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

‘I owe her a lot.’ Especially for that reference.

‘Will the job be waiting for you—if you go back?’

‘That or another one. I’ve rarely been out of work.’ She didn’t want the interrogation to continue, so she bent, slipping off her loafers. ‘I’m going to find out if the sea is as inviting as it looks,’ she threw over her shoulder as she headed for the crescent of ripples unfolding on the sand.

‘I warn you now—it will be cold,’ Caz called after her, amused.

‘You can’t scare me. I’ve been to Cape Cod,’ she retorted, speeding into a run.

He hadn’t been joking, she discovered. The chill made her catch her breath and stand gasping for a moment, but an ignominious retreat back to the beach was out of the question for all kinds of reasons. So she waded in a little deeper, finding that it grew more bearable with every step, until eventually it bordered on pleasure.

However, it was also bordering on the turn-ups of her linen pants, which was not part of the plan at all, so she opted for discretion over valour and walked slowly back to the shore.

Caz looked at her, shaking his head in mock outrage. ‘Crazy woman.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Chicken!’

‘But not a chicken risking pneumonia. Or with wet feet and no towel.’ Before she could stop him, he picked her up in his arms and carried her up the beach, scrunching over the pebbles before setting her down on a large, flat rock. ‘I prefer my seas warm, like the Mediterranean or around the Maldives.’

He produced a spotless white handkerchief from a pocket in his chinos and unfolded it. ‘I’m afraid this is the best we can do.’ He dropped to one knee in front of Tarn and began to dry her feet, slowly, gently and with immense care. ‘Like blocks of stone, as my old nanny would have said. Even your nail polish has turned blue.’

Forbidding herself to laugh, she tried to free herself. ‘There’s no need for this. I can manage—really.’

‘Is it the reference to Nanny that’s worrying you?’ Caz looked up at her, his hazel eyes warm and amused. ‘Do you think I’m going to revert to childhood and play “This little piggy”? Or are you afraid I’m a secret foot fetishist seizing his opportunity?’

‘It’s just—inappropriate,’ Tarn managed lamely, aware that some totally foreign instinct was prompting her to wriggle her toes into the palm of his hand, and not just for warmth either.

‘Is it?’ He was grinning openly now. ‘I do hope so. I’d hate to be politically correct at a moment like this.’ He traced the delicate bone structure of her slender toes with the tip of a finger. Cupped the softness of her heel. ‘They’re adorable,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe these foot fetishists have a point.’

‘Caz.’ Her voice was husky. ‘Don’t—please.’

‘Why not? Isn’t this where women like to see men—kneeling at their feet?’

‘I am not “women”.’ Tarn could feel that betraying heat spreading through her body again. ‘And I want to put my shoes on.’

‘In a minute. This is a new experience for me, and I like it.’ He bent his head and kissed each instep, warmly and lingeringly. ‘They taste of salt,’ he whispered.

The breath caught in her throat. She said with difficulty, ‘People—there are people coming. You must get up.’

Caz shook his head. ‘And lose this perfect opportunity? Not a chance.’ He looked up at her, and there was no laughter in his gaze. It was serious and intent. ‘Tarn, my sweet, my lovely girl, will you marry me?’

‘You—you said you wouldn’t rush me.’ Her voice was a whisper too.

‘I dare not wait,’ he said quietly. ‘After all, you came out of nowhere. I’m terrified that you may disappear in the same way.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I—I won’t do that. But it’s too soon. You must see that.’ She spread her hands almost beseechingly. ‘We—we hardly know each other.’

‘Something I’m seriously trying to redress,’ he said. ‘Or hadn’t you noticed? Sweetheart, we can catch up on the details as we go. But I think I knew from that first moment that you were the one. I guess it was too much to hope that you felt the same.’

He added almost harshly, ‘But now that I’ve found you, Tarn, I can’t let you go, and I won’t. Not when I love you and want you to be my wife. You and no-one else for the rest of our lives.’

‘This isn’t fair…’

‘I think there’s a cliché that covers that—something about love and war.’

But this is war, she cried out silently, from the pain and confusion inside her. It’s just that you don’t know it yet.

Aloud, she said, stumbling over her words, ‘I—I have to think. You must give me time. We have to be sure.’

Caz sighed ruefully. ‘My darling, I am sure. Now, I just have to convince you. But I’ll be patient. I won’t even ask if you love me in return. Or not yet.’

He took her loafers and fitted them back on to her feet. ‘There you go, Cinderella. They fit. Now you can’t turn me down.’

‘You may believe you’re Prince Charming,’ Tarn said, forcing herself somehow to speak lightly as she scrambled up from her rock. Struggling to behave as if the whole world had not turned upside down. ‘But this couple walking their dog probably think you’re an escaped lunatic.’

Caz turned towards the elderly man and woman, walking arm in arm along the beach, their Jack Russell scampering ahead of them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he called. ‘Isn’t this a wonderful day?’

The man looked dubiously at the sky. ‘I reckon we’ve had the best of it, and it’s clouding over for rain. The weather’s always treacherous at this time of year.’

Treacherous, thought Tarn. Why had this man, this stranger, chosen that of all words?

‘Darling, you’re shivering, and our coats are in the car.’ Caz spoke with compunction. He untied the sweater looped casually around his shoulders. ‘Wear this.’

Obediently, Tarn pulled the enveloping softness over her head, knowing as she did so that the freshening breeze from the sea was not the problem, and that a dozen layers of cashmere would never be enough to alleviate the icy numbness building inside her. Possessing her. Making her feel she would never be warm again.

Oh, God, she thought desperately. What have I done? And what am I doing? I don’t seem to know any more.

Worst of all, I’m not sure I know myself. And that terrifies me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IT WAS a largely silent journey back to London.

Caz was quietly attentive, asking if she was warm enough, or if she’d like to listen to some music. Tarn assented politely to both propositions, hoping that the second option would avoid any more discussion of his plans for their future. However, she declined a further suggestion that they should stop somewhere for tea.

She wanted to get back, she thought, because she needed to think. To work out what to do next. If that was possible.

The CD he picked featured a woman singer she did not recognise, with a deep, almost harsh bluesy voice, whose lyrics were, without exception, a disturbing exploration of love, and all its confusing complexities.

Something else Tarn could well have done without.

She told herself that everything Caz had said to her on the beach was entirely meaningless and just part of a well-worn routine. That he’d probably gone on his knees to Evie in exactly the same way.

Yet, in spite of all that, she could still remember how the look in his eyes had made her breathless and the way his smile had reached out to touch her. Could feel the clasp of his hand round hers as they returned to the car, strong and sure as if he would never let her go, and catch the familiar scent of his cologne on the sweater she was still wearing.

Which, of course, she could return. Disposing of all those other sensations was an entirely different matter.

How, she asked silently, was it possible for him to sound so sincere? To almost make her believe…

She stopped right there. That was not a line she needed to follow.

Although for him to want her had been, of course, an essential part of her plan. She’d intended to rouse him to a fever pitch of unsatisfied desire, before slamming him into limbo, harshly and very publicly. And thanks to Lisa, she’d already worked out the perfect occasion.

‘Each June, there’s a garden party at a house called Winsleigh Place,’ her editor had told her. ‘Everyone in the company is invited from the directors to the cleaners and catering staff. Coaches are laid on to take us all there and back, so no-one is tempted to drink and drive. There’s a wonderful buffet lunch, with non-stop champagne, and in the evening, a dance, with more glorious food. And Caz provides it all.’

So the entire Brandon ensemble would hear the unpleasant truth about their supposed Lord Bountiful, Tarn had resolved, even as she smiled and said with perfect truth, ‘It sounds perfect.’

But today’s turn of events had thrown her scheme back into the melting pot. If she refused his proposal, she would have revenge of a sort, but it would be a private matter between the two of them, and she wanted more than that.

On the other hand, if she agreed, then she would almost certainly attend the garden party as his fiancée, and any attempt to discredit him would reflect just as badly on her. People would wonder how she could possibly have become engaged to him, knowing what she did.

And I wouldn’t be able to answer them, she thought.

Unless, of course, he intended to keep her under wraps until he was tired of her, as he’d clearly done with Evie. A thought that twisted inside her like a knife.

But even that possibility seemed totally unable to negate any of the feelings towards him that had taken such an astonishing and unwelcome hold on her almost from the beginning, and intensified so alarmingly over the last forty-eight hours.

She felt as if two entirely different women were occupying her skin and fighting for the domination of her mind. And she had to make sure that the right one became the ultimate winner.

Because she could not let herself be beguiled by the sensuous passion of his mouth, or give way to the kind of impulse which had almost led her to stroke the dark silk of his hair as he knelt at her feet.

Nor could she allow herself to forget that, in the end, she’d been saved, not by her own strength of will, but by an amateur weather forecaster with a Jack Russell terrier.

And how shameful was that? she thought bitterly.

Della had once asked how she might have reacted to Caz if they’d simply met as strangers without Evie’s involvement, and she’d replied dismissively, defensively.

If she asked me the same question now, she thought, I don’t know what I’d say.

When they eventually reached her flat, Caz left the engine running as he turned and gave her a long, steady look. ‘I’m not going to ask if I can come up with you,’ he said quietly. ‘Because I know damned well that I’d try a different kind of persuasion—in bed. And that wouldn’t be right or fair.’

She bit her lip. ‘Thank you. I want you to know that, whatever happens, you’ve given me the loveliest day.’ She reached for the door handle, and hesitated. ‘Oh—your sweater…’

‘Keep it,’ he said. His smile was faintly crooked. ‘It looks far better on you than it ever did on me.’ He paused. ‘When you’ve made up your mind, whichever way it goes, call me.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I don’t trust myself to kiss you either, in case you’re wondering.’

Her own attempt to smile was a failure. ‘You’re—very strong-minded.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I feel I’ve put quite enough pressure on you already.’ He ran a finger down the curve of her cheek. Touched it briefly to her mouth. ‘Promise me we’ll talk soon?’

She nodded, dry-mouthed, and left the car.

She didn’t watch him drive away. She walked upstairs, aware that her legs were shaking. Fumbled the key into the lock. Closed the door behind her and leaned against it, staring blind-eyed into space, aware of little but the deep, rapid thud of her heart.

She was thankful that she was alone. That she could keep the day’s events to herself, without having to offer excuses or explanations, because she could imagine what Della’s reaction would be to this latest development.

Eventually, she forced herself to move. To walk to the kitchen and put on a pot of strong coffee to brew, while she took a shower. All sensible measures to dispel the ice which had apparently settled inside her.

But while the shower warmed her, it failed to make her feel any cleaner, so its comfort was, at best, limited, she thought wearily as she dried herself.

Wrapped in her dressing gown, she curled into a corner of the sofa, sipped her scalding coffee and tried to force her teeming brain to focus. She caught sight of her bare feet, and, realising that she was shivering voluptuously at the memories they evoked, hastily tucked them away under the skirts of her robe.

How was it possible, she wondered dazedly, for all that apparent tenderness, all that caring to be only an illusion?

She wished she still had the diary, which might give her some clue as to what to expect next. After all, didn’t they say that forewarned was forearmed?

Unless his proposal was simply a ploy to get her into bed. A form of deception Caz hadn’t needed with poor Evie, she thought bitterly. But if he thought she was merely playing hard to get, he would soon discover his mistake.

But just suppose that he means it, said a small sly voice in her brain. That, no matter what has happened in the past, you’re the one that he truly wants. How do you deal with that?

I tell myself that it doesn’t change a thing, she whispered under her breath. And I keep saying it.

Because if he was genuine, why didn’t he tell me about Evie? Express some remorse for the way he treated her. Why didn’t he say, ‘Darling, I have something to confess. I was engaged once before to a sweet girl, but it didn’t work out, and, although it’s over, I know I hurt her terribly, and I shall always regret that.’

But he’d said nothing. Instead he’s simply airbrushed her out of his life, she thought. And he could do the same to me. I must not ever let myself forget that.

She tried to divert herself by watching television. One of her favourite films was showing, something so familiar that she could almost repeat the dialogue by heart, but this evening it totally failed to engage her.

The scene on the beach unfolded, frame by frame, over and over again in her mind, eclipsing anything on the screen.

‘Oh, to hell with it,’ she muttered eventually. ‘I’m going to bed.’

Her clothes were still lying on the bedroom floor, and she bent to retrieve them, tossing each item into the basket for laundering. Wondering, as she did so, whether she could ever bear to wear any of them again.

Until, at the bottom of the pile, she came upon Caz’s sweater.

For a moment, she stared down at it, then, obeying some incomprehensible primal instinct, she gathered up its soft weight with both hands and held it against her breasts, her throat, her mouth, breathing in the scent of his skin, and drawing it deep into her lungs as if, by this means, she could somehow capture the essence of him and hold it within her forever.

A long, quivering sigh convulsed her body. A sigh of yearning, bewildering her with its strength. A sigh of loss and regret, and she felt her throat muscles tighten painfully as she tasted the first bitterness of tears. A low, animal sound rose from deep inside her and was torn from her parted lips.

And with it came chaos.

She sank down on to the carpet, still clutching the bundle of cashmere and pressing it to her face as if she hoped it could somehow staunch the tears that were pouring down her face, or silence the harsh, gasping sobs that were suddenly ripping her apart.

She seemed incapable of movement or even coherent thought as she crouched there, her body shaking uncontrollably.

I want him. I love him. Oh, God forgive me, I love him so much…

The words, unbelievable, unutterable, ran crazily through her head, piercing her with their shame.

When at long last there were no tears left, and her throat was aching with dry sobs, she got clumsily to her feet. She shed her robe and climbed naked into bed, spreading the damp sweater across her pillow and pressing her cheek against it. Knowing that it might be all she would ever have of him.

‘From that first moment…’

His words, and she could see now that they were as true for her as he’d claimed they were for him. That she’d gone to the reception looking only to avenge Evie and come away with her mind in turmoil, no matter how much she might have tried to deny it.

She could recognise now that she’d been in one form of denial or another ever since.

Something which had to stop right here. Because there were choices to be made, and she would need a clear head to make them, she thought as she closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink down into the mattress. Aware that very soon her physical and emotional exhaustion would take her over the edge into temporary oblivion, and let sleep work its magic.

She woke the next morning feeling calm and strangely empty, but knowing exactly what she had to do.

She would visit Evie at The Refuge that afternoon, no matter what obstacles were put in her way, and break the news to her that she had changed her mind and abandoned the planned revenge. At the same time, she would also tell her that she was leaving Britain, probably for good, and returning to her own life.

Because Della had been completely right, of course, she told herself. She had no obligation to drop everything and run to their aid whenever Aunt Hazel or Evie sent out an SOS. As it was, her intervention, however well-meant, had led to her own heartbreak, and she would need time and distance for the healing process to begin.

Evie, too, was receiving the best treatment and would also recover. And both she and her mother would eventually learn to stand on their own feet too.

I’ve done them no favours by encouraging their dependency, she thought.

Ironically, it was Caz himself who had shown her the only solution to this maze of lies and unhappiness she was embroiled in. After all, he’d said yesterday that she’d come out of nowhere and might vanish in the same way.

And that was precisely her intention. To depart without trace. To find somewhere else to live and sink back into her work. To start over, a chameleon, invisible in her surroundings.

A clean break, she resolved, removing the necessity for any tortuous and impossible explanations which would not reflect credit on either Caz or herself. ‘Least said, soonest mended,’ she thought wryly, and all the other comforting clichés, which were no comfort at all.

And if, at the moment, the break felt more like an amputation, she knew that once the numbness had worn off, the pain would start in earnest.

But maybe she could arrange to be long gone by then.

And in the meantime, ordinary life pursued its prosaic path.

She showered, dressed, and breakfasted on toast and coffee before making a bacon and sweetcorn quiche for Della’s return at suppertime, just as she’d intended to do before her life skidded sideways to disaster.

She had also determined to return Evie’s engagement ring anonymously to Caz. A padded envelope with a London postmark would give no clues. It was a reminder of unhappiness that the younger girl didn’t need, she thought as she looked down at the cold glitter of the stones, as well as an awful warning of how easy it was to be dazzled into believing the improbable.

A danger that she herself was avoiding by a whisker.

While Caz—he can hand it on to the next lady who takes his fancy, she thought sinking her teeth into her lower lip, as she closed the box.

Professor Wainwright regarded Tarn with open disfavour. ‘I thought we had an agreement, young lady. No visits without a prior appointment.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I really do need to see her.’

‘You are not the only one. Her visiting time today is already reserved.’

‘I could wait…’

‘Miss Griffiths may well find the experience—unsettling, and will need to rest.’ He looked at his computer screen. ‘Perhaps next week.’

‘That’s too late. I may not be here.’ She paused. ‘Please, Professor. I must at least be allowed to say goodbye to Evie.’

‘But not today.’ His tone was final. He began to put papers into a file. ‘Now you must excuse me. I have a meeting.’

‘Is there really no other time for me to see her?’

He sighed, and looked back at the screen. ‘Tomorrow afternoon might be a possibility.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll come tomorrow.’

‘But telephone first,’ he cautioned. ‘Her condition will need to be carefully assessed.’

‘Very well,’ Tarn said tonelessly, and rose.

‘Miss Griffiths.’ She was halfway to the door when his voice halted her. ‘Since our last meeting have you told anyone of Evelyn’s whereabouts? Mentioned it inadvertently in conversation, perhaps?’

Tarn frowned. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Then there must be some other explanation.’ He gave a brisk nod. ‘I regret you’ve had another wasted journey.’

‘Not really wasted,’ she returned. ‘Because I shall see Evie tomorrow.’

She could have walked back to the Parkway, but when she got to the main door, an elderly couple were paying off the station taxi, so she decided to ride there instead.

She had just settled herself into a corner of the back seat when another car came up the drive and stopped in a swirl of gravel.

More visitors, thought Tarn. And aren’t they the lucky ones?

Then she saw the driver emerge and walk round to the rear passenger door, and stiffened incredulously.

Because she knew him. And the car. Knew, as well, with sick foreboding, exactly who his passenger must be.

She shrank back in her seat, every nerve-ending jangling, and pressed a clenched fist against her lips, stifling any hint of shocked and aching sound, as Caz got out and stood for a moment in the sunlight, clearly giving Terry instructions.

He was back to formality today, in a dark suit, and even carrying a brief case.

Legal documents? Papers for Evie to sign, enjoining her silence? Drawing a line under the past so he could look to the future with a free mind?

How can he? she whispered silently. Oh, God, how can he do this to her? Force himself back into her life when she’s trying to recover from the way he treated her. When what she needs more than anything is to wipe him from her memory forever.

And I—how could I possibly have forgotten what he was and let myself be tempted by him, even for a moment?

She felt physically ill as she watched him walk up the steps and disappear inside the building. She hadn’t been allowed in, Aunt Hazel was still barred, yet Caz, the man responsible for Evie’s pitiful condition, as the staff must know, was apparently allowed unrestricted access. It made no sense. It defied reason.

‘Unsettling’ might have been Professor Wainwright’s word for Caz’s visit, but Tarn could think of so many others that were far more apposite. ‘Cruel’ for one, she told herself as her taxi moved off. ‘Monstrous’ for another. And, ahead of them all, ‘Unforgivable’.

Because that changed everything. It had to.

I was going to leave her, she castigated herself, gazing at the passing hedgerows with eyes that saw nothing. Abandon her to the mercy of someone who plays games with women’s hearts and minds in order to save myself.

But she’s not a survivor as past events have proved. And I am. So I’m going to stay and keep my promise, no matter what the cost. There’ll be no unfinished business on my watch.

‘My mother sends her love,’ Della announced exuberantly as she tucked into the quiche. ‘Also a Dundee cake, which we could have for afters.’

‘Your mother’s a saint.’

Della gave her a shrewd look. ‘And how are your equally sanctified relatives?’ she queried. ‘I ask because you’re looking a little worn round the edges, my pet.’