The Price of Retribution

How odd, she thought, that I should care.

Yet, in other circumstances, she knew she might have enjoyed her time on All Your Own. Working on her own as she did now, she’d almost forgotten the buzz of office life. Her colleagues were friendly and professional, and she liked the editor, Lisa Hastings, another recent appointment.

In fact she’d been the first to hear Lisa’s cry of anguish as she scanned the pages of script that had just been handed to her.

‘Oh, God—someone please tell me this is a joke.’

‘What’s happened?’ Tarn had asked Kate who was in charge of the magazine’s layout.

Kate cast her eyes to heaven. ‘You’ve heard of Annetta Carmichael, the soap star? Apparently, when they killed her off as the Christmas Day ratings booster, she decided to take up a new career as a writer, and she’s been offered megabucks for her first novel, a searing exposé of the secret world of television. A woman’s fight to maintain her integrity against a sordid background of tragedy and betrayal.’

She grinned. ‘You can practically hear the axe being ground. However, Brigid, Lisa’s predecessor, thought it would be a great idea to commission a short story from her for an equally generous payment. I think the finished product has finally arrived, well after its deadline, and well short of the required standard.’

‘I’d like to throw it back at her and tell her to start again,’ Lisa was saying savagely. ‘But she’s pushed off to some Caribbean hideaway with someone else’s husband, and is, according to her agent, incommunicado.’

She slammed the pages down on her desk. ‘And we need this. It’s already been announced—”Annetta—Fiction’s Latest Find.”’ She snorted. ‘Fiction’s greatest disaster if this is anything to go by.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Tarn asked.

‘You mean apart from a poor beginning, a boring middle, and a hopeless ending?’ Lisa gave a groan. ‘It needs an instant re-write, but it’s my little boy’s birthday today and I swore to my husband that I would be back in plenty of time for the celebrations. I should have known something would crop up and ruin things.’

Tarn hesitated. ‘Would you like me to take a look at it?’ she asked diffidently. ‘I have done stuff like this in the past, and it would give you a chance to get off as planned.’

Lisa stared at her in open surprise. ‘Are you serious? Because anything you could do—even if it was just sorting out her spelling and grammar—would be a tremendous help.’

Back at her desk, Tarn gave a silent whistle as she looked through the pages. Everything Lisa had said was perfectly justified, she thought grimly. It was a genuine horror.

But she remembered all the endless reams of frightful autobiography, and the rambling taped reminiscences that she’d transformed into readable—and saleable—prose in the recent past.

This at least had the benefit of being short. And, buried inside, were the actual bones of a story.

I’ve never ghosted fiction before, she thought. This will be a challenge. But I’ll have the new draft done when Lisa arrives tomorrow.

The offices were beginning to empty as she began. By the time she’d completed the story to her own satisfaction, boosted by regular visits to the coffee machine, the building was dark and still, with only the occasional security patrols to disturb her concentration.

She printed off the new version, clipped the sheets together and took them to Lisa’s work station.

She returned slowly to her seat, tucking her white blouse neatly back into her grey skirt as she went, then sat down to finish her final cup of coffee.

She was tired and hungry too, having eaten nothing since her mid-day sandwich. But she felt a curious sense of satisfaction all the same.

Just as if I was a bona fide employee, she thought wryly.

But then, she reflected, she’d had little opportunity to be anything else. Since she’d manufactured that meeting in the executive lift two weeks earlier, she hadn’t managed to set eyes on Caz Brandon, even in passing.

She’d been aware, without conceit, that he’d again found her attractive, but there’d been no follow-up on his part, and office gossip said that he and TV presenter Ginny Fraser were a serious item.

Besides, she’d also been told, he never played around at the office. Which just showed, she’d thought angrily, how little they knew. But which also demonstrated that he must have wanted Evie very badly. And if he’d betrayed his own dubious principles once, he could surely be induced to do so again.

However, it was all a bit like the old recipe for Jugged Hare, which began ‘First catch your hare…’

It was also time to visit Evie again, but she would have preferred to wait until she had something positive to report. And heaven only knows how long that will take, she told herself with a sigh.

She slipped on the black jacket hanging on the back of her chair, picked up her bag, and went to the double glass doors, using her security code to activate them.

As she walked down the corridor to the lifts, a man’s familiar voice said, ‘Doing overtime, Miss Desmond?’

Tarn whirled with a gasp, her bag crashing to the floor, as startled as if a ghost had suddenly materialised in front of her.

Only moments before, she’d been asking herself quite seriously if she was wasting her time, and should jettison all thoughts of revenge and simply resume her own life. Now here was Caz Brandon appearing out of nowhere in this otherwise deserted building, as if her thoughts had conjured him up out of thin air.

She said huskily, ‘You frightened me.’

‘I got a hell of a shock too when I came back to pick up my briefcase and saw there were lights on this floor,’ he returned tersely. ‘What are you doing here at this time of night?’

‘As you said—overtime.’ Tarn dropped to one knee and began to retrieve the objects that had fallen out of her bag. ‘But don’t worry. It’s the voluntary, unpaid kind. I had a project I was keen to finish.’

‘Keen isn’t the word,’ he said drily. He picked up a lipstick that had rolled to his feet and handed it back to her. ‘Aren’t there enough hours in the working day for you? And haven’t you got better things to do with your evenings than hang around here?’

‘Most of the time, yes,’ Tarn told him coolly as she rose and fastened her bag. ‘This was a one-off.’

She was playing it all wrong, she knew, but his unexpected arrival had flustered her badly.

Also she felt scruffy in the clothes she’d been wearing all day, and wished she’d put on some more lipstick or at least freshened her scent.

He, on the other hand, looked unruffled and elegant in a dark suit and crimson silk tie.

This is my golden opportunity, she thought. Another one may never come my way and I’ll have simply wasted the last weeks of my life. I’ve rehearsed this scenario so many times, yet suddenly, ridiculously, I can’t think what to say. What to do.

He said abruptly, ‘You look tired. When did you last eat?’

‘I had lunch.’ That should have been a come-on, but all she sounded was defensive.

‘Then I’ll take you out for some food, and a drink. There’s a little Italian place I use that stays open till all hours.’

‘No—please. I’m fine.’ Dear God, this was a Rubicon moment but her brain didn’t seem to be working properly. She rallied. ‘I really can’t put you to so much trouble.’

He shrugged. ‘You’re not.’ His tone was laconic. ‘If you like, consider it a reward for loyalty above and beyond the call of duty.’ He paused. ‘So, shall we go?’

And she heard herself say, in a voice she hardly recognised, ‘In that case—yes—please.’

CHAPTER THREE

THIS was what she had wanted, had tried so unavailingly to plan for, Tarn realised with a kind of wonderment as she walked beside him down the lamplit street. Yet now it had so unexpectedly fallen into her lap, every instinct she possessed was telling her to run away. Fast.

As they approached the kerb, she stumbled slightly and his hand shot out and took her arm.

‘Be careful,’ he cautioned as he steadied her, the warmth and firmness of his clasp seeming to penetrate the fabric of her jacket.

She muttered a word of thanks, longing to wrench herself free but not daring to, furious at her own clumsiness and bitterly aware of the harsh inner tensions which had caused it. Conscious too that, in spite of her dislike of him, her skin was tingling at his touch.

Oh, I’ll be careful, she thought, the breath catching in her throat. My God, I will!

They crossed a road, then another, before walking the fifty odd yards down a side street to the Trattoria Giuliana.

It was busy, the hum of laughter and conversation quietly relaxed and delectable smells of herbs and garlic pervading the atmosphere. Caz was warmly greeted by the smiling proprietor and they were immediately shown to a corner table, where two glasses of prosecco were placed in front of them.

To her shame, Tarn realised her mouth was watering.

Caz raised his glass. ‘Salute.’

She returned the toast haltingly, glad when menus soon followed and she could focus on something other than the man watching her with frank intensity across the table.

Get a grip, she castigated herself, as she scanned the listed dishes. If he finds you attractive, make the most of it. If he was anyone else, you’d be relishing the situation and wondering how soon you could begin to flirt a little.

And all this talk of him avoiding office entanglements is just garbage. Evie wasn’t a one-off. He’s making that perfectly clear right now.

But if he’s to suffer as much as he deserves, then you need him to be more than simply attracted to you. He has to want you so badly that it’s like a sickness with him. A sickness for which you will never provide the cure.

And you’re used to keeping men at arms’ length. You’ve been doing it since adolescence. You can manage it again for as long as it’s necessary.

Besides, he’s the boss and you’re just a lowly handmaid toiling on one of the Brandon Organisation’s many publications, so you have every excuse for maintaining a respectful distance. But, it’s also time to move from awkward to friendly.

She sighed lightly and looked at him her eyes smiling under her sweep of lashes. ‘I seem to be spoiled for choice. As you eat here regularly, what can you recommend?’

He returned her smile. ‘If you don’t object to veal, the Saltimbocca Romagna is usually excellent.’

‘I have no real hang-ups about food,’ she said. ‘I’ll have it, with the gnocchi to start.’

‘And I’ll have the same, but begin with the wild mushroom risotto.’

He gave the order, and they agreed on a bottle of Friulano to go with it.

‘So,’ he said when the waiter had departed, leaving bowls of olive oil and chunks of bread to dip into them on the table.

‘You seem to be enjoying your work on All Your Own. How do you rate it as a magazine?’

Tarn thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I’d say it hits most of its targets.’

‘It certainly used to,’ he said drily. ‘However, the previous editor was keen on attracting a much younger readership.’ He drank some prosecco. ‘The numbers took a dive as a result.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘So that’s why I’ve been re-writing Annetta’s story. It was intended for the youth market.’

‘Re-writing?’ His brows lifted. ‘Is that within an assistant’s remit?’

‘Anything would have been an improvement on the original submission,’ Tarn said, mentally kicking herself. ‘But Lisa will naturally do the final draft.’

‘I wasn’t being critical. I’m seriously impressed.’ He pushed a bowl of herb-flavoured oil closer to her. ‘Try this with some bread. You look ready to fade away with hunger.’

His caring side, thought Tarn, fighting down cold fury as she tasted and made appreciative noises. And it was certainly a lovely restaurant, its tables far enough apart for privacy and set with snowy cloths, gleaming silver and crystal. But its air of quiet luxury was enhanced by a good atmosphere, and later arrivals than themselves were being accorded the same friendly welcome.

I wonder if this was where he brought Evie—that first time, she thought. If he also suggested to her what she might order. Asked if she was enjoying her work.

And Evie would have lapped it up. Unused to places like this, she would have gazed around her, getting more excited by the minute. Unable to believe how lucky she was to be in this glamorous restaurant with this equally glamorous man.

Everything about him spoke money—the exquisite tailoring, the expensive shirt, the plain platinum wristwatch. And all this, allied to the aura of power he carried so effortlessly, added up to a lethal combination.

She was like a lamb to the slaughter, Tarn thought bitterly. And he’s probably used the same first date script with me as he did with her—learned by heart and used to decide whether the girl rates a follow-up rendezvous.

And I have to make it imperative for him to see me again—and not just by accident next time, but because he can’t keep away.

He said reflectively, ‘Tarn. That’s a very lovely name—and unusual too.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A little too much so, I used to think. There can’t be many girls called after a mountain lake, so naturally, when I went to school, I got re-christened “Drippy”.’

His brows lifted. ‘Anyone less so I’ve yet to meet. What did you do?’

‘Nothing.’ Tarn shrugged. ‘Just pretended I hadn’t heard and didn’t care. But the name stuck and followed me from year to year. I hoped they’d get tired of the joke but they didn’t.’

He pulled a face. ‘Kids can be monsters. Have you ever told your parents what they put you through and extracted a grovelling apology?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I never did.’ And paused. ‘Anyway, where did Caz come from?’

He sighed. ‘You’re not the only sufferer. I was born on January the Sixth and my mother insisted I should be called after one of the three Kings, and fortunately she picked Caspar over Melchior and Balthazar or I should have been in even more trouble.’

He smiled at her. ‘So that’s the first thing we have in common.’

‘And probably the one and only.’ She managed to infuse her tone with a note of faint regret.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ She shrugged again. ‘You own the company. I work for it.’

‘And you find that an insuperable obstacle in the way of our better acquaintance?’

‘I think it has to be.’ She gave him a reflective look. ‘And if you’re honest, so do you.’

Except honesty isn’t really your thing, is it, Mr Mighty Publishing Tycoon?

He spoke slowly, his lean, brown fingers toying with the stem of his glass in a way that dried her throat in some inexplicable manner. ‘If you’re asking whether or not I usually date my employees, the answer is an emphatic “No.”’ He added, ‘Besides, this isn’t really a date.’

She flushed. ‘No—no, I understand that.’

‘But it will be next time.’ It was said casually, almost thrown away, and, with that, the wine arrived, followed almost immediately by their first course choices, and Tarn, biting back an instinctive gasp of surprise, was left floundering, even wondering if she’d heard him correctly.

Because it was all happening too fast. And this was not part of the plan at all. He was not supposed to be in control. She was.

She tried to concentrate her whole attention on the gnocchi in its wonderful creamy sauce, but, in spite of herself, found that she was stealing covert glances at him under her lashes. No matter what her secret feelings might be, she could not deny his attraction. Or this slow, almost inexorable build in her physical awareness of him. His mouth—the way his smile lit his eyes, just as Evie had said—his hands…

All of them things she had not allowed for. And what she least wanted to deal with.

But, for now, there was chat. In any other circumstances, an easy, relaxed exchange of views on books, music and the theatre. Perfectly normal and acceptable. But, here and now, feeling more like a journey through a minefield.

Don’t be paranoid, she whispered silently. Where’s the harm in his knowing you like Margaret Atwood and John Le Carré? What does it matter if you prefer Bach to Handel and Mozart to both of them? Is it a state secret that your favourite Shakespeare play is Much Ado about Nothing?

For heaven’s sake, relax. You needed to engage his interest. You’ve succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. So capitalise on it.

The saltimbocca was served, delicate veal escalopes wrapped round prosciutto and sage leaves, accompanied by green beans and lightly sautéed potatoes. The white wine, fragrant as a flower, was poured.

Caz raised his glass. ‘I should propose a toast,’ he said. ‘“To us” seems slightly presumptuous at this stage, so let’s drink to the health of your patient instead, and hope for a complete recovery.’

Her hand jerked, and a few droplets of wine splashed on to her shirt as she stared at him.

She said huskily, ‘What do you mean?’

His brows lifted in faint surprise. ‘I was told you were back in London because of a family illness. Did Rob Wellington get it wrong?’

‘No, he’s perfectly correct,’ she said. She drew a deep breath. Forced a smile. ‘I—I suppose I didn’t expect him to pass it on.’

‘He feels you’ll become a potentially valuable member of the workforce, and is worried we’ll lose you.’ He paused. ‘I imagine you’ll be planning to return to the States at some point—when there’s no longer any cause for concern.’

‘Why, yes,’ she said. ‘But it probably won’t be any time soon. Progress is steady but slow, I’m afraid.’

‘Is it a close relative who’s sick?’

‘My cousin.’ She met his gaze calmly. ‘She hasn’t anyone else.’ After all, Aunt Hazel was out of the equation for the foreseeable future, so it was almost the truth and easier to remember than an outright lie.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It must be very worrying for you.’

‘Well, yes, it was at first,’ Tarn said. And how dare you say you’re sorry when you don’t mean it—utter some meaningless, clichéd regret when it’s all your fault that it ever happened.

She swallowed back the words—the accusations that she wanted to scream at him. Introduced a bright note into her voice. ‘But I hope she’s over the worst of it now.’

That was good, she thought. That suggested an eventual happy outcome on the horizon. And not a hint of breakdown, or isolation, or the kind of secrets that would lead to destruction.

At the same time, she didn’t want to answer any more questions in case the answers became too revealing, so she decided to drag the conversation back to less personal topics.

She looked down at her plate. ‘You were right about the veal,’ she added lightly. ‘It’s delicious—absolutely marvellous.’

‘So you’d risk having dinner with me again?’

Oh, God, out of the frying pan straight into the fire…

She drank some of her wine, letting it blossom in her mouth, while she considered what to say.

‘I don’t think that would be altogether appropriate.’ She permitted herself a rueful shrug.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘For the reasons already stated?’

‘Of course.’

‘And not because you find me physically repugnant?’

She leaned back in her chair. ‘Now you’re laughing at me.’

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Simply trying to establish quite an important point. Well?’

She hesitated. Sent him a defensive look. ‘You don’t make things easy, do you?’

‘Perhaps not,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe because I prefer to aim for—ultimately and mutually rewarding.’

The words seemed to shiver along her nerve-endings as if her senses were suddenly awakening to undreamed-of possibilities. Her skin was warming as though it had been brought alive by the stroke of a hand. Her nipples were hardening, aching, inside the lace confines of her bra. And while the immediacy of her response might be shocking, it was, to a certain extent, understandable.

Because instinct told her that Caz Brandon was not simply suggesting the likelihood of sensual delight, but offering it to her as a certainty.

An overwhelming prospect for someone of her ludicrously limited experience, she thought, and stopped right there, suppressing a gasp.

Oh, dear God, what was she doing to herself? Was she going completely crazy? Because she knew perfectly well that whatever he might be promising was never going to be fulfilled.

Evie, Evie, she whispered under her breath. If this is how he came on to you, no wonder you simply fell into his hands. He could make anyone believe anything.

Yet she was in no real danger, she reminded herself emphatically. Not when she could visualise her foster sister lying in that bed, in that clinical room, her slender body reduced to painful thinness, and her once-pretty face a haggard mask of unhappiness. That was the image that would armour her against succumbing to the wiles of the man confronting her across the candle-lit table.

He said, ‘I was always told that silence means consent. But with you I need assurance. Does it?’

She pulled herself together, and met his gaze directly. She said in a low voice, ‘How can I possibly answer you? We hardly know each other.’

‘How strange that you should think so,’ he said. ‘Because I felt a kind of instant recognition, and thought you were conscious of it too. As if it was inevitable I would look up some evening and find you standing on the other side of the room.’

He was actually shaking his head. ‘It’s never happened to me before. If I’m to be candid, I didn’t particularly expect it or want it.’ His smile was brief almost harsh. ‘You’re an extra complication, Tarn Desmond, in an already crowded existence.’

‘So I believe.’ The swift, taut reply was framed before she could stop herself. Fool, she castigated herself silently. Imbecile. Although his private life was hardly a state secret. That there were pictures of him with various glamorous companions all over the Internet. With one exception…

His slow answering grin mingled amusement with pleasure.

‘So you’ve been checking up on me,’ he said. ‘That’s encouraging.’

‘Professional interest,’ she told him coolly. ‘I like to know the calibre of the people I work for.’

His former words were still ringing in her head. Presumably this was his tried and tested line, she thought, the sheer arrogance of the man catching her by the throat.

It should have made her furious—hardened her resolve, but instead she felt momentarily flurried—almost bewildered.

‘And yet you took Philip Hanson at face value,’ he said. ‘Why was that?’

‘A momentary glitch,’ she said after a swift, startled silence. She’d almost forgotten that particular fiction. ‘He was very convincing.’

‘He must have been.’ His mouth twisted. ‘You’d certainly pulled out the stops when you were dressing that evening, and all for someone you hardly knew. Was that wise?’

‘I didn’t dress for him,’ Tarn defended. ‘I wanted to make an impression at the party.’

‘Then you certainly succeeded,’ Caz told her. He frowned. ‘Yet I still wonder why he steered you towards us. I’m not complaining you understand, just—slightly puzzled.’ He paused. ‘You haven’t tried to track him down since?’

She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start. I suppose I really do have to treat it as a stupid, unkind joke.’

‘If so, it was one that signally misfired,’ Caz returned drily. ‘We should both be grateful to him.’

‘Both of us?’ Her brows lifted. ‘I rather think all the gratitude’s on my side. Because I must also thank the girl who’s having a baby, and created a vacancy for me, however temporary.’

‘This is beginning to sound like an Oscars ceremony,’ he said. ‘In a minute, you’ll be blessing your parents for having you.’