His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All. Sara Craven
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dreams. Things she preferred not to remember in the light of day.
She paused while cleaning her teeth and studied herself in the bathroom mirror. There were shadows under her eyes, and her cheekbones looked stark in their prominence. Not really the kind of look to appeal to a would-be seducer.
I need to relax, she thought. Smile more, or he could change his mind and walk away. And I can’t let that happen, because, whatever Della may think, he’s asked for everything that’s coming to him.
‘Congratulations,’ was Lisa’s greeting as Tarn entered the All Your Own editorial suite. She shook her head. ‘You’re the original dark horse, my girl, just full of surprises and succeeding where others could only fail. I can hardly believe it.’
My God, Tarn thought shakily. Someone must have seen me with him last night, and word’s got round already. This was not what I’d planned at all. The opposite, in fact.
She tried to speak steadily. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, my pet, that you seem to have waved some kind of magic wand and turned dear Annetta into a writer.’ Lisa picked up the draft script and waved it like a flag. ‘This can actually go into the schedules. In fact, I’m debating whether we should build on this and do a whole series of celeb stories, that is if you’re prepared to pick up the slack and spin the straw into gold.’
‘Chameleon’ on a small scale, Tarn thought ironically. This was getting rather too close to reality. And why hadn’t she seen it coming?
She marshalled a smile. ‘That sounds a marvellous idea. But do you think the accountants will wear it?’
‘They will if Caz tells them to.’ Lisa’s expression was catlike. ‘And maybe we can offer him a sweetener by including Ginny Fraser on the list.’
Pain, sudden and astonishing, twisted inside Tarn like a sharpened knife. But somehow she let her smile widen. Become conspiratorial. ‘Then let’s go for it. What have we got to lose?’
Lisa nodded. ‘I’ll send a proposal up to him as soon as he gets back.’
‘Oh.’ Tarn paused on her way back to her desk. She kept her tone casual. ‘Is he away somewhere?’
‘Paris, Madrid, then Rome,’ said Lisa. ‘One of his usual rounds.’
So much for forward planning, thought Tarn wryly. She’d dressed that morning in a brief black skirt that showed off her slim legs, teaming it with a scoop-necked white top that might be deemed by the purists as a fraction too low for office wear, and she’d left her hair loose.
She’d been so sure he’d waste no time in finding an excuse for their paths to cross again, or press for an answer to his invitation in some other way. Had been bracing herself, in fact, for a summons. So, why hadn’t he mentioned his trip the previous evening?
Because he didn’t have to, she told herself, biting her lip as she stared at her computer screen. Because last night he acted on an impulse which he probably regretted just as quickly, and this is the cooling-off period. When he returns, he’ll have other things on his mind and he can allow the whole thing to slide quietly into oblivion.
Which takes me right back to square one.
She bit her lip, and switched on her computer. She’d worry about that later when she’d finished work. Now she needed to concentrate.
But when the working day was over, there was Aunt Hazel to attend to. She’d phoned twice, the first time to make sure Della had passed on her message—’I thought she seemed very casual’—and the second to remind Tarn she’d need to call round and pick up Evie’s key and the address.
When Tarn arrived at Wilmont Road, she found her foster mother peevish.
‘I thought you were never going to get here.’ She picked up an envelope. ‘The rent money’s in here. Six hundred pounds in cash, as he insisted.’ She pursed her lips. ‘How very unreasonable people can be, harassing me like this when he must know I’m half out of my mind with worry. But at least it means my girl will be coming back here to her own home when she’s better.’
‘I suppose he’s entitled to be paid,’ Tarn said mildly. ‘And to look for another tenant.’
‘Oh, poor Evie.’ Mrs Griffiths shook her head, tearfully. ‘She should never have gone to live in that flat. I knew no good would come of it.’
And this time, Tarn could only agree.
Evie had said that Caz had arranged for the move, so Tarn expected her cab to drop her at some smart apartment block. Instead she found herself outside a tall house in a busy street filled with identical buildings, many of which had clearly seen better days. She walked over chipped paving stones past a row of over-stuffed wheelie bins, wondering if Aunt Hazel had sent her to the wrong place.
But one of the keys fitted the front door, and she walked into a narrow hall. There was only one door clearly leading to the ground floor flat, where Mrs Griffiths had said the landlord lived, and most of the remaining space was occupied by a bicycle leaning against one wall, and a narrow side table littered with junk mail pushed against the other.
If he owns the place why doesn’t he clear it up a little, thought Tarn pressing the bell. She rang twice and waited, but there was no reply, so she mounted the uncarpeted stairs to the next floor and Flat Two.
She unlocked the door with faint trepidation, wondering what she would find, but the interior turned out to be a distinct improvement. The small square hall was flooded with light from a big window overlooking some overgrown but attractive back gardens.
The bedroom, she saw, was directly opposite the entrance, its half-open door revealing an unmade bed and the kind of serious clutter a hurricane might leave in its wake.
Tarn wondered, with a faint shiver, if that was where Evie had been found, and hastily turned her attention to the comfortably sized living area with its galley kitchen, accessed by three shallow steps down from the hall.
The carpet and furnishings were not new but they looked clean and in reasonable nick. She’d seen very much worse in her travels.
But this was still far from the kind of love nest that she would ever have envisaged for Caz Brandon. Evie must have been totally blinded by passion not to realise she was being offered a pretty third-rate set-up.
But she wasn’t here to speculate, she reminded herself, or even to build up her resentment and bitterness towards Caz, although this visit was simply confirming everything she’d thought about him. Her job was to clear out Evie’s stuff.
There was an inventory pinned to the galley notice board, which demonstrated that Evie had been content to stick with what was provided and make no individual additions to the utensils, or the china, glassware and cutlery either. But then cooking had never been a big thing to Evie.
Nor had the living space benefited from her attention. Every cushion, picture, and sparse selection of ornaments was also listed.
So Tarn was forced to face the bedroom, and the cramped en-suite shower room which opened off it.
It was unlikely Evie would wish any reminders of the room, she thought as she stripped the bed, and bundled the bedding into a plastic sack, before filling a hold-all with Evie’s clothes and shoes. Although, from a psychological point of view, she realised, it might be better to get rid of all of them too, and start again from scratch.
Emptying the wardrobe didn’t take much doing. For a girl who’d been living the high life with a millionaire boyfriend, Evie didn’t seem to have a lot of clothes, and what there was didn’t rate highly on glamour, thought Tarn, wondering what had happened to the chiffon and lace wedding dress as she emptied the small tallboy.
The drawer in the bedside cabinet would only open fractionally, and she realised something was stuck there. After a brief struggle and a bruised knuckle or two, she managed to release it and extract the culprit, which turned out to be a square, leather-bound book.