His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All. Sara Craven
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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.
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.