His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All. Sara Craven
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too, was receiving the best treatment and would also recover. And both she and her mother would eventually learn to stand on their own feet too.
I’ve done them no favours by encouraging their dependency, she thought.
Ironically, it was Caz himself who had shown her the only solution to this maze of lies and unhappiness she was embroiled in. After all, he’d said yesterday that she’d come out of nowhere and might vanish in the same way.
And that was precisely her intention. To depart without trace. To find somewhere else to live and sink back into her work. To start over, a chameleon, invisible in her surroundings.
A clean break, she resolved, removing the necessity for any tortuous and impossible explanations which would not reflect credit on either Caz or herself. ‘Least said, soonest mended,’ she thought wryly, and all the other comforting clichés, which were no comfort at all.
And if, at the moment, the break felt more like an amputation, she knew that once the numbness had worn off, the pain would start in earnest.
But maybe she could arrange to be long gone by then.
And in the meantime, ordinary life pursued its prosaic path.
She showered, dressed, and breakfasted on toast and coffee before making a bacon and sweetcorn quiche for Della’s return at suppertime, just as she’d intended to do before her life skidded sideways to disaster.
She had also determined to return Evie’s engagement ring anonymously to Caz. A padded envelope with a London postmark would give no clues. It was a reminder of unhappiness that the younger girl didn’t need, she thought as she looked down at the cold glitter of the stones, as well as an awful warning of how easy it was to be dazzled into believing the improbable.
A danger that she herself was avoiding by a whisker.
While Caz—he can hand it on to the next lady who takes his fancy, she thought sinking her teeth into her lower lip, as she closed the box.
Professor Wainwright regarded Tarn with open disfavour. ‘I thought we had an agreement, young lady. No visits without a prior appointment.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I really do need to see her.’
‘You are not the only one. Her visiting time today is already reserved.’
‘I could wait…’
‘Miss Griffiths may well find the experience—unsettling, and will need to rest.’ He looked at his computer screen. ‘Perhaps next week.’
‘That’s too late. I may not be here.’ She paused. ‘Please, Professor. I must at least be allowed to say goodbye to Evie.’
‘But not today.’ His tone was final. He began to put papers into a file. ‘Now you must excuse me. I have a meeting.’
‘Is there really no other time for me to see her?’
He sighed, and looked back at the screen. ‘Tomorrow afternoon might be a possibility.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll come tomorrow.’
‘But telephone first,’ he cautioned. ‘Her condition will need to be carefully assessed.’
‘Very well,’ Tarn said tonelessly, and rose.
‘Miss Griffiths.’ She was halfway to the door when his voice halted her. ‘Since our last meeting have you told anyone of Evelyn’s whereabouts? Mentioned it inadvertently in conversation, perhaps?’
Tarn frowned. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Then there must be some other explanation.’ He gave a brisk nod. ‘I regret you’ve had another wasted journey.’
‘Not really wasted,’ she returned. ‘Because I shall see Evie tomorrow.’
She could have walked back to the Parkway, but when she got to the main door, an elderly couple were paying off the station taxi, so she decided to ride there instead.
She had just settled herself into a corner of the back seat when another car came up the drive and stopped in a swirl of gravel.
More visitors, thought Tarn. And aren’t they the lucky ones?
Then she saw the driver emerge and walk round to the rear passenger door, and stiffened incredulously.
Because she knew him. And the car. Knew, as well, with sick foreboding, exactly who his passenger must be.
She shrank back in her seat, every nerve-ending jangling, and pressed a clenched fist against her lips, stifling any hint of shocked and aching sound, as Caz got out and stood for a moment in the sunlight, clearly giving Terry instructions.
He was back to formality today, in a dark suit, and even carrying a brief case.
Legal documents? Papers for Evie to sign, enjoining her silence? Drawing a line under the past so he could look to the future with a free mind?
How can he? she whispered silently. Oh, God, how can he do this to her? Force himself back into her life when she’s trying to recover from the way he treated her. When what she needs more than anything is to wipe him from her memory forever.
And I—how could I possibly have forgotten what he was and let myself be tempted by him, even for a moment?
She felt physically ill as she watched him walk up the steps and disappear inside the building. She hadn’t been allowed in, Aunt Hazel was still barred, yet Caz, the man responsible for Evie’s pitiful condition, as the staff must know, was apparently allowed unrestricted access. It made no sense. It defied reason.
‘Unsettling’ might have been Professor Wainwright’s word for Caz’s visit, but Tarn could think of so many others that were far more apposite. ‘Cruel’ for one, she told herself as her taxi moved off. ‘Monstrous’ for another. And, ahead of them all, ‘Unforgivable’.
Because that changed everything. It had to.
I was going to leave her, she castigated herself, gazing at the passing hedgerows with eyes that saw nothing. Abandon her to the mercy of someone who plays games with women’s hearts and minds in order to save myself.
But she’s not a survivor as past events have proved. And I am. So I’m going to stay and keep my promise, no matter what the cost. There’ll be no unfinished business on my watch.
‘My mother sends her love,’ Della announced exuberantly as she tucked into the quiche. ‘Also a Dundee cake, which we could have for afters.’
‘Your mother’s a saint.’
Della gave her a shrewd look. ‘And how are your equally sanctified relatives?’ she queried. ‘I ask because you’re looking a little worn round the edges, my pet.’
‘Nonsense.’ Tarn managed an approximation of a cheerful grin. ‘All’s well.’ She’d already decided to say nothing about the day’s revelations, telling herself it would solve no useful purpose.
‘If you say so.’ Della took more salad. ‘And the publishing tycoon? Seen much of him lately?’
‘Why, yes,’ Tarn said lightly. ‘We drove down to the coast yesterday.’
‘Indeed?’ Della raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, I can only hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Oh, I do,’ Tarn said with quiet emphasis. ‘I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.’
‘Fine,’ Della said equably. ‘Then there’s no need for me to remind you of the old saying that it’s much easier to ride a tiger than it is to dismount?’
‘None at all.’
‘Then I won’t mention it.’ She waved a fork. ‘The cake, by the way, is in that tin over there.’
They spent a companionable evening