The Price of Retribution. Sara Craven
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problem. If someone had been making free with his company’s name in order to play an unpleasant trick on this girl, he could hardly shrug and turn away. It had to be dealt with, and he, rather than Angus, who headed his PR team, was the one on the spot.
He excused himself smilingly to the rest of the group and walked purposefully across the room.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Miss…?’ And paused interrogatively.
‘Desmond,’ she said, with a slight catch of the breath. ‘Tarn Desmond.’
Seen at close hand, she was even lovelier than Caz had first thought, her green eyes over-bright as if tears were not too far away, and her creamy skin flushed with embarrassment. While her hair had the sheen of silk.
‘And whom did you come here to meet?’ he prompted gently. ‘A Mr Hanson, you said? Did he claim a connection with the Brandon Organisation?’
She nodded. ‘He said he worked for a Rob Wellington in Personnel. That he’d introduce me to him.’
Caz swore under his breath. This was getting worse all the time. He sent a silent signal to Jeff who melted unobtrusively away.
‘I’m afraid we have no employee called Hanson.’ He paused. ‘How well do you know this man?’
She bit her lip. ‘Not very. I met him at a party a few nights ago. We got talking and I mentioned I was looking for a job. He said he might be able to help, and gave me this card.’ She added with faint weariness, ‘He seemed—nice.’
Caz gave the card a brief glance. It was a cheap mass-produced thing, with the name Philip Hanson printed in ostentatiously flowing letters, but no other information, not even a mobile phone number. But the time and place of this reception was written quite unmistakably in capitals on the back.
The deception was quite deliberate, he thought, if inexplicable. Tarn Desmond had been sent here.
He said easily, ‘Well, this is an awkward situation, Miss Desmond, but it doesn’t have to become a crisis. I’m sincerely sorry that you should have been misled like this but there’s no need for us to add to your disappointment.’
He paused again. ‘You must allow me to make amends. May I get you a drink?’
She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘Thank you, but it might be better if I did as your Rottweiler asked—and simply left.’
Infinitely better, Caz thought wryly, at the same time aware of his own reluctance to see her go.
‘But not totally empty-handed, I hope,’ he said. ‘If you want to work for the Brandon Organisation, why not contact Rob Wellington through the usual channels and see what’s available?’ He smiled at her, noting the beguiling fullness of her lower lip, and heard himself add, ‘I’ll make sure he’s expecting to hear from you.’
The look that reached him from beneath the long, darkened lashes was frankly sceptical. Clearly, she didn’t want to be made a fool of a second time, and who could blame her?
‘Well—thank you again,’ she said, and turned away. As she did so, a breath of the scent she wore reached him—soft, musky and sexy as hell, he decided as his senses stirred. And he was treated to another glimpse of the glittering crystals on that garter as she departed.
If she’d come here to make an impression, it had certainly worked on one level, he thought ruefully as he returned to the bar. But she would need better credentials than that to convince his Head of Personnel that she deserved a place in the company. Rob was in his forties, happily married, and quite impervious to the charms of other women, however young and alluring.
As for himself, thirty-four and conspicuously single, he needed to put the delectable Miss Desmond out of his mind, and get back to the serious business of the evening.
But that, he discovered, was not as easy as he thought. Like her perfume, she seemed to be lingering on the edge of his consciousness long after the reception was over, and he was back in his penthouse apartment, alone, with all the time in the world to think. And remember her.
Tarn walked into the flat, closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, eyes closed as she steadied her breathing, before crossing the hall to the living room.
Della, who owned the flat, was sitting on the floor absorbed in painting her toenails, but she glanced up at Tarn’s entry, her expression enquiring and anxious. ‘How did it go?’
‘Like a breeze.’ Tarn kicked off her high-heeled sandals and collapsed into a chair. ‘Dell, I couldn’t believe my luck. He was right there in the bar. I saw him as soon as I went in.’
She grinned exultantly. ‘I didn’t even have to get past security and go looking. And he was across almost as soon as I went into my spiel, oozing charm and concern. He swallowed every word, and wanted more. It was almost too easy.’
She took the card from her bag and tore it up. ‘Goodbye, Mr Hanson, my imaginary acquaintance. You’ve been a great help, and well worth the effort of getting this printed.’
She looked back at Della. ‘And thanks for the loan of the dress and this pretty thing.’ She slipped off the garter and twirled it round her finger. ‘It certainly hit the target.’
‘Hmm.’ Della pulled a face. ‘I suppose I should congratulate you, but I still feel more like screaming “Don’t do it”.’ She replaced the cap on her nail polish, and looked gravely up at her friend. ‘It’s not too late. You could still pull out and no harm done.’
‘No harm?’ Tarn sat up sharply. ‘How can you say that? When Evie’s in that dreadful place, with her whole life destroyed—and all because of him.’
‘You’re being a bit hard on The Refuge,’ Della objected mildly. ‘It has a tremendous reputation for dealing with all kinds of addictions as well as mental problems, so it’s hardly a dreadful place. It’s also very expensive,’ she went on thoughtfully. ‘So I’m surprised Mrs Griffiths can afford to keep her there.’
‘Apparently they’re obliged to take a quota of National Health patients as well.’ Tarn paused. ‘And don’t look so sceptical. Chameleon may have earned me a lot of money over the past few years, but not nearly enough to fund Evie at a top private clinic. I swear I’m not paying her fees.’
She drew a shuddering breath. ‘When I came back and saw her there, realised the state she was in, I swore I’d make him pay for what he’s done, and I shall, no matter how long it takes, or what the cost,’ she concluded fiercely.
‘Well, that’s precisely it. You see, I was thinking of a totally different kind of harm,’ Della returned, unperturbed. ‘The potential cost to you.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Tarn was instantly defensive.
Della shrugged. ‘I mean that when push comes to shove, you may not find it so simple to deliver the death blow and walk away, leaving the dagger in his back. Because you lack the killer instinct, my pet. Unlike, I’ve always thought, the eternally fragile Evie.’
She allowed that to sink in, then continued, ‘For heaven’s sake, Tarn, I know you’re grateful to the Griffiths family for all they’ve done for you, but surely you’ve repaid them over and over again, financially and in every other way. Do you still have to come galloping to the rescue each time there’s a problem? Surely there’s a moment to say—”Halt, that’s enough,” and this could be it. For one thing, what about your career? Yes, the kind of work you do requires you to seem invisible. But you shouldn’t actually become so in real life. You can’t afford it. Have you thought of that?’
‘I always take a break between projects,’ Tarn returned. ‘And by the time negotiations have been completed on the next deal, this will all be over, and I’ll be back in harness.’
She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. ‘Besides, I promised Uncle Frank before he died that I’d look after Aunt Hazel and Evie, just as he always looked