Love's Prisoner

‘So you’re here because of the fistful of dollars factor,’ he said, his lip twisting in derision.

‘Personally I couldn’t care less about any extra money which your inclusion may or may not generate,’ she replied. ‘And,’ she added, feeling compelled to make it clear that any influence he might have once had over her had long since disappeared, ‘the book was started before you were kidnapped, so I had absolutely no reason to think that there would ever be any need to write about you.’

Piers’ shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows and he began to re-roll one which was coming loose. ‘Why choose hostages as your subject?’ he enquired.

‘I didn’t, it was chosen for me,’ said Suzy, watching the movements of his tapered fingers as he tightened the blue cotton over the smooth brown muscle of his arm. ‘When I worked at the Pennant I was assigned to cover the return of first one man and then another who’d been taken captive. Randolph Gardener happened to read my articles, liked them, and contacted me to ask whether I’d be interested in a commission to write a book. As I was growing weary of being sent haring off around the country at a moment’s notice, it seemed like a good idea. Even though it meant giving up a decent salary,’ she added, determined to show he could not pin the charge of ‘gold-digger’ on her.

‘So how do you manage?’ Piers asked.

‘By living off my savings and the interest on some money which my grandmother left me, plus I sell the occasional freelance article and do a regular monthly piece for the Pennant.’

‘What kind of a piece?’

‘Something which offers a fresh angle on a topical news event, either at home or abroad. With regard to my book,’ Suzy went on, deciding she had better say a little more about it, just in case Randolph Gardener should ask, ‘I’ve done five profiles, so far. One features a French businessman who—’

‘Was held for a million-dollar ransom in a cave in the Dordogne,’ said Piers.

‘That’s right. You remember him?’

‘I do.’ Pale grey eyes snared hers. ‘However, while I’ve no doubt the guy must have been overjoyed to merit inclusion in your tome,’ he drawled, ‘there’s no way I would ever agree to you writing about me.’

Suzy’s lips thinned. Engineering his refusal was one thing, being given such a blunt and disdainful thumbs-down was another. She could understand him having one or two misgivings, but there was no justification for him to be so unflatteringly, demeaningly, overwhelmingly anti.

‘You don’t think I’d make a decent job of it?’ she demanded. ‘I may have done women’s page stuff when I was with The View, but if you’d read anything I produced at the Pennant you’d know that when I moved on there I moved into serious reportage.’

A brow lifted. ‘You don’t say?’

‘I do,’ Suzy shot back, piqued to think that knowing her must have had so little impact that, once they had split, Piers had never bothered to read anything she had subsequently written. ‘Do you imagine Randolph Gardener would have given me the commission if I’d been going to scribble away at the soap opera level? No chance. He reckons I have an instinctive perception which has nothing to do with age or experience, plus I’m diligent and tenacious. Maybe I have yet to rise to the heady heights of winning awards like you, but I can assure you that my appraisal of the hostage situation is intelligent, sober and well crafted,’ she informed him fiercely.

‘Congratulations,’ said Piers with such a mocking bow of his head that she felt an acute urge to hit him. ‘However, your writing skills are not the issue.’

‘No?’ she said dubiously.

‘No,’ he replied.

Suzy inspected her watch. The minutes were galloping by, but before she left she needed to know why he was so averse to being included in her book. It would be a book of some value, dammit!

‘You’re anxious to be off?’ he enquired.

‘I have to be in Fulham in half an hour,’ she told him.

‘What’s happening there?’

‘I have appointments to view a couple of flats. Look, about—’

‘You’re leaving your place in Putney?’

Suzy gave a brief nod. ‘About—’

‘Why?’ Piers asked, interrupting again.

‘The house has been sold to someone who wants to turn it back into a family home, so I’m under notice to quit.’ She sighed. ‘I’d found somewhere else and thought everything was settled, but at the last moment the rent was increased and I couldn’t afford it.’

‘When’s your deadline for moving out?’

‘Two weeks today. I’ve been dashing around looking at all kinds of places, but I’ve acquired a few goods and chattels—’

‘I remember your home-making streak,’ Piers muttered.

‘—and finding furnished accommodation with sufficient space to take everything and which is in my price range isn’t easy.’

He strolled back over to the window. ‘You aren’t in the market for shacking up with a boyfriend?’ he enquired.

Suzy shook her head. ‘No.’

Piers slid his hands into the hip pockets of his denims and rested his shoulders back against the wall, a position which contrived to thrust forward his pelvis.

‘Gone prissy in your old age?’ he asked.

She recognised the query as the gibe he intended.

‘It isn’t a question of that,’ she replied.

‘You don’t have a boyfriend?’

‘I do,’ Suzy said quickly.

His question had sounded like a challenge, and to admit to the truth—that she was presently unattached—would have seemed like an admission of failure.

‘The man doesn’t have enough room for you and your possessions?’ Piers enquired.

‘Fraid not,’ she said, wishing he would not stand in a way which had made her aware of the zippered crotch of his jeans and the male outline beneath the stretched denim. In a way which was making her feel short of breath and...distracted.

‘What’s your boyfriend called?’ he asked.

‘Um—’ she searched for a name ‘—Jo.’

‘Jo what?’

‘Manning.’

She did have a friend called Jo Manning, but the ‘Jo’ was short for Joanna.

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘Works in an investment bank,’ Suzy said, hastily transferring facts which related to the female accountant to the make-believe boyfriend.

‘If you can’t find suitable accommodation in the next fortnight, what happens then?’ asked Piers.

‘My parents suggested I move back in with them for a while, but Dorset is too far away.’ She grimaced. ‘So—’

‘How are your parents?’ he cut in.

‘They’re very well, thanks. So,’ Suzy continued, ‘I’ll need to put my bits and pieces into store and seek temporary asylum with a girl friend, but storage is costly, and if I stay with—’ she almost said with Jo ‘—with someone, it’ll mean sleeping on a sofa. You’re reluctant to be interviewed because you think it’ll interfere with your plans to visit people, to take a holiday?’ she hazarded, executing an abrupt change of tack. ‘It won’t. I’ll fit in with whatever—’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘My editor’s forbidden me from returning to work for at least another month—’ he frowned ‘—much to my disgust, but I intend to stay at home.’

Her sapphire-blue eyes stretched wide. ‘You’re spending the next four weeks at your apartment in Barnes?’ she protested, astonished that a man who had once thrived on travelling, and who had so recently been confined, should display such an uncharacteristic lack of wanderlust.

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ he enquired.

‘Well, I’d have thought that—’

Suzy stopped short as his reason for staying home suddenly hit. After a year away, Piers would want time, peace and quiet in which to re-establish his relationship with Amanda Dundas, the actress—and doubtless to express his gratitude. She gave a silent cryptic laugh. When he’d disappeared, his father had immediately launched a campaign to keep Piers’ plight in the public eye and try to secure his release. Hugo Armstrong had written to innumerable governments, paid endless calls on politicians, chivvied his theatrical associates into taking part in regular ‘support the hostage’ events which he had organised. Among those roped in had been Amanda. The reed-slim brunette had taken a part in a play-reading which had attracted nationwide publicity, and subsequently issued a press statement saying how devoted she had been to Piers, how much she missed him, and how she hoped everyone would work towards his freedom. The implication was that her own efforts were and would continue to be unstinting.

It had not been so. While Amanda had rushed to give newspaper and TV interviews, when she’d contrived to look both melancholy and yet incredibly fetching, she had avoided any common-or-garden slog. Other people—Suzy included—might have performed office duties, walked miles putting up posters, sold tickets and programmes ad infinitum, but Piers’ girlfriend had done nothing. However, this had not stopped her from turning up at the airport on his return and throwing herself sobbing into his arms; though it had been noticeable that the sobs had not been hard enough to make her mascara run or her eyes go puffy. And at the press conference which followed, she had given a shameless impersonation of having laboured long and hard in Piers’ campaign.

In reality, the person Amanda Dundas had been campaigning for was herself, Suzy thought caustically. Determined to become a top actress, though so far stardom had steadfastly refused to beckon, she had capitalised on Piers’ situation by raking in all possible publicity—with the aim of boosting her career. However, while her motives had been recognised, and condemned, by those in the know, no one was going to reveal such a cruel truth to a returned hostage. This meant Piers would remain unaware, and be highly appreciative of his girlfriend’s phoney and yet much flaunted support.

‘What would you have thought?’ Piers prompted.

‘Er—that if you’re going to be in London for the next month, you must be able to spare the occasional morning or afternoon,’ Suzy quickly adjusted.

‘I could,’ he agreed, and paused. ‘However, I’m not going to.’

‘You’ve spoken to just about everyone else, so why shut the door on me?’ she protested.

‘I spoke to them on the understanding that once I left the clinic, I’d be left alone.’

‘But—’

‘I thought you said that if I was sick and tired of talking, you’d understand? Guess what, I am sick and tired—of this conversation.’ Piers looked at the watch which was strapped to his broad, hair-sprinkled wrist. ‘Isn’t it time you were on your way to Fulham, Sparky?’

Suzy’s hands crunched into irritated fists. Three years ago, Piers had called her ‘Sparky’. Then she had regarded the word as an endearment and had actually, pathetically, liked it, but now it could be recognised as a tag bestowed by a patronising male. How dared he patronise her, she thought furiously, and how dared he refuse to be in her book? A couple of hours ago she might have been fighting against his inclusion, but now she had reconsidered and, perhaps spurred in part by his rebuffs, had executed an about-turn. Randolph had been right, a profile on Piers Armstrong would add an extra dimension and some pizzazz. It would improve the book, and her writer’s blood was up. He must be included. And if she happened to make some money out of him along the way—well, it would be poetic justice!

‘Suppose I show you my manuscript?’ she suggested, certain that, no matter what he had said, his opinion of her writing capabilities must be the real stumbling block. ‘Then you’ll know I’m not in the business of sensationalising or sentimentalising.’ She shone a smile of what was intended to be melting sweetness. ‘How’d it be if I drop a copy in to you tomorrow?’

Piers walked across the room towards her. ‘You’re hellbent on coaxing me to be profiled?’ he said.

Suzy hesitated, aware of a nuance and yet unable to understand. ‘You could say that,’ she agreed guardedly.

He dropped down opposite her on the sofa, his hands languorously parked in his jeans pockets and his long legs stretched out. ‘The way you were hellbent on coaxing me once before?’ he enquired, in a soft, menacing tone. ‘The way you seduced me into doing something which I had strong doubts about, but which you very much desired?’

Memories ricocheted through her mind and a hot wave of colour flooded up her throat. Now she understood exactly what he was talking about. How could she ever have been so shameless, so wanton? she wondered...and so heartbreakingly innocent.

‘Not like that,’ she said, checking her watch again, which meant she did not need to look at him.

‘In order to achieve your objective, you won’t be wearing a knock-’em-dead dress?’ taunted Piers, the menace in his voice hardening into cold contemptuous steel. ‘Or stroking your fingers along my thigh, or—’

Suzy’s head jerked up and she met his gaze. She would not be intimidated or flustered or deterred by this reference to the past.

‘You’ve made an extremely lucrative living out of people talking to you,’ she said, attempting to persuade him and yet sound nonchalant at one and the same time, which was rather like tightrope-walking on a rubber band, ‘so don’t you think it’s only fair that I should be given the chance to—’

A snarl unleashed itself from the back of his throat and he sat up straight. ‘You talk about fairness? You want to use me,’ he stated, ‘the way you used me once before.’

Reaction against his charge kicked against her stomach, yet Suzy refused to respond. There was nothing to be gained from opening old wounds. But Piers Armstrong had not forgotten her. On the contrary, he appeared to possess total recall of what had happened between them three years ago, and it rankled. Infuriated. Had festered. She cast him a look. This seemed strange, for, whatever the depth of her hurt, the only damage he had suffered was a small knock to his ego which, at the time, he had taken in his stride.

‘All the other men in my book have said that talking to me was therapy,’ she persisted.

‘Bully for them—however, I’m not in need of therapy,’ he replied. ‘And if I were, the last person I’d choose as my shrink is you.’

‘But—’

‘Am I talking in code?’ Piers demanded. ‘I’m not giving you your interviews. This time—this time,’ he said, repeating the words with blistering emphasis, ‘you’re going to have to manage without me.’

Suzy gathered up her bag, swept to her feet and, with her head held high, marched to the door. ‘And I will!’ she declared.

CHAPTER TWO

THE machine swallowed her ticket, and Suzy walked through the barrier, up the stairs and out of the Underground station into the summer sunshine. Hooking the strap of her beige leather satchel more securely on to her shoulder, she set off towards Regent’s Park and the grand Nash terrace where Hugo Armstrong had his home.

Last week, in the split-second after the returned hostage had so forcibly told her that she must manage without him, Suzy had realised that she could—and still include him in her book. As there were plenty of unauthorised biographies around, so she could write an unauthorised profile—if she read up on what had already been published about him, and if his family and friends were prepared to talk.

When Randolph Gardener had rung the next morning to ask how she had got on at the clinic, Suzy had floated her plan.

‘It’s not the ideal,’ she admitted, ‘but I see no reason why Piers’ lack of co-operation should be allowed to kill the project stone dead.’

‘Neither do I,’ the editorial director agreed, and had proceeded to voice his full support.

On jettisoning the telephone, Suzy had swung into action. Her time as a reporter had left her with plenty of contacts among the fraternity, so she had embarked on a journey which had taken her from one newspaper office to the next; though, wary of entering Piers’ territory, she had avoided The View. People were consulted and articles photocopied until, two days later, she had assembled a comprehensive file which detailed the circumstances of Piers’ kidnap and release, his responses at the airport press conference, and just about every other of his utterances which had since appeared in print. She had spent the weekend poring over the file and making notes, and on Monday morning had moved on to that second and vital ‘if’—talking to his family and associates.

The first and obvious person for her to approach was Hugo Armstrong, with whom, when interviewing him a year ago, she had established an immediate rapport. Why this should have happened she did not know, Suzy thought as she walked along, for, on the face of it, he was not at all her kind of person. A stereotypical ac-tor of the old school, everything about Hugo was larger than life. His gestures were dramatic, his choice of words flamboyant, he seemed to be forever striding around on his own invisible piece of stage. Yet she had warmed to him—and he to her—and, when his son had disappeared, she had gone round the very next day to offer her sympathy. After thanking her, Hugo had spoken of his wish to mount a campaign, and Suzy had found herself saying she would like to help; so they had met intermittently ever since.

A line cut between her brows. At the time, Hugo had also told her that instead of him being close to his only child, which was what he had previously and publicly asserted, their relationship was strained. With tears glistening in his eyes, he had confessed that they rarely met, and whenever they did Piers was aloof. The trouble lay in the past. Apparently, after only a few years of marriage Hugo had, without warning and giving no reason, abandoned his wife Diana, who, less than two years later, had been tragically killed in a car accident—at which time he had despatched his young son to boarding school. On reaching manhood, Piers had accused his father of showing a selfish disregard both as a husband and a parent; and thereafter kept his distance. It was a distance which the older man longed to narrow and had attempted to narrow, but Piers remained unresponsive. Had the events of the past year brought about a reconciliation? Suzy wondered hopefully. After the traumas both father and son had gone through, it seemed possible.

Reaching the park, Suzy followed a path which circumnavigated the pond. Although yesterday Hugo Armstrong had responded to her request for a next-day interview with an affable affirmative, since then she had been on tenterhooks. Honesty had insisted she alert him to his son’s opposition, so might he reconsider and change his mind? Or, more to the point, if—when—he mentioned her call, would Piers change his mind for him? Even before setting off this morning, she had wondered whether the phone might ring and the interview would be regretfully cancelled, but her fears had proved groundless. She crossed her fingers. So far, so good.

When she had originally met the actor and given him her name she had, she recalled, wondered if he might recognise it. He had not. Though why should he? Suzy thought drily, as she headed across the daisy-dotted grass towards the park’s eastern perimeter. Piers’ history was littered with girlfriends and, two years earlier, he would not have bothered to mention the guileless young blonde who had been just one more. Her ivory silk shirt was tucked tighter into the waistband of her short beige skirt. She had seen no point in telling his father of the long-defunct connection, and later the moment for revelation had passed. Hugo was aware that she and Piers had once worked on the same newspaper, but that was all.

The terrace of pristine white town houses overlooked the green pastures of the park, and Suzy made her way along to one where well-manicured box trees guarded the porch. Mounting the stone steps, she pressed her finger on a gleaming brass bell. A minute or so later, footsteps sounded and the front door swung open to reveal Hugo Armstrong, immaculate in a navy blazer, pearl-grey flannels and with a blue and grey silk cravat knotted around his neck. While their styles of dress were very different, he could be immediately identified as Piers’ father. It was not so much his facial features—only their noses were similar—but his long-limbed ease and size. Both were well-built and carried themselves with the aplomb of tall men.

‘You’re wonderfully punctual,’ Hugo boomed, in the treacle-rich voice which was famed for its ability to reach the rear stalls.

‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,’ Suzy said, as he kissed her on both cheeks and welcomed her inside.

‘It’s always a delight to see you, my dear,’ he replied, the twinkle in his eyes making it plain that he retained an ongoing appreciation of the fairer sex, despite being in his sixties and despite having a mistress.

In his love-’em-and-leave-’em attitude Piers was following in his father’s footsteps, for ever since his wife’s death Hugo had gone from one amorous alliance to another. Each was recorded in the gossip columns with salacious glee. Each had eventually come a cropper. However, for over three years now, which constituted a record, he had been sharing his home with Barbara Dane, a fifty-something choreographer.

‘It’s fortunate you didn’t ask for a chat a week ago,’ Hugo continued. ‘I’m rehearsing a new play, and at the time we were having the most tremendous problems with the second lead. To say the chap’s acting was wooden would be an insult to trees, and— ‘

Humorously describing the angst which he and everyone else in the cast had suffered before the culprit had finally got to grips with his part, he ushered her along a chandeliered hall and through an archway into an opulently decorated green and gold drawing-room.

‘Babs is out, she’s due back soon, and on her return she’ll make us a flagon of coffee,’ said Hugo, tugging at the razor-sharp creases of his trousers as he sat down opposite Suzy in a gold brocade armchair. ‘She’s gone to pore over menus with the caterers. You see, although Piers doesn’t know it, we’re planning a mammoth welcome-home shindig.’

Suzy smiled. A party seemed to indicate that the rift with his son had finally been healed—thank goodness! She was tempted to tell Hugo how happy she felt for him, but hesitated. While at the time of Piers’ disappearance he had spoken about the discord frankly and at length, he had never mentioned it again. Indeed, his staunch avoidance of the subject had made her realise that his confessions must have spilled out in a weak moment and were regretted. Confessing to flaws was not his style.

‘Sounds like fun,’ she remarked.

‘It’ll be a truly memorable occasion,’ Hugo enthused, and leant forward. ‘You won’t say anything about it to anyone?’

‘Not a word,’ Suzy assured him.

‘Thank you, my dear, and in return I promise not to tell my son and heir about this little tête-à-téte.’

As she took her notebook and tape recorder from her bag, Suzy grinned. ‘Thank you.’

Although it seemed inevitable that the subject of her profile would find out what she was doing sooner or later—someone was bound to give the game away—if his father kept quiet then she might be able to log several more interviews without his knowledge. And the more she managed to log while Piers remained unaware, the better.

‘Shoot,’ the actor instructed, settling comfortably back in his armchair, as he must have settled back to give a thousand and one other interviews over the years.

‘How did you feel when you first heard that Piers had been snatched?’ asked Suzy, as her machine began to whirr.

When she had called round it had been obvious how Hugo had felt—shaky, beside himself with anxiety, completely thrown—but, of course, he had to describe his reaction in his own words.

‘Shocked—what father wouldn’t be?—but not too perturbed. Piers is entirely capable of taking care of himself. Wry in calamity, nonchalant in triumph, and always in control,’ Hugo enunciated, sounding as though he might be quoting lines from a play in which he had appeared.

Suzy blinked. Although the description of his son struck her as apt, this was not the kind of answer she had expected.