His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All. Sara Craven
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especially where money was concerned, and that he’d be lucky if she didn’t bankrupt him.’
‘But he was going to marry her,’ Tarn argued. ‘Why didn’t he sit down and talk to her if there was a problem? Try to work things out?’
Della shrugged. ‘Maybe he did, and found it was stony ground.’
‘There’s also a load of stuff about the MacNaughton Company,’ Tarn said, producing a sheaf of papers. ‘Whoever they are.’
‘Now there I can help,’ said Della. ‘They’re a cleaning firm, incredibly high-powered, lethally expensive, and very discreet, exclusively employed by the mega-rich and famous. They appear like good elves, perform their wonders and vanish.’ She frowned. ‘But from what you’ve said, Evie’s flat wouldn’t be their usual stamping ground, even if she could afford them.’
‘I gather from her diary that Caz Brandon fixed her up with them too,’ Tarn said wearily. ‘Though there wasn’t much sign that professional cleaners had ever been there.’
Della was silent for a moment. ‘The guy upstairs—was he attractive?’
‘He gave me the creeps.’
‘But you, honey, are not Evie. Could she have been two-timing her fiancé with the neighbourhood watch, do you suppose?’
‘Never in this world,’ Tarn said with emphasis. ‘No-one who was seeing Caz Brandon would give Roy Clayton a second glance.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Della said affably. ‘How very interesting that you should think so.’
She picked up her bag and walked to the door. ‘If you get tired of your mysteries, Sherlock, we’ll all be at the Sunset Bar,’ she threw over her shoulder as she left.
An hour later, Tarn was wishing she’d taken up the offer. Wrapped in a towelling robe, her hair curling damply on her shoulders, she was ensconced in a corner of the sofa, re-reading Evie’s diary and getting more depressed by the minute.
The contrast between the almost hysterical happiness at the beginning of her relationship with Caz and the agonised descent into despair when it ended was almost too painful to contemplate.
‘What can I do? I can’t go on?’ were words repeated over and over again. But Tarn had an odd sense from the later entries that Evie was not just wretched, but frightened too, because ‘What will happen to me? Where will I go?’ also cropped up with alarming frequency.
What did he do to her? she thought.
She reached for the beaker of coffee she’d made earlier, realising with a grimace that it was now cold. She closed the diary, put it on the floor with the envelope, and rose to go to the kitchen.
She was waiting for the kettle to boil when the door bell sounded.
Della must have forgotten her key again, she thought, although it seemed rather early for the birthday celebrations to have ended.
A teasing remark already forming in her mind, she walked to the front door and threw it open.
And stood, as if turned to stone, as she stared at her caller.
‘Good evening,’ said Caz Brandon, and he smiled at her.
SILENCE stretched between them, threatening to become endless as shock held her motionless. Speechless. Yet she had to do something…
‘You.’ Her mouth was dry. She hardly recognised her own voice. ‘What are you doing here?’
His shrug was rueful. ‘I’d hoped to take you to dinner, but my flight was delayed, so my guess is you’ve already eaten.’
He paused, the cool hazel gaze sweeping over her. His expression did not change, but Tarn’s instincts told her that he knew perfectly well that she was naked under the towelling robe. She had to resist an impulse to tighten her sash, and draw the lapels more closely to her throat.
He added, ‘I seem to have called at an inopportune moment, so maybe a drink is out of the question too?’
She made no immediate response and his brows rose with faint mockery. ‘Another loaded silence,’ he remarked. ‘I suppose I shall have to become accustomed to that.’
She went on staring at him. ‘How did you find me?’
‘Quite easily. Your contact details including your address are all logged at the office—as you must know.’
Of course she did, but she was playing for time, trying to pull her scattered wits together.
She said slowly, ‘I’m not exactly geared up for going out. And we don’t keep much in the way of alcohol.’
‘I’d settle for coffee,’ he suggested. ‘I might even drink it here at the door, if you insist.’ He went on softly, ‘Although I promise I don’t pounce, or, at least, not without a serious invitation.’
Her smile was brief and unwilling. ‘I think it would probably be better if you came in.’
He followed her into the flat. ‘You looked as if you’d seen a ghost,’ he commented. ‘Surely you were expecting me to make contact?’
‘Not really.’ She hunched a shoulder. ‘Men often say things that they don’t mean, or that appear less enticing the next day.’
‘Then you must have been unlucky in your men friends.’
As she walked ahead of him into the sitting room, the first thing she saw was Evie’s diary lying on the carpet by the sofa.
Oh, God, she thought. Having been involved so closely with her, he’ll recognise that as soon as he sees it.
She said with a kind of insane brightness, ‘It’s so untidy in here. I must apologise.’
She moved quickly, gathering it up under the cover of the envelope that lay beside it, and pushing them both on to a shelf in the bookcase.
Caz was glancing round. ‘This is a pleasant room.’
Better than the place you found for Evie…
Aloud she said, ‘Thank you. Won’t you sit down?’
‘I have been sitting,’ he said. ‘On a plane, and then in the car that picked me up at the airport. May I help with the coffee instead?’
She hesitated, then led the way to the kitchen. It was a comfortable size, but tonight it felt cramped, as if by the simple action of turning from the sink to the worktop and from the worktop to a cupboard, she would brush against him.
She was almost surprised to discover she’d managed to assemble the coffee beans, the grinder and the percolator without any physical contact with him whatsoever.
Yet it was the mental awareness of him that she found so disturbing. The consciousness that he was leaning against the doorframe silently observing her flustered preparations.
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