Savage Atonement. PENNY JORDAN
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of firm that still believed in treating its clients in a courteous and leisurely fashion. Most of them were older people; and while Laurel didn’t mind this, Sally made no secret of the fact that she would have preferred to work somewhere with a more modern image.
Having checked that all was in order on the tea-tray, Laurel paused briefly to examine her reflection in the mirror, checking for any hairs straying from her immaculate chignon. There were none. There never were. Once, when she was at secretarial college, some of the other girls had tried to persuade her to wear her hair down. They had even tried to wrest the pins from it. Laurel paled at the memory, her eyes huge in the delicate triangle of her face.
Her bone structure was as fine as a bird’s. She was almost frighteningly slender, her skin very Celtically fair—an inheritance from the father she had never known.
He had been a Scot; a born wanderer, her mother had always said, and he had been killed in Hong-Kong during a riot there. Her mother hadn’t seemed to mind and Laurel suspected the marriage had not been particularly happy, but as she couldn’t remember him she felt no personal sense of loss. For as long as she could remember there had simply been herself, her mother and her grandparents: all living together in the large old house her grandfather had bought for his bride in Hampstead, within sight of the Heath. She had been happy in those days—happy and carefree. There had been a dog, a liver and white spaniel to yap at her heels and chase imaginary rabbits over the Heath. She had gone to a small local girls’ school which she had loved.
But then first her grandmother and then her grandfather had died, and there had only been her mother and herself in the huge old house, and very little money for its upkeep. Which was why her mother had started taking in lodgers.
Her hands shook, rattling the cups on the tray. She must pull herself together. What was the matter with her? There was no going back—she knew that. She had a lot to be grateful for; her small flat in the quiet block inhabited in the main by older couples, her small car which she drove into the country whenever she could spare the time. Something about the timelessness of the country landscape, the rightness of nature’s cycles had a beneficent effect upon her tensed nerves.
She was completely alone now. Her mother had always had a weak heart, and after… after the trial she hadn’t been able to endure the shame of what had happened and had slipped quietly away from life; away from her, Laurel acknowledged with self-condemnation. There had been a time when she thought that she ought to have been the one to die, not her mother, but that would have been too easy, too kind a fate. The gods had a different punishment for her.
She knocked and pushed open the office door. Mr Marshall as the senior partner in the firm had the largest office; one that, with its solid mahogany furniture, panelled walls and hunting scenes conveyed an air of solid respectability; no bad thing for a firm specialising in accountancy.
‘Oh, Laurel, you brought us some tea, Excellent.’
Mr Marshall permitted himself a thin dry smile. Laurel was the best secretary he had ever had—quiet, self-effacing and yet unbelievably efficient. He had been doubtful at first when the head of the typing unit had suggested her as a replacement for Mary Gilmour, but it had taken less than a month for him to appreciate the excellence of her choice, and Laurel had been appointed as his secretary. He glanced at her now. Her woollen suit in a muted honey brown was efficient and neat; a pristine white blouse with a high neckline and a row of pintucks down the bodice effectively-concealed the shape of her body, as did her heavy skirt, but not even the thick tights and sensible shoes she was wearing could detract from the slender length of her legs, and as she poured the tea at her employer’s command, Laurel was bitterly aware that the man seated opposite Mr Marshall, whose profile she couldn’t see without lifting her head, which she firmly refused to do, was quite openly and appreciatively studying them.
‘Leggy’ was how her grandmother had been wont to describe her, and at five foot eight, Laurel did have a length of leg that smaller girls openly envied. Indignation flashed in her eyes as, out of the corner of her eye, she saw their new client bend towards the floor, supposedly to remove some papers form the briefcase he had placed there, but Laurel knew that she was the focus of his attention, and a dark, smouldering anger burned up inside her; her voice was icy with dislike as she asked him whether he preferred milk or lemon in his tea.
He lifted his head and turned towards her, and Laurel felt the blood draining from her face, a low buzzing sound in her ears. It couldn’t be… but it was… every single detail of that face was burned into her mind with acid; there was no way she could forget or mistake it.
From a distance she heard Mr Marshall saying her name testily, and from somewhere she found the strength of will to lift the cup and saucer, proffering it to the man who called himself Jonathan Graves, but whom she knew by the name of Oliver Savage. And he had recognised her. She had seen it momentarily in his eyes before he had concealed his shock. She was bitterly glad that he had been shocked; what had he expected, or had he simply dismissed her from his mind, after he had destroyed her and left her feeling that death would be a merciful release from the only alternative life now offered her.
‘Sit down, Laurel,’ Mr Marshall instructed her when she had passed him his tea. ‘Mr Graves, or Mr Savage, as I believe he prefers to be called, would like to take away with him some brief notes on our discussion. Mr Savage, as you may know, is a writer,’ he explained pedantically. ‘He has been living and working abroad for some time, writing under the pen-name of Jonathan Graves, but he now intends to return to this country and is seeking advice as regards tax matters.’
Jonathan Graves and Oliver Savage, one and the same man; what sort of books did he write? Laurel’s lips curled fastidiously. She could make a fair guess. They would be tainted with the same sort of sensationalism he had brought to his work as a journalist. Men like him shouldn’t be allowed to write, to condition the minds of others with their skilfully manipulative lies. Truth to them was simply something to be twisted and warped until it was a broken unrecognisable thing, just as she.…
Only the superhuman strength of will that had carried her through the last six years enabled her to sit down and make notes of the discussion that ensued between her employer and Oliver Savage. Although she refused to betray it, she was aware of every nuance of his voice, every inflection behind the words. The sickness she had experienced on first seeing him so unexpectedly had faded, leaving in its place an anguished fear. What if he should try to talk to her, to.… But no, she couldn’t bear that. All the time her pencil skimmed busily over the lined paper of her shorthand notebook her thoughts collided and entwined, writhing formlessly like snakes inside her head, confusing and bewildering her. She had deliberately angled her chair so that she wouldn’t have to look at him, and it came as a shock, when she raised her head for a momentary respite, to discover that he had shifted his and that he was searching her face, as though he wanted to lay bare the bones beneath the skin and delve into the secret recesses of her mind. He had always instilled fear in her, but now her fear was greater. It gripped her, stifling her, tensing her body, leaving her face pale and her eyes strained.
It was a relief when Mr Marshall started speaking again and she was free to bend over the notebook, blotting out the image of his face. A sexy face, Sally had called it on more than one occasion, when trying to persuade her to study his dust jackets. She hadn’t been interested enough to even glance at them—an omission she regretted now, because had she done so she would have been prepared for this meeting, would in fact have been able to avoid it. He moved, the long line of his thigh intruding on her vision. Sickness clawed at her stomach, and her fingers slackened over the pencil, so that it slid from them on to the floor.
They both bent to retrieve it together, and because his arm was the longer, expensively encased in dark suiting, a gleaming white shirt cuff circling the sinewy masculine wrist, he reached it first, his arm brushing against the exposed flesh of Laurel’s for the merest fraction of a second—but it was long enough to have her cringing away from him, her eyes dark with terror and loathing, emotions which he registered with hooded grey eyes before handing her her pencil.
He had not changed, Laurel thought sickeningly, or if he had it was simply to become more intensely male, even more dominant and powerful. She had sensed the power in him