‘I should propose a toast,’ he said. ‘“To us” seems slightly presumptuous at this stage, so let’s drink to the health of your patient instead, and hope for a complete recovery.’
Her hand jerked, and a few droplets of wine splashed on to her shirt as she stared at him.
She said huskily, ‘What do you mean?’
His brows lifted in faint surprise. ‘I was told you were back in London because of a family illness. Did Rob Wellington get it wrong?’
‘No, he’s perfectly correct,’ she said. She drew a deep breath. Forced a smile. ‘I—I suppose I didn’t expect him to pass it on.’
‘He feels you’ll become a potentially valuable member of the workforce, and is worried we’ll lose you.’ He paused. ‘I imagine you’ll be planning to return to the States at some point—when there’s no longer any cause for concern.’
‘Why, yes,’ she said. ‘But it probably won’t be any time soon. Progress is steady but slow, I’m afraid.’
‘Is it a close relative who’s sick?’
‘My cousin.’ She met his gaze calmly. ‘She hasn’t anyone else.’ After all, Aunt Hazel was out of the equation for the foreseeable future, so it was almost the truth and easier to remember than an outright lie.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It must be very worrying for you.’
‘Well, yes, it was at first,’ Tarn said. And how dare you sayyou’re sorry when you don’t mean it—utter some meaningless, clichéd regret when it’s all your fault that it ever happened.
She swallowed back the words—the accusations that she wanted to scream at him. Introduced a bright note into her voice. ‘But I hope she’s over the worst of it now.’
That was good, she thought. That suggested an eventual happy outcome on the horizon. And not a hint of breakdown, or isolation, or the kind of secrets that would lead to destruction.
At the same time, she didn’t want to answer any more questions in case the answers became too revealing, so she decided to drag the conversation back to less personal topics.
She looked down at her plate. ‘You were right about the veal,’ she added lightly. ‘It’s delicious—absolutely marvellous.’
‘So you’d risk having dinner with me again?’
Oh, God, out of the frying pan straight into the fire…
She drank some of her wine, letting it blossom in her mouth, while she considered what to say.
‘I don’t think that would be altogether appropriate.’ She permitted herself a rueful shrug.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘For the reasons already stated?’
‘Of course.’
‘And not because you find me physically repugnant?’
She leaned back in her chair. ‘Now you’re laughing at me.’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Simply trying to establish quite an important point. Well?’
She hesitated. Sent him a defensive look. ‘You don’t make things easy, do you?’
‘Perhaps not,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe because I prefer to aim for—ultimately and mutually rewarding.’
The words seemed to shiver along her nerve-endings as if her senses were suddenly awakening to undreamed-of possibilities. Her skin was warming as though it had been brought alive by the stroke of a hand. Her nipples were hardening, aching, inside the lace confines of her bra. And while the immediacy of her response might be shocking, it was, to a certain extent, understandable.
Because instinct told her that Caz Brandon was not simply suggesting the likelihood of sensual delight, but offering it to her as a certainty.
An overwhelming prospect for someone of her ludicrously limited experience, she thought, and stopped right there, suppressing a gasp.
Oh, dear God, what was she doing to herself? Was she going completely crazy? Because she knew perfectly well that whatever he might be promising was never going to be fulfilled.
Evie, Evie, she whispered under her breath. If this is how he came on to you, no wonder you simply fell into his hands. He could make anyone believe anything.
Yet she was in no real danger, she reminded herself emphatically. Not when she could visualise her foster sister lying in that bed, in that clinical room, her slender body reduced to painful thinness, and her once-pretty face a haggard mask of unhappiness. That was the image that would armour her against succumbing to the wiles of the man confronting her across the candle-lit table.
He said, ‘I was always told that silence means consent. But with you I need assurance. Does it?’
She pulled herself together, and met his gaze directly. She said in a low voice, ‘How can I possibly answer you? We hardly know each other.’
‘How strange that you should think so,’ he said. ‘Because I felt a kind of instant recognition, and thought you were conscious of it too. As if it was inevitable I would look up some evening and find you standing on the other side of the room.’
He was actually shaking his head. ‘It’s never happened to me before. If I’m to be candid, I didn’t particularly expect it or want it.’ His smile was brief almost harsh. ‘You’re an extra complication, Tarn Desmond, in an already crowded existence.’
‘So I believe.’ The swift, taut reply was framed before she could stop herself. Fool, she castigated herself silently. Imbecile. Although his private life was hardly a state secret. That there were pictures of him with various glamorous companions all over the Internet. With one exception…
His slow answering grin mingled amusement with pleasure.
‘So you’ve been checking up on me,’ he said. ‘That’s encouraging.’
‘Professional interest,’ she told him coolly. ‘I like to know the calibre of the people I work for.’
His former words were still ringing in her head. Presumably this was his tried and tested line, she thought, the sheer arrogance of the man catching her by the throat.
It should have made her furious—hardened her resolve, but instead she felt momentarily flurried—almost bewildered.
‘And yet you took Philip Hanson at face value,’ he said. ‘Why was that?’
‘A momentary glitch,’ she said after a swift, startled silence. She’d almost forgotten that particular fiction. ‘He was very convincing.’
‘He must have been.’ His mouth twisted. ‘You’d certainly pulled out the stops when you were dressing that evening, and all for someone you hardly knew. Was that wise?’
‘I didn’t dress for him,’ Tarn defended. ‘I wanted to make an impression at the party.’
‘Then you certainly succeeded,’ Caz told her. He frowned. ‘Yet I still wonder why he steered you towards us. I’m not complaining you understand, just—slightly puzzled.’ He paused. ‘You haven’t tried to track him down since?’
She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start. I suppose I really do have to treat it as a stupid, unkind joke.’
‘If so, it was one that signally misfired,’ Caz returned drily. ‘We should both be grateful to him.’
‘Both of us?’ Her brows lifted. ‘I rather think all the gratitude’s on my side. Because I must also thank the girl who’s having a baby, and created a vacancy for me, however temporary.’
‘This is beginning to sound like an Oscars ceremony,’ he said. ‘In a minute, you’ll be blessing your parents for having you.’
Perhaps, she thought. If I’d ever known them. If they hadn’t left me alone in the world, dependant on strangers.
Aloud, she said, ‘And what’s so wrong about that?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Except it’s a task you should really leave to me.’
Tarn looked away. She said, ‘If all this is another joke, can we end it here and now, please. I think it’s gone quite far enough.’
‘This is a beginning,’ Caz told her quietly. ‘Not a closing. But I can see I’m going to have to work damned hard to prove to you that I’m serious.’
And with that, the waiters appeared to clear their plates, and produce dessert menus, giving Tarn a much-needed breathing space as she contemplated what to say next. How to react.
Tricky, when all she really wanted to do was empty the remains of that expensive wine over his head, call him a treacherous, unfeeling bastard and storm out.
But that would only provide her with a momentary satisfaction. While he could laugh off his brief humiliation as a lovers’ tiff, and every man in the restaurant would be on his side.
And what she wanted—required—was for him to experience the kind of pain that he’d inflicted on Evie.
And it will happen, she vowed inwardly. I’ll make it happen.
‘Tell me something,’ he said, when the panna cotta with its red berry coulis had been ordered for them both. ‘Is there someone in New York? Someone you plan to go back to?’
‘Why do you ask?’ She drank some more wine.
‘Because I need to know what I’m up against. If it’s just the office hierarchy thing that’s making you so elusive, or if there’s something or someone else.’
Or maybe I’m just trying to demonstrate that you’re not Mr Irresistible, she told him silently. On the other hand, it would be stupid to let you think I’m totally uninterested and alienate you completely. So it’s time to tug on the thread a little.
She met his gaze squarely. ‘There’s no-one,’ she said. ‘Not any more.’
This time it was the whole truth. Howard had reacted badly to the news that she would not be accompanying him to the Keys. And her subsequent explanation had left him not merely unmoved, but getting angrier by the moment.
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