A Very Private Revenge

She didn’t doubt for a minute that anything she said would be almost instantly dismissed from his mind, but if she could say something that rankled, it might stop him treating anyone else so ruthlessly. The rumours and counter-rumours flying round the little Scottish community after the scene at the hotel had made getting over Ronald so much harder for Gaby.

Tamar spent the rest of the afternoon pulling things together with regard to Greenacres, and then catching up with her mountain of paperwork, which had got sadly neglected over the last few weeks as she had raced about like a mad thing chasing the three properties of which Fiona had spoken. But it had been worth it. Oh, yes, it had certainly been worth it

She stayed at the office long after all the others had gone home, until, at just gone nine, she felt her desk was clearer and she was in control again. The night was a warm one, and the walk from Taylor and Taylor in Fulham to her tiny flat in Chelsea was just what she needed to unwind from the turmoil of the day. She strolled along in the heavy London air, picking up a hot dog—liberally doused with fried onions—on the way, and reflecting that it was only in the big cities where a woman dressed up to the nines in a designer suit and high heels could wander along eating her dinner out of a paper bag without attracting a second glance.

And she loved it; she really did. After that nightmare time at university, to be inconspicuous was all she asked for. Perhaps that was why she had felt Gaby’s humiliation and pain so fiercely? she thought now. Having been through a terribly public chastening herself, she knew how it felt. Not that her circumstances had been so awful as poor Gaby’s—at least she hadn’t got pregnant—but how did you compare being raped to being fooled into sleeping with someone and then losing a baby when you were openly disgraced? Perhaps they were both as bad as each other, really...

Mike Goodfellow. She could picture one of the lecturers at university now in her mind. Tall, good-looking, married with the requisite 2.4 children and career-minded wife, he had really thought he was the bee’s knees. And when he’d offered her extra tuition on her English essays she had really thought he meant just that.

The assault had been painful—she’d been a virgin—and degrading, but over mercifully quickly, and when she had decided to go public and report him, despite his threats, she had discovered she hadn’t been the first. Three other girls had come forward, and they’d been just the ones still at the university. No one knew how many other girls he had attacked in the past.

Of course the resulting police action and publicity had been tough, and she had certainly learnt who her friends were, if nothing else, but she had been determined not to creep away like a little whipped dog from the moment she had picked herself up off the floor of his room and limped away to get help. He had been so sure she wouldn’t report him, so confident in his ruthlessness. Mike Goodfellow. Never had a name been more inapt...

She’d found it difficult to be alone with a man for a long time after that, but friends like Fiona and Richard had been great, and eventually she had gone on a couple of dates—more to prove to herself she could than anything else. But they had been purely platonic, with nothing more than a brief goodnight kiss.

She’d often felt her heart had gone into cold storage on the man front, and it was that, even more than the rape itself, that she couldn’t forgive Mike Goodfellow for. He had taken away so much warmth, fun, excitement and just plain ordinary living from her in a few short, but terrifyingly brutal minutes. Even now she would freeze, or experience the odd moment of blind panic, if a man looked at her in a certain way, or touched her when she wasn’t aware of them.

He had received a prison sentence, and she understood his wife had left him in the process, but how could he pay for what he had done to her and others? He couldn’t, not really...

It’s in the past, it’s in the past. You’re not letting him win. It was what she had told herself every day for the last five years, but it helped, and she had determined she would carry on telling herself the same thing until it no longer became necessary.

She took a deep breath now, finishing the last of the hot dog and throwing the paper away in the convenient red bin that was positioned just outside the entrance to the terraced house in which her flat was situated, before opening the communal front door with her key.

Once inside, she ran up the two flights of stairs to her little idyll at the top of the house, glad to be home. And the quiet oasis she had created for herself in the midst of the bustle of the big metropolis was home, in a way her aunt and uncle’s house had never been.

She paused after opening the door to her flat, taking a moment to appreciate the light, pretty surroundings and the fact that it was all hers. Her father’s foresight in making a clear, concise will after she was born had meant that on reaching the age of twenty-one she had come into a nice, tidy little nest-egg which had been held in trust for her until that date. It wasn’t a fortune, but it had meant she could afford to buy her own little home when she left university, furnish it exactly how she wanted, and still have enough left over to purchase an elderly little runabout to get her from A to B when necessary.

She had barely taken a step or two over the threshold when the phone began to ring in her red and gold sitting room, and strangely, just as she lifted the receiver and spoke her name, she knew who it was...

‘Tamar?’ Jed Cannon’s husky voice caused an involuntary curling of her toes. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home?’

‘How...how did you get the number?’ she prevaricated bemusedly. She didn’t know if she minded or not, if she were being truthful, she admitted silently to herself.

‘Telephone directory,’ he said blandly.

‘Oh.’ She wondered how many T. McKinleys there were in the London area. She’d have to have a look later. ‘How can I help you?’ she asked carefully.

‘My people can get in to do a survey tomorrow morning,’ he said without any preamble, ‘and I’ve already checked with Gerald that that’s okay.’

Have you indeed? And it’s Gerald now, is it? She was beginning to get mad.

‘We’ve discussed a rough price for getting the work done, and Gerald’s quite prepared to drop by the required amount Now—’

‘Mr Cannon—’ how dare he, how dare he take over like this? ‘—you are aware negotiations of this sort should be done through the estate agents?’ she asked icily.

‘Who says?’ he shot back quickly.

‘It really isn’t done—’

‘Tamar, I couldn’t give a pig’s ear about what is done and what isn’t,’ he said, with a smooth arrogance that had her telling herself desperately that she had to remember he was the buyer, that this was a huge deal, that she couldn’t afford to get on the wrong side of him and blow it. And that was besides her original plan to worm herself into his life and get him interested before she let him know what was what Which didn’t seem quite such a good idea now, somehow.

‘I’m working within a limited time-scale, and I haven’t got time for pussy-footing about. Right? Now, if you have a problem with that, I’m sorry, but there it is. Although surely the sooner the deal is clinched, the sooner Gerald’s happy, I’m happy, and you get your commission. Yes?’

Blow her commission, the arrogant, supercilious, overbearing—

‘Right?’ he repeated coldly.

‘Right,’ she agreed tightly, her tone saying something quite different. And she had decided whether she minded him calling her at home!

‘Tamar...’ There was what sounded like a long, impatient sigh. ‘Please don’t be difficult.’

‘I’m not being difficult.’ Oh, this was getting ridiculous. What was she doing? She couldn’t afford to argue with him like this, she cautioned herself sharply, forcing a sweeter note into her voice as she said, ‘I’m not, really, Mr Cannon, but negotiations of this sort are what I get paid for, after all.’

‘And in the normal run of things I’m sure they are quite invaluable,’ he said soothingly.

‘Yes.’ Patronising into the bargain, she thought exasperatedly. But at the moment all the cards were stacked well and truly on his side, and all she could do was grit her teeth and play ball. ‘Well, if Mr Biggsley-Brown is happy with what you’ve discussed, I’m sure we will be,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll have to ring him in the morning and confirm, of course.’

‘Of course,’ he agreed drily. ‘But I’m sure you’ll find he’s very understanding.’

Huh! She narrowed her eyes, frowning across the room. And what was all the mad rush about anyway? Why was it so imperative for him to have a house so quickly? He had a marvellous bachelor pad—a sumptuous penthouse from all accounts—in Kensington. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have anywhere of his own to live.

He was just being awkward—flexing his wealthy muscles and demanding that everything be done yesterday, because that was how he wanted it Ruthless to the last, she thought bitterly.

‘Yes... Well, thank you for letting me know what you’ve done, and I’ll be in touch once—’

‘Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?’ Jed interrupted evenly.

‘Dinner?’

Eager delight was quite absent from her voice, and his own reflected his recognition of the fact when he said, his tone smooth but distinctly cool, ‘It’s something most people do in between lunch one day and breakfast the next.’

Dinner. Tamar was eternally grateful Jed Cannon couldn’t see her as she leant back against the wall and shut her eyes for a moment, before taking a deep steadying breath and saying, the breathless note not at all feigned, ‘I’m so sorry, but I do have a previous engagement tomorrow...’ in the sort of voice which made it clear she would like him to suggest another evening when she could make it.

He did. ‘Wednesday evening?’ he asked expressionlessly.

Wednesday. That would give her Tuesday lunchtime and evening, and Wednesday lunchtime if she needed it, to buy a new outfit, have her hair done, give herself a beauty treatment... ‘That would be lovely,’ she said quietly, hoping she was hitting the right note of cool interest now.

‘Good. I’ll pick you up about eight,’ he said smoothly. ‘I was thinking we might go to Harvey’s, unless you have any objection?’

Tamar just stopped herself saying, Harvey’s? in the same blank, gormless way she had said, Dinner?, and instead managed to sound quite blasé when she answered, ‘No, Harvey’s will be fine.’

Harvey’s will be fine. After she had said goodbye and put the phone down she had a sudden desire to laugh hysterically. Harvey’s was the one nightclub in London that even the rich and famous would kill to get membership for, and there wasn’t one single person of her acquaintance who had got so much as a nose in the door. And he was taking her there! Her, Tamar McKinley!

The urge to laugh vanished instantly as the thought of what she was going to wear surfaced with frightening intent. You couldn’t go to Harvey’s in an off-the-peg dress and shoes, she thought with blind panic. This was going to be an exclusive designer job at the very least. Well, she would have to use the money in her building society account that she had been saving all year for a holiday, and maybe the cash she had put by for her car too. Needs must.

She went straight into her tiny but extremely well fitted kitchen and made herself a very strong cup of black coffee, which she drank down scalding hot in an effort to combat her churning stomach. It helped, and after she had drunk a second cup her natural optimism and determination came to the fore.

Jed Cannon was just a man, when all was said and done. All right, he might be wealthier and better-looking than most, and have enough charisma and male magnetism to send the average woman bandy, but she wasn’t the average woman. She made a deep obeisance with her head to the thought. And he was going to remember her—and Gaby by the time she had finished—for a long, long time.

CHAPTER THREE

TAMAR knew, when she looked into Jed Cannon’s silver-grey gaze and saw it narrow to laser-like intentness the moment before he smiled, that the short jade-green silk cocktail dress, with its wafer-thin straps and simple crossover style bodice, had been worth every penny. And the matching shoes, with their high, high heels and neat little ankle straps, were just right too, emphasising her long legs and slim shape perfectly.

The price had been astronomical, but it had been the way the outfit showed off her figure that had made her hesitate in purchasing it at first. Since Mike Goodfellow’s attack, she had been chary about wearing anything too revealing, hiding in big baggy tops and jeans the first year, before slowly graduating to more tailored feminine clothes as time had gone on—but always with a view to modesty and propriety.

But you didn’t go to somewhere like Harvey’s muffled up to the ears. Even she knew that. And so...

‘You look very lovely, Tamar.’

She wondered if the sexy huskiness as his deep voice lingered over her name was a well-tried and proved strategy? Whatever, it was very effective. But she was immune to his charm. She was.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled brightly. He looked absolutely wonderful, but she wasn’t going to tell him so. The light cream dinner jacket sat on the big male shoulders in a way that proclaimed the wearer was used to such formal wear, and there was an easy grace about him that suggested restrained animal power. He was a sensual man... The thought shocked her into stepping out of the hall and into the street beyond as she said, ‘Shall we go?’ in as neutral a voice as she could manage.

She had been ready and waiting in the hall for his knock for over fifteen minutes, determined he wasn’t going to set foot inside the house. She didn’t want him in the place, and most certainly not in her flat, although she couldn’t quite have explained why. She had tried to tell herself it was because she needed to keep all this on her terms, but it wasn’t that, not really. She just didn’t want him getting...close.

‘Do I make you nervous, Tamar?’

He had ushered her into the cab with gentle decorum, making polite small talk for some moments, so now, as he twisted to face her, the silver eyes hard on her flushed face, he didn’t miss the start she gave at his softly voiced question.

‘Nervous? Of course not!’ She forced a light laugh, and then coughed as it strangled in her throat.

‘Good...’ He didn’t sound as though he believed her, and his next words added weight to this impression when he said, still in the same quiet, soft tone, ‘You don’t want to believe everything you hear, you know. One of the disadvantages of a high profile is that rumours abound on all fronts, whether personal or workwise. If I had done or said all the things accredited to me I’d have burnt myself out long ago.’

‘And you’re not burnt out,’ she stated with provocative primness, almost as though she disapproved.

He wanted to laugh, but managed to restrain the impulse, knowing it would not be appreciated. She intrigued him, this serious dark-eyed flame-haired beauty; she intrigued him very much. There was something about her he couldn’t fathom, and it made a pleasant change from most of the women he knew, who were veritable open books.

‘No, I’m not burnt out, Tamar,’ he agreed with straight-faced control, and then, as she nodded solemnly before dropping her eyes and moistening her lips with a small pink tongue, he felt his breath quicken and a stirring in his loins.

It was that, the almost tangible innocence about her, he told himself with self-deprecating mockery, that got him. She was full of little gestures like that, but he’d bet his life she wasn’t aware of the effect they had on the average male. But she must be, he told himself in the next instant. Of course she must be. You didn’t get to her age, looking like she did, without knowing a thing or two. She was just more subtle than most; that was all. But he liked it. He had to admit he liked it.

Harvey’s was nowhere as big as Tamar had expected it to be, but in every other respect it came up to expectation. The small tables clustered around the dance floor were shadowed and intimate, the food was superb, and the frothy pink cocktails followed by a bottle of champagne that gave a new meaning to the phrase ‘nectar of the gods’ were out of this world.

It was clearly a place to see and be seen, and, judging by the number of people who tried to catch Jed Cannon’s eye, Tamar assumed he had more than a little influence. And didn’t he just love it? Tamar thought to herself, as the head waiter glided over to their table for the umpteenth time to check if everything was all right. The ostentation, the peacock-like display of all those present-he took it all in through those narrowed silver eyes without betraying a single thought or emotion. An ice man. She gave a mental nod to the thought. Definitely a control freak...

And then the tasteful little floor show ended, just as Tamar finished the most delicious liqueur coffee of her life, and Jed rose slowly, his eyes slumberous as he said, ‘Dance with me, Tamar?’

Dance with him? She stared up at him, her eyes wide. Of course she should have expected this, prepared herself for it, but foolishly she had been so taken up with the spectacle of it all that she hadn’t thought about dancing with him.

He looked very big and very dark, the pale cream of his dinner jacket emphasising the threatening enigmatic maleness, and she suddenly felt she had caught a tiger by the tail. She must be mad—stark, staring mad—to think, she could influence Jed Cannon by the tiniest amount. He was a man who used women for his own purposes, it was written all over him, and she was way, way out of her league here.

‘Tamar?’ He held out his hand, and she could do nothing else but rise and take it, her stomach quivering as his warm flesh made contact with hers.

Once on the dance floor a new realisation of his bigness swept over her as he took her into his arms, and she had to steel herself not to panic. This was the first time in years—since Mike Goodfellow’s attack, in fact—that she had consciously allowed a man to hold her in this way. The thought did nothing to help the little shivers flickering down her spine as the subtle but delicious smell of him encompassed her.

And then her chin rose a notch and her mouth tightened resolutely. She could do this, she could, and if she could handle being in Jed Cannon’s arms, she could handle being in anyone’s. There was nothing like starting at the top and working down...

‘Relax.’ His voice was deep and quiet above her head as he nestled the soft, cloudy curls with his chin and pulled her a little closer. ‘I don’t know what stories you’ve heard about the big, bad wolf, but I’m not going to eat you. You’re quite safe.’

‘I know.’

Her voice wasn’t as steady as she would have liked it to be, and then, as he chuckled low in his throat and said, ‘Now that’s not a very nice thing to say. I must be slipping,’ she took a long, hard, silent breath and prayed for control.

This was just social intercourse, flirting, part of a date. That was all. She knew it, in her head, but she was so out of practice in this realm that every little word or gesture he made was intimidating.

And then she felt him move slightly, and he pulled away enough to lift her chin with one hand as he stared down into her huge velvet-brown eyes. ‘You’re enchanting, do you know that?’ he murmured softly. ‘A lady of contrasts.’

‘Contrasts?’ She dared not relax into the sensual intimate mood he was creating—this had to move along slowly, very slowly. No doubt he was used to women falling into bed with him at the drop of a hat, and in the sophisticated worldly circles in which he moved affairs were conducted with a swiftness that could take your breath away, she thought silently. But this time, this time he wasn’t going to have it all his own way. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘But, yes.’ The husky voice did something to her nerve-endings that was undescribable. ‘I’ve seen the smart, efficient career woman, totally sure of herself and her ability to deliver the goods, the sophisticated beauty who has dazzled and bewitched every man in the place, and then there’s the other Tamar, the gentle, innocent, shy little girl...’

It hurt. The ‘innocent’ hurt—which was ridiculous really, when she had thought she’d got over Mike Goodfellow stealing what should have been hers to give long ago.

‘“Gentle, innocent, shy little girl”?’ She smiled as she said it, and he would never know how much self-discipline it took. ‘In London?’

But he had seen the brown darken to ebony, and the impact of his words in the dark depths. ‘Why not?’ he countered easily. ‘They tell me the age of miracles is not yet passed.’

And then he drew her close again, and she had to concentrate all her efforts on staying upright as the feel and smell of him caused her legs to turn to jelly. She tried to tell herself it was nerves that was sending tiny electric shocks all over her body, but she knew, even before he bent his head and took her lips in the lightest of kisses, that it wasn’t that.

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