His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All

Then, as she felt further towards the back of the drawer, she encountered something else—a small square jeweller’s box covered in black velvet.

She opened it and gasped aloud at the blaze of the stones that glittered like ice-blue fire in Evie’s engagement ring.

My God, she muttered under her breath. No wonder she believed every rotten lie he told her. Each of them must have cost an entire carat. But why on earth did he bother? Unless it had always been intended as a kiss-off payment, she thought, wincing.

She closed the box with a snap, and dropped that into her shoulder bag too.

The shower room was easily cleared, all the half-used toiletries swept into the bin bag along with the remains of the packs of painkillers, indigestion tablets and Evie’s contraceptive pills, which were all that the small medicine cabinet over the washbasin contained.

No sign of the sleeping tablets Evie had used for her overdose.

She fastened the tie handles on the plastic sack and carried it back into the bedroom, where she stopped, gasping.

A man was standing in the doorway, thin and barely above medium height with very pale blond hair and light blue eyes, dressed in a grey suit with a faint silky sheen that whispered expensive.

He said softly, ‘Exactly who are you? And what are you doing here?’

This, thought Tarn, recovering her breath, must be the troublesome landlord.

She said crisply, ‘Quite obviously I’m removing Miss Griffiths’ possessions as requested. But perhaps it’s a trick question.’ She paused. ‘And I have your money.’

The fair brows lifted. ‘Do you indeed? Well, that is good news.’ He glanced around. ‘Do I take it that Evie will not be returning?’

Tarn stared at him. ‘But you know that already. You told her mother you wanted to re-let the place.’

‘Ah.’ The thin mouth stretched into a smile. ‘I think there’s a slight misunderstanding here. My name is Roy Clayton and I actually live upstairs, another of Bernie the Bloodsucker’s hapless tenants. I heard someone moving around down here, came to investigate and found the door unlocked.’

‘But you didn’t ring the bell,’ said Tarn.

‘Er—no. Evie and I weren’t on such formal terms.’ He paused. ‘And you are?’

‘Her sister.’

‘What a charming surprise. I didn’t know she had one.’ His smile widened a little. ‘Such a dreadful thing to have happened. You must all be devastated. I was the one who found her, you know, and called the ambulance.’

‘No,’ Tarn said. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘So is she fully on the road to recovery? And can she have visitors, wherever she happens to be?’

‘She’s making satisfactory progress,’ Tarn returned. ‘But she’s not up to seeing people yet.’

‘What a pity.’ He glanced round the room again, his gaze lingering on the suitcase and the empty bedside cabinet, while Tarn took a quick look at her shoulder bag beside the chest of drawers, checking that it hadn’t been disturbed because Evie’s ring was in there.

He added, ‘Bernie should have told me that she wasn’t coming back. I could have saved you a journey and a job, and cleared the place for you.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ Tarn said untruthfully. ‘But it’s probably a task better suited to her family.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ The curiously pale eyes rested on her. ‘You mentioned something about money?’

She looked back at him, bewilderment mixing with her unease. ‘Yes—but I thought you were the landlord wanting his rent.’

‘Oh, dear, another disappointment,’ he said lightly.

‘You mean Evie owed you too?’ She drew a dismayed breath, bracing herself. ‘If you’ll tell me what it was for and how much, perhaps something could be arranged.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly put you to so much trouble,’ he said. ‘And it’s really quite a trivial matter. Besides, I’m sure Evie and I will be running into each other again. One of these days. When she’s better.’

He paused again. ‘Now I’ll leave you to your toil. Do tell Evie next time you see her that I was asking about her. You won’t forget, will you?’ Another swift smile, and he was gone.

Tarn stayed where she was, uncomfortably aware that her breathing had quickened, and the plastic sack in her hand seemed suddenly to be weighing a ton.

Oh, pull yourself together, she told herself sharply. He’s just a concerned guy from upstairs. You’re letting this whole Caz Brandon thing knock you sideways, make you imagine every man you come across is a potential threat.

On the other hand, as she went downstairs, she found the genuine article waiting for her, bald and tattooed in a football shirt and denim cut-offs.

‘Bernie Smith.’ He gave her a hard look. ‘You’re not the woman I talked to.’

‘No, that was Miss Griffiths’ mother.’

He grunted. ‘Got the rent?’

Tarn handed over the envelope and watched him count it.

‘Seems to be all there,’ he said. ‘Lucky I don’t charge for having the place cleaned. And the inconvenience—paramedics and police swarming all over. Gives a place a bad name.’

‘Difficult to see how,’ Tarn said, giving the hallway a disparaging look before dropping the keys into his hand.

‘No need to be so high and mighty,’ he called after her, as she left. ‘And I’ll be checking that inventory, no danger.’

But I shall not, Tarn thought, as she hailed a cab, be mentioning any of this to Aunt Hazel.

‘Are you sure you won’t come to Molly’s birthday bash tonight?’ asked Della. ‘She said you’d be more than welcome.’

Tarn shook her head. ‘I’m going to have a long bath, wash my hair, and go through the stuff in the envelope yet again, in case I’m still missing something.’

‘Like a proposal of marriage from Caz Brandon in writing?’ Della wrinkled her nose. ‘You can’t sue for breach of promise any longer.’

Tarn sighed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of that. I’m just trying to make sense of it all. To correlate the weird flat with that amazing ring, the chainstore clothing with the millionaire lifestyle.’

‘A noble ambition,’ said Della. ‘And I’m sure Evie would do just as much for you.’

Tarn bit her lip. ‘But you must admit it’s strange.’

‘Strange is not the word. And at the risk of turning into Cassandra whose warnings were also ignored, I say again that you should drop the entire mess, and get back to your own life.’ She gave Tarn a minatory glance. ‘A decision that Mr Brandon may also have made.’

‘Apparently he was bankrolling her,’ Tarn said unhappily. ‘There were some nasty letters from the bank and a credit card company in the envelope, but a week later she’s writing in her diary that she no longer has any money worries, “thanks to C.”’

‘Exactly,’ said Della. ‘He must have realised she was a total flake, especially where money was concerned, and that he’d be lucky if she didn’t bankrupt him.’

‘But he was going to marry her,’ Tarn argued. ‘Why didn’t he sit down and talk to her if there was a problem? Try to work things out?’

Della shrugged. ‘Maybe he did, and found it was stony ground.’

‘There’s also a load of stuff about the MacNaughton Company,’ Tarn said, producing a sheaf of papers. ‘Whoever they are.’

‘Now there I can help,’ said Della. ‘They’re a cleaning firm, incredibly high-powered, lethally expensive, and very discreet, exclusively employed by the mega-rich and famous. They appear like good elves, perform their wonders and vanish.’ She frowned. ‘But from what you’ve said, Evie’s flat wouldn’t be their usual stamping ground, even if she could afford them.’

‘I gather from her diary that Caz Brandon fixed her up with them too,’ Tarn said wearily. ‘Though there wasn’t much sign that professional cleaners had ever been there.’

Della was silent for a moment. ‘The guy upstairs—was he attractive?’

‘He gave me the creeps.’

‘But you, honey, are not Evie. Could she have been two-timing her fiancé with the neighbourhood watch, do you suppose?’

‘Never in this world,’ Tarn said with emphasis. ‘No-one who was seeing Caz Brandon would give Roy Clayton a second glance.’

‘Is that a fact?’ Della said affably. ‘How very interesting that you should think so.’

She picked up her bag and walked to the door. ‘If you get tired of your mysteries, Sherlock, we’ll all be at the Sunset Bar,’ she threw over her shoulder as she left.

An hour later, Tarn was wishing she’d taken up the offer. Wrapped in a towelling robe, her hair curling damply on her shoulders, she was ensconced in a corner of the sofa, re-reading Evie’s diary and getting more depressed by the minute.

The contrast between the almost hysterical happiness at the beginning of her relationship with Caz and the agonised descent into despair when it ended was almost too painful to contemplate.

‘What can I do? I can’t go on?’ were words repeated over and over again. But Tarn had an odd sense from the later entries that Evie was not just wretched, but frightened too, because ‘What will happen to me? Where will I go?’ also cropped up with alarming frequency.

What did he do to her? she thought.

She reached for the beaker of coffee she’d made earlier, realising with a grimace that it was now cold. She closed the diary, put it on the floor with the envelope, and rose to go to the kitchen.

She was waiting for the kettle to boil when the door bell sounded.

Della must have forgotten her key again, she thought, although it seemed rather early for the birthday celebrations to have ended.

A teasing remark already forming in her mind, she walked to the front door and threw it open.

And stood, as if turned to stone, as she stared at her caller.

‘Good evening,’ said Caz Brandon, and he smiled at her.

CHAPTER FIVE

SILENCE stretched between them, threatening to become endless as shock held her motionless. Speechless. Yet she had to do something…

‘You.’ Her mouth was dry. She hardly recognised her own voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

His shrug was rueful. ‘I’d hoped to take you to dinner, but my flight was delayed, so my guess is you’ve already eaten.’

He paused, the cool hazel gaze sweeping over her. His expression did not change, but Tarn’s instincts told her that he knew perfectly well that she was naked under the towelling robe. She had to resist an impulse to tighten her sash, and draw the lapels more closely to her throat.

He added, ‘I seem to have called at an inopportune moment, so maybe a drink is out of the question too?’

She made no immediate response and his brows rose with faint mockery. ‘Another loaded silence,’ he remarked. ‘I suppose I shall have to become accustomed to that.’

She went on staring at him. ‘How did you find me?’

‘Quite easily. Your contact details including your address are all logged at the office—as you must know.’

Of course she did, but she was playing for time, trying to pull her scattered wits together.

She said slowly, ‘I’m not exactly geared up for going out. And we don’t keep much in the way of alcohol.’

‘I’d settle for coffee,’ he suggested. ‘I might even drink it here at the door, if you insist.’ He went on softly, ‘Although I promise I don’t pounce, or, at least, not without a serious invitation.’

Her smile was brief and unwilling. ‘I think it would probably be better if you came in.’

He followed her into the flat. ‘You looked as if you’d seen a ghost,’ he commented. ‘Surely you were expecting me to make contact?’

‘Not really.’ She hunched a shoulder. ‘Men often say things that they don’t mean, or that appear less enticing the next day.’

‘Then you must have been unlucky in your men friends.’

As she walked ahead of him into the sitting room, the first thing she saw was Evie’s diary lying on the carpet by the sofa.

Oh, God, she thought. Having been involved so closely with her, he’ll recognise that as soon as he sees it.

She said with a kind of insane brightness, ‘It’s so untidy in here. I must apologise.’

She moved quickly, gathering it up under the cover of the envelope that lay beside it, and pushing them both on to a shelf in the bookcase.

Caz was glancing round. ‘This is a pleasant room.’

Better than the place you found for Evie…

Aloud she said, ‘Thank you. Won’t you sit down?’

‘I have been sitting,’ he said. ‘On a plane, and then in the car that picked me up at the airport. May I help with the coffee instead?’

She hesitated, then led the way to the kitchen. It was a comfortable size, but tonight it felt cramped, as if by the simple action of turning from the sink to the worktop and from the worktop to a cupboard, she would brush against him.

She was almost surprised to discover she’d managed to assemble the coffee beans, the grinder and the percolator without any physical contact with him whatsoever.

Yet it was the mental awareness of him that she found so disturbing. The consciousness that he was leaning against the doorframe silently observing her flustered preparations.

She said, holding up a bottle, ‘I’ve also found some brandy, but I think it’s what Della uses for cooking, so I can’t vouch for it.’

He grinned. ‘No point being snobs in an emergency. Where do you keep your glasses?’

‘Top cupboard on your right.’

As she spooned the freshly ground coffee into the percolator and added boiling water, the aroma filled the air, replacing the faint, expensive hint of musk that she’d detected from the cologne he wore.

When she’d decided to let him in, it was with the fixed intention of provoking him into making a pass, and then reporting him to the police for sexual harassment.

But wiser counsels had soon prevailed. The fact that she’d admitted him when she was alone and only wearing a bathrobe would do her case no good at all, she admitted silently. Besides, he’d said he wouldn’t pounce, so she would have to make all the running—another serious black mark against her.

And the fact that this was Della’s flat, and her friend totally disapproved of what she was doing stopped her in her tracks, at least for tonight, and warned her to think of something else.

‘I’m hoping this might relax you,’ Caz remarked, handing her a rounded crystal glass. ‘You look like a kitten caught in headlights—as if you don’t know which way to run. Am I really so scary?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, of course not. It was just—such a surprise. Besides, I’m not really dressed for entertaining.’

If she’d expected some leering riposte, she was disappointed.

Caz frowned slightly. ‘I should have telephoned ahead. Warned you I was calling round, or maybe made a date for a more convenient time.’

‘Then why didn’t you?’

‘Considering the amount of twitch in the air, maybe I should reserve my reasons for another time too.’

‘I have a better idea,’ Tarn said. ‘Why don’t we just—start again.’ She held out her hand. ‘Good evening, Mr Brandon. What an unexpected pleasure.’

‘Change Mr Brandon to Caz,’ he said, the warm strong fingers closing round hers. ‘And it will become an unmitigated pleasure.’

And I’m an unmitigated fool not to throw this brandy over you here and now and scream what you’ve done to your face—tell you what a bastard—what a love rat you are. Although you wouldn’t recognise or understand the word ‘love.’ And, anyway, you’d just shrug it off and walk away. Water off a duck’s back. But some day soon, you’ll be made to care…

She allowed her long lashes to sweep down in demure concealment, in case he read the truth in her eyes. ‘Very well—Caz.’

‘A moment I might have missed if I’d called in advance,’ he said softly as he released her hand. He paused. ‘So where’s your flatmate this evening?’

‘At a hen party. Someone’s birthday.’

‘You didn’t want to go?’

She sent him a wry glance. ‘I decided to settle for a quiet night in.’

‘Which I’ve spoiled,’ he said softly. ‘However, your loss is my definite gain.’

She set a tray with cups and saucers, adding a jug of cream. Caz carried it into the sitting room, placing it on the small table in front of the sofa, and she followed with the percolator. She sat at one end of the sofa, and he occupied the other, stretching long legs in front of him.

‘I like the shampoo you use,’ he commented unexpectedly. ‘Apple with a hint of vanilla.’

Tarn busied herself pouring coffee, leaning forward so that the swing of her hair could conceal the sudden warmth invading her face.

She said, ‘You’re—very perceptive.’

‘I’m on a steep learning curve,’ he said. ‘Finding out about you.’

Her throat tightened nervously. Was he serious? Given his money and resources, if he really started to probe her background, what might he not unearth?

With a supreme effort, she kept her voice light, and her hand steady as she passed him his coffee. ‘Well, that shouldn’t take long. There isn’t very much to discover.’

‘On the contrary,’ he said slowly. ‘I suspect it could take a lifetime.’

He reached for his brandy glass and raised it. ‘To us.’

She drank without repeating the toast. ‘Isn’t that still slightly presumptuous?’

‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘I simply have to win you round to my way of thinking, that’s all.’

Her breathing quickened. ‘And if I can’t be won?’

‘Do you mean “can’t”?’ he asked. ‘Or is it really “won’t”?’

She moved a restive shoulder, replaced her glass on the table. ‘Does it make a difference?’

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Whichever it is, you’ll find I don’t give up easily.’

There was a silence, then she said jerkily, ‘Mr Brandon—Caz—this whole conversation is making me—uneasy. I think you should drink your coffee and leave.’

‘I’m sorry if you feel uncomfortable with the situation.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now, I was thinking it was like a foretaste of the future. Me—back from business trip. You—with your hair just washed and no makeup. Both of us enjoying a nightcap together, knowing exactly how the evening will end, but content to wait. To savour every lovely moment.’

His gaze rested on her startled, parted lips then moved down to the flurried rise and fall of her breasts under the concealment of her robe.

He added with sudden roughness, ‘For God’s sake, Tarn. Don’t you know that I’m nervous too. Have you forgotten what I said the other night?’

‘No.’ She paused. ‘I—I haven’t forgotten anything.’

‘You said earlier that we’d start again, and that’s what I’m asking for. A chance to prove to you that I mean what I say. And we’ll go at your pace, not mine. That’s a promise. When you come into my arms, it will be because you want to be there.’

His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Now relax, and drink your coffee, while we discuss our first real date.’

She gasped. ‘You—really don’t give up, do you?’

The hazel eyes glinted. ‘You’d better believe it. And at the same time please understand that you have nothing to fear.’

No, she thought. You’re the one who should be afraid.

She picked up her cup and drank, regarding him over its brim. ‘So what do you have in mind for this date?’

‘I thought we might go to the theatre. I have tickets for the opening of the new Lance Crichton play next Wednesday.’

Her brows lifted in disbelief. ‘Heavens. Sprinkled with gold dust, I presume.’

‘Almost,’ he admitted. ‘Are you interested?’

Her eyes danced. ‘I think it’s an offer I can’t refuse. I saw Payment in Kind on Broadway and loved it.’

‘Then I hope you’ll tell him so. He got rather a mauling from some of the New York critics.’

She drew a breath. ‘You mean I could meet him. Are you serious?’

‘I’m sure it could be arranged.’

Tarn thought then shook her head regretfully. ‘The play’s quite tempting enough. I think that meeting Lance Crichton would turn my head completely.’

He smiled. ‘You’re not so easily overwhelmed.’

He drank the rest of his coffee and stood up.

‘You’re leaving?’ The words were involuntary, and so, she realised with shock, was the note of disappointment in her voice.

‘That was what you wanted a few minutes ago,’ he said. ‘If you remember. And I’ve got what I came for, so I’m quitting while I’m ahead. It’s wiser and probably safer.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.’

There was a sudden, odd tension in the room, making her skin tingle. Forcing her to catch her breath.

She made a business of scrambling to her feet. ‘I—I’ll see you out.’

‘Fine,’ he said equably. At the front door, he turned, looking down at her. ‘If you asked me to stay, I would.’ His voice was gentle, but the hazel eyes were asking questions for which, to her horror, she could find no answer. She looked back at him, mutely, pleadingly, and he nodded as if she’d spoken.

He said, ‘Then I’ll be in touch.’ He took a strand of her hair and lifted it to his face. ‘Apples and vanilla,’ he said, and went.

Tarn leaned against the closed door, trembling. Dear God, she thought weakly, just for a moment there I was actually tempted. And he—he—let me off the hook. How shameful is that?

She washed up the cups and glasses, emptied the percolator and put everything away as if she’d spent the entire evening alone. She’d tell Della he’d been there—of course she would. But in her own time, which certainly wasn’t tonight. She needed to get her head straight before she broached the subject.

In her room, she took off her robe and reached for her nightgown. But, on impulse, she let it drop to the floor, and slid into bed naked. The sheets were cool against her heated skin, the fabric a caress that tantalised, offering arousal without satisfaction.

Eyes wide, staring into the darkness, she moved restlessly, languorously, aware, deep within her, of a scald of yearning, as unwelcome as it was unfamiliar.

It was wrong to feel like this, she told herself feverishly. Wrong and hideously stupid. None of the men she’d met in the past had affected her in the same way. She’d enjoyed their company—even found it pleasant to be held—kissed—but never wanted more. Had not grieved when it ended.

At the same time, she’d wrinkled her nose derisively at the thought of Mr Right waiting patiently just off-stage.

Not that Caz Brandon would ever figure in that category for any woman, she added hastily. Unless of course it was Ginny Fraser. According to Della, they seemed well-matched. Another ‘celebrity couple’ in the making, smiling for the camera if not for each other.

And maybe, with the prospect of younger talent climbing the television ladder behind her, Ms Fraser would find a different kind of limelight sufficient compensation for her husband’s practised womanising.

‘They’re welcome to each other,’ Tarn whispered, turning on to her front and burying her face in the pillow. ‘And, once this is over, I—I have my career to get back to.’

She tried to think of the next Chameleon project. A couple of tempting names had been dangled in front of her, but ghost-writing was a two way street. She would have to meet the subjects and talk to them. See if there was any kind of rapport which could develop into a platform of mutual trust and liking. A prospect that they would eventually open up to her completely, maybe even tell her things about themselves they hadn’t guessed until then.

That was the best foundation, and while it was being established, either party could simply walk away. It happened, and sometimes she’d been sorry, but often relieved, scenting trouble ahead.

And now, suddenly, there was Lance Crichton, she thought. One of the most successful playwrights of his generation, yet a man who’d always shunned personal publicity, letting his work speak for itself.

But a man who undoubtedly had a story waiting to be told, if approached in the right way. Only she’d come across him at totally the wrong moment because she couldn’t put out even the most discreet feeler without the risk of self-betrayal, she reminded herself, sighing. Until her work here was done, Chameleon had to remain another closely guarded secret.