Unchained Destinies. SARA WOOD
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Her head lifted high on its long, honey-skinned neck, a reckless smile curving the lush lips with their permanently uptilted corners. Supposing she succeeded? What a coup! Ideas piled into her head.
Hi! I’m your local, friendly plumber…I’m checking your telephones…Rat-infestation inspector here….
Amused by her inventiveness, she glanced at the malefic Vigadó, felt a jolt of raw sexuality and resented him for producing it. He was ripe for his come-uppance. And perhaps she could deliver it by helping Lionel to steal back his brilliant author.
It was a terrific gamble—but rather exciting! And if it came off, her job would be secure. Her dream profession would be solid reality. Even if she were caught searching the files, she could find some excuse like… What am I doing? Why, I’ve lost one of my eyelashes! she imagined herself saying, with a blandly innocent smile. Mariann’s bold sense of the dramatic leapt with the prospect of a full-blown, real-life part to play.
And she’d see her dear sister Tanya, István, John, and the fizzing, exotic city of Budapest again…She grinned, conveniently sweeping obstacles away and dreaming of gorgeous pastries, the magic of the snow, the passionate arguments with husky-accented Hungarians over Turkish coffee…
‘OK,’ she said impulsively, her eyes glistening with anticipated pleasure. ‘The sticky buns clinched it. I’l give it a go—and we’ll beat the brute at his own game!’
‘Oh, bless you, bless you!’ breathed Lionel triumphantly.
Involuntarily, she slanted her sloe eyes to the watchful Vigadó. His gimlet stare was directed straight at her in challenge. ‘Viggy, sweetie,’ she murmured, hoping to cheer Lionel up, ‘are you in for trouble!’
‘Oh, a-dabbin’ it here, a-dabbin’ it there, a-sloshing itWhoops!’ Feeling immensely exuberant now her fellow decorators and the staff of Vigadó’s Budapest office had gone home and she was alone, Mariann halted her raucous song in mid-roller stroke. ‘Drop the “g”,’ she reminded herself with a giggle. ‘Keep in character!’
A dollop of paint dropped on to her bare shoulder and she remembered that she’d been tempted to leave Vigadó’s office reeling from a rash of purple spots, but had overcome the urge!
Her peal of infectious laughter echoed around the empty room as she sidled barefoot along the plank between two ladders. ‘A-sloshin’ it here and a-sploshin’ it there…’
She’d done enough. Operation Search, begin! she thought, and a thousand butterflies suddenly took flight inside her stomach. That was natural, she grimaced.
She’d never done anything criminal before. So far, she’d only skirted the fringes of deception. Now she was breaking and entering. It was still a lark—and she hoped it would remain so. Lionel had seemed thrilled at her clever deception, eagerly demanding to know every detail of her plan.
Carefully she flicked some paint over herself in a few strategic places in case the janitor came in and clambered down. Everything had gone so well! Lionel’s agent had come up trumps. Impersonating Vigadó, he’d ordered two decorators to start work on the offices immediately—and to take on Mariann to help them. Here, the agent had made his voice husky with a few dropped hints.
‘I’m sending her to Budapest ahead of my amival, giving her a job, somewhere to stay and…well, I hope she’ll show her gratitude,’ he’d purred.
Glad of the highly priced job, the decorators hadn’t seen through the deception and had willingly agreed. Why should they care who she was? They had work.
They’d swept in that morning, full of confidence, and no one in the panic-filled building had dared to question ‘Vigadó’s’ arrangement. The staff were too taken up with organising order out of chaos, ready for Vigadó’s arrival—and the manager was more than busy grumbling that he was having to give up his beautiful, spacious office to his boss. She and the decorators had shifted out the antique furniture and spent the rest of the day rubbing down the paintwork and washing the walls while she’d simpered and wriggled seductively out of her boiler suit to lend credibility to her story by displaying a few assets.
Whenever possible, she’d made it clear to anyone who’d listen that Vigadó had picked her off the streets and she was immensely grateful. And when she’d prettily begged to start the ceiling that evening so she could ring Vigadó later and tell him how well she’d done, no one had liked to refuse. The Great Man obviously terrified them all!
Cowards! Her eyes gleamed. In the adjoining office, and now facing her, was the manager’s desk—and the keys to the filing cabinets. She’d particularly asked him to lock them up before they were moved out and had seen where he’d put the keys.
Stealthily she took the keys, slid the small one into the lock and heaved out the ‘B’ drawer…Nothing there about Mary! And before she had time to push the drawer shut and try the ‘O’s, she heard a sound outside and was forced to scamper back up the ladder and on to the board again. Shaking with nerves, she ran the roller up and down the tray, picking up a load of flapjack-coloured paint.
“Oh,’ she belted out noisily, ‘a-dabbin’ it here, a dabbin’ it there—!’
‘A beautiful intruder, I do declare,’ came a dry male drawl.
‘Wooahhh!’ yelled the startled Mariann, seeing who it was and wobbling perilously as a result, her whole body lurching about from the shock. Vigadó! she thought wildly. Why? How—?
‘Watch the—’
‘Oh, lor’!’ she wailed. Paint sloshed out from the shallow tray and hurled flapjack stains all over her shorts but with the dreaded Vigadó around she knew her priority: the ridiculous Marilyn Monroe wig that Lionel had proudly chosen and insisted she wore.
‘Hold on!’ rapped the harsh voice.
‘I—am!’ she grated irritably. Darn him! Why was he here? He was ten days early! The dart-riddled face in the photograph flashed before her eyes. The glacial stare. The menacing expression…‘Ohhh! Help!’ she cried, teetering precariously as her uneven weight tilted one of the ladders.
She heard his luggage hit the floor and the sound of his quick strides heading towards her. But her centre of gravity had given up the unequal struggle and, with both hands jammed on the wig, she toppled helplessly towards Vigadó Gabó’s waiting arms.
He caught her with effortless ease, as though he practised twice a night—which he probably did, she decided angrily, since he’d turned her around deftly and slid her to the ground to face him with the skill of a man accustomed to arranging scantily clad women where and how he pleased. She blushed at the carnal images she’d conjured up.
‘Stupid female!’ he growled, pushing her away. She almost crumpled to the floor on infuriatingly boneless legs so he caught her again, reluctantly folding her limp and shaking body to his rock-like chest, his open coat snuggling around her of its own accord. ‘Why the hell did you grab your hair?’ he added, with irritatingly masculine exasperation.
She grinned. Because it would have fallen off otherwise! With her face pressed hard into his vicunacoated shoulder, she searched her frantically spinning mind for an explanation.
‘I paid a fortune having’ it done,’ she gasped breathily, saying the first thing that came into her head.
‘God! Women!’ he grunted contemptuously and she sensed that he’d raised his eyes to her flapjack ceiling.
But he did pat her back soothingly so she obliged him and his prejudices with a trembly, ultra-feminine sniff. Lionel had told her on the phone to seem innocent, ignorant, a tart with a heart. Initially she’d protested, intending to play it straight—and only slightly over the top. Then she’d listened to Vigadó’s staff talking and her qualms about deceiving them had vanished. They were so proud of their boss’s ruthless, piratical tactics that she’d decided they were equally guilty of unfair business practices.
And now, unexpectedly