Haunted Dreams. CHARLOTTE LAMB
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waste any pity on the old man; he has plenty of money to make his retirement comfortable,’ Gavin retorted.
‘It is still going to hit him hard; his life is invested in that company.’ Ambrose rather liked the old man, and was sorry for him, but the company was going downhill when it should be doing well in the current climate, and, with the bank’s money invested, it was his duty to make sure their money was safe.
‘He’d have to retire soon, anyway,’ said Gavin indifferently. He didn’t care two pins about George Rendell—he barely knew him. Gavin didn’t work at the bank; he was directly responsible to Ambrose, who kept him moving between the bank’s clients, doing deals, arranging take-overs, finding out information and researching possible mergers. Gavin was a clever accountant; he had a cold heart and a cool head and the temperament to enjoy following a difficult trail to track down a target.
‘He isn’t a friend of yours, is he?’
‘Not a personal friend, but he has been a client of the bank for a long time.’ Ambrose was irritated by the question. Personal feelings couldn’t come into the way he dealt with clients. The bank’s money had to be safeguarded, that was his job, and they had invested quite a sum in George Rendell’s company.
George Rendell’s family had been making paper for over a century and had several mills in Kent and Sussex. Two years ago George had asked if he could borrow money with which to update machinery, and Ambrose had agreed, but although George had kept up the monthly repayments, a large amount of the money was still outstanding and the company’s audit last year had revealed that, far from an improvement in sales, there had been a falling-off since the new machinery was introduced. Ambrose had come to the conclusion that the management was set in a rut, starting at the top, with George Rendell himself. He was nearing seventy and had no son to take over, allowing him to retire. The company was ripe for take-over. It was in the bank’s interest to arrange one with a client firm, safeguarding the bank’s investment.
‘The company should be making twice the amount of product; the whole place needs a good shake-up,’ Ambrose said. ‘OK. So when do you fly back?’
‘Ten tomorrow.’ Gavin had been up to Scotland to see a big shareholder in Rendell and Son who was prepared to sell to their prospective buyer for the firm.
‘You’ve got your secretary with you?’
‘She’s here right now,’ Gavin said, laughing in a way that told Ambrose that the two of them were in bed together.
Gavin always had affairs with his secretaries; he chose them for their looks as much as their brains, although the girls always had both. Gavin expected his secretary to work hard, to be ultra-efficient, as well as good in bed. They never lasted long; about a year was the usual time one stayed with him. Ambrose wasn’t sure whether he sacked them or they left, but they kept changing.
Well, he’s good at his job, I don’t have to like him, thought Ambrose. The way he lives is none of my business.
‘Well, work on your report with her during the flight back,’ he said coolly. ‘Get her to type it up as soon as you arrive, and have it on my desk before five tomorrow.’
‘OK. Will you be around when I arrive?’
‘No, I have meetings all afternoon, but I’ll be back by five. I’ll see you then. Goodnight, Gavin, and thank you.’
Ambrose hung up and looked at his watch. The party would soon be over, his guests would start drifting away in half an hour; he had better get out there and circulate for the last few moments.
As soon as he opened the door he was engulfed by people eager for a chance to talk to him. He was just working out how to escape again, when he was rescued by Sophie Grant, one of his senior stock-market experts. She joined the circle surrounding him, waited her moment, and then asked him to show her his latest prize orchid in the heated greenhouse behind the house.
Several others clamoured to see it, but Ambrose explained politely that there should never be more than two people in the orchid-house at a time.
‘It uses up too much oxygen,’ he assured them.
As he and Sophie walked off she laughed softly. ‘What a smooth liar you are!’
Ambrose gave her an amused look. ‘An essential tool in the banker’s weaponry. And it’s true—it isn’t a good idea to have too many people in the orchid-house at one time. Thanks for rescuing me, anyway. Do you really want to see the orchids?’
‘Of course I do! They fascinate me; there’s something luscious and terrible about them. They’re so beautiful, yet they look as if they might eat people.’
Ambrose gave her another sideways glance; there was something orchidaceous about Sophie: she was beautiful and looked as if she might eat people—men, anyway! She had thick, white, perfect skin, dark, gleaming eyes and a ripe, full red mouth. Her body was just as extravagant: ultra-female, rounded, sensual, almost defiantly flaunted in the clinging black satin backless dress with the neckline plunging between her full breasts.
They had had an affair briefly, two years ago. Ambrose had been attracted, even fascinated, for a brief time but had soon realised that he didn’t like what he found under the come-hither smile and the desirable body. Sophie was ambitious and hard-edged; there was no emotion in their lovemaking, apart from lust, and Ambrose wanted far more than that from the woman in his life.
He had discreetly backed off, gradually stopped ringing her, asking her out, and Sophie had accepted it without a word. He was grateful to her for that. He’d been afraid she might make a scene, try to hold on to him. He was convinced she cared no more for him than he did for her, but he also suspected she had been hoping to marry him. He had money and social cachet, and Sophie wanted both. But she hadn’t fought for him. She had behaved impeccably. He had promoted her a few months later, not a reward for good behaviour, simply that her tact and discretion had proved to him how valuable she could be to the bank.
‘How’s Gavin doing on the Rendell project?’ she asked, when they were in the hot greenhouse looking at the massed orchids. He had been collecting them for some years, but lately he no longer found them exciting, and was considering selling them to the friend who had talked him into having his own orchid-house.
‘Everything’s set for the board-meeting on Thursday.’
‘Good,’ Sophie said, her eyes gleaming. ‘I know I don’t usually sit in on board-meetings, but could I come along on Thursday?’
Ambrose frowned. Sophie was the executive responsible for dealing with the Rendell account, admittedly. In fact, looking back, he seemed to recall it had been Sophie who first suggested that they should get someone else in to run the company.
‘I don’t think that would be appropriate, do you? Aren’t you related to the Rendell family, Sophie?’
She gave him another of her cat-like smiles. ‘My mother is old George’s cousin, but our side of the family have no money. We see very little of the mill people; we aren’t good enough for them.’ She gazed at the rich patina on a purple orchid. ‘Gorgeous thing,’ she said in a soft, creamy voice. ‘What a pity they don’t have any scent.’
What was she thinking about? Not the orchid, Ambrose decided, watching her. Whatever it was, that smile made him uneasy. It made no difference to him whether or not she liked her Rendell relatives—his decision had been based purely on financial grounds—but maybe he shouldn’t have given that account to her to manage. He hadn’t realised at the time that she had any connection with the Rendells; George himself had mentioned that to Ambrose some months back.
The heat in the greenhouse was beginning to make his shirt stick to his back and sweat was trickling down his neck.
‘We had better go back to the party,’ he said, making for the door into the house.
People started leaving once he reappeared. Ambrose stood by the front door, shaking hands with departing guests; when Sophie said goodnight he lightly kissed her cheek,