by Susan Lewis
Chapter 10
‘THERE WE GO,’ Naomi grinned, dropping a fax on Oliver’s desk, then folding her skinny arms as she watched him pick it up. ‘From Rhiannon,’ she told him. ‘It’s a list of the shopping she wants you to get on your way home. She’s got to work late, then she’s got a fitting for her dress at half seven, so she won’t have time. She wants spaghetti, tuna fish, canned tomatoes, a couple of onions and some french bread. She also wants to know if you remembered to call the insurance company back.’
Oliver’s humorous eyes were watching his secretary, waiting for her to finish. ‘You forgot the PS,’ he remarked, glancing back down at the fax.
Naomi’s impish grin widened. ‘Thought you might like to read that yourself,’ she said, ‘seeing as it’s a bit personal, like.’
Reading it again Oliver laughed, then putting the fax to one side he said, ‘Did you confirm the flight for tomorrow?’
‘Yep. You’re on the ten forty arriving in New York at thirteen forty.’
‘And coming back?’
‘Friday night. Getting into Heathrow at quarter to seven Saturday morning. Three days before you get married, so no sweat. Oh yeah, the travel agent called to say that there’s no prob with the flights you wanted for your honeymoon.’
‘Well, there’s a relief,’ he said dryly. ‘Did you get me a first-class sleeper back from New York?’
Naomi pulled a face. With her dark, shaggily cropped hair, enormous hooped ear-rings, pierced nostril and layers of snake-skin patterned lycra she was, Oliver guessed, at the very peak of whatever fashion she was toting. ‘They wouldn’t clear it,’ she said awkwardly.
Squeezing his jaw with his fingers, Oliver glanced about the room. Then bringing his eyes back to hers he forced himself to smile. ‘It’s OK,’ he told her. ‘Not a problem. I’ll get it all sorted when I’m in New York. Did you have any difficulties with the honeymoon? They accepted the credit card?’
‘For that, yes,’ she answered. ‘But I booked it last Wednesday. The first-class sleeper I only tried yesterday.’
His face tightened and for a moment it looked as though he might bang a fist on the desk. But getting himself quickly back under control, he fixed her large brown eyes with his and said, ‘Pop downstairs to Bruce’s and see if there’s some way he can raise the funds for a first-class sleeper.’
‘He’s an accountant, not a magician,’ she retorted.
‘Very droll. And while you’re down there ask him if the funds in Jersey are still safe. I need to know that there’s something Straussen doesn’t have his hands on.’
Naomi was on the point of returning to her own office, which doubled as a reception, when the mention of Straussen’s name prompted her to turn back. ‘I forgot to tell you,’ she said, her face colouring, ‘we had a visitor while you were out.’
Oliver’s eyes narrowed.
She nodded. ‘Yeah. One of those visitors,’ she confirmed.
‘What did he say?’
‘Just that he was looking for you and he’d call back later. But I knew he was one of them, I can always tell.’
‘And he knew I wasn’t here because he watched me walk out of the building,’ Oliver remarked, staring at nothing as he spoke his thoughts aloud.
‘They don’t scare me,’ Naomi assured him, her elfin face a picture of defiance.
Oliver’s eyes moved swiftly back to hers. ‘They should,’ he told her briskly. ‘They’re dangerous people and I should have known better than to leave you here alone. Except, of course, they don’t want anything from you. They just wanted to let me know they’re still there, as if I didn’t already know.’
Naomi looked at him for some time, her big round eyes reflecting the concern she felt for the best boss she’d ever had. ‘What are you going to do, Oliver?’ she said, going back to his desk. ‘You can’t let it go on like this. It’s intimidation. I know, ’cos I asked my Jerry and he told me. They’re breaking the law, Oliver, and I really think you should go to the police.’
Sighing, Oliver pressed his lips together and slowly shook his head. ‘It’s personal, Naomi, you know that . . .’
‘But it’s intimidation,’ she insisted hotly. ‘And that’s against the law.’
‘Yeah,’ he said distractedly.
‘Are you going to see the old man when you’re in New York?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘He’s the reason I’m going. Now, let’s try getting Fullerton at De Beers on the line, shall we?’ he said, taking a loupe from his drawer and unfurling the black felt cloth in front of him.
‘I thought you wanted me to go and see Bruce?’ she reminded him.
His head came up and he stared at her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Sure, of course,’ he said. ‘Yeah, make that a priority.’ He smiled. ‘She’s got expensive tastes, has my future wife and I need to know that I’ve got the deposit for that house in Holland Park or she’s going to be a very disappointed bride.’
‘Are you kidding? How could any woman be disappointed when she’s getting you as her old man?’ Naomi cried in mock amazement.
‘You’re right, it’s pretty impossible,’ he grinned. ‘But you don’t know how demanding Rhiannon is.’
Naomi’s eyes twinkled. ‘I reckon I got an idea,’ she said, nodding towards the fax on his desk and with a jaunty lift of her eyebrows she left the room.
A few minutes later Oliver heard the main door close, telling him that she had left to go and see Bruce, his accountant, whose office was on the floor below. Ordinarily he’d have just picked up the phone and spoken to Bruce himself, but normal channels were no longer open to him now that Straussen was having his calls monitored, and the existence of his Jersey bank account was something he just couldn’t afford for Straussen to get wind of, not when Straussen was playing with the rest of his funds as if he was some kind of joke juggler who couldn’t control the balls.
Setting down his loupe, he got up and walked over to the window. The narrow, busy street of Hatton Garden, the centre of London’s diamond trade, was, as usual, in colourful and perpetual motion. Dealers, cutters, retailers, wholesalers, secretaries, bankers, lawyers and a hundred others affiliated to the trade were weaving precarious routes through the traffic as they crossed from the bourse to the other side of the street, or disappeared in and out of the crumbling Victorian buildings. Some stopped at shop windows to browse, still others were just passing through London’s answer to New York’s 47th Street.
It didn’t take him long to pick out the bozo who was watching him, the guy was like a Haagen-Daz fudge tub in his cream double-breasted suit, chocolate brown shirt and yellow tie. But he hadn’t been sent here to conduct an anonymous stake-out; he’d been sent, as Naomi had so rightly put it, to intimidate. And it was working.
Sighing, Oliver turned back to his desk and with his hands in his pockets stared down at Rhiannon’s fax. Smiling, he read the PS again and knowing she was giving him his lead for what they were going to do tonight he felt the stirrings of desire.
He took a few more calls, the third of which was from the agent who was selling his apartment in Knightsbridge. She wanted to know if he was serious about including the furniture in the price. He told her he was and heard her sigh with excitement, for such a prized collection of antiques could fetch a fortune at auction.
As he put the phone down he was looking at Rhiannon’s fax again, reading the reminder for him to call the insurance company. She had no idea that the stolen furniture had been returned to his flat, he hadn’t known himself until he’d called round to see if there was any mail. Of course Straussen had been behind the ridiculous theft and replacement scheme, trying yet another way to brandish him a liar and create difficulties in his relationship with Rhiannon. Naturally, there were plenty of other ways Straussen could do that, but it seemed that the old man was trying to force Oliver to back out of the relationship of his own accord. But the hell was Oliver going to do that, for apart from loving her, Rhiannon was his only surefire route out of t
he god-damned nightmare of the contract he had with Straussen.
Later that evening, having prepared the supper, Oliver was stretched out on one of the deeply sumptuous sofas in Rhiannon’s basement flat reading that morning’s edition of the Wall Street Journal. Being June, the night was still light, but a fine drizzle was coating the patio garden where pots and baskets and small beds of vivid geraniums and petunias clustered around the goldfish pond and rockery. Next door’s cat was sitting on top of the wall, keeping his usual vigil on the temptingly fat goldfish and in his hutch beside the log pile the feisty grey rabbit they were looking after while Mrs Romney, the landlady, was in Spain for a week, was munching solemnly on the carrot slices Oliver had just fed him.
After reading a fairly depressing forecast on the South African economy, he turned over the page and began checking the performance of the various stocks and shares he had in New York. He was feeling considerably more relaxed now than he had a few hours ago, mainly because Naomi had come back with the news that everything was OK with the Jersey account. Added to that was the confirmation he had been seeking that Wei Hang, the Chinese cutter he did most of his business with in New York, had managed to rearrange his schedule so that he and Oliver could meet while Oliver was there. Wei Hang, it seemed, was keen to discuss Oliver’s proposals that they expand their businesses by combining. Of course, Oliver would only be in a position to do that if he succeeded in getting Straussen off his back, but despite the unease that crept in when he thought of it he was determined, for tonight at least, to remain optimistic. He wouldn’t be seeing Rhiannon again until three days before the wedding and though the mere thought of standing up there and taking those vows was making him sick with nerves, the very last thing he wanted was for her even to suspect the way he was feeling.
No, it would all be OK, he told himself, starting to smile as he thought of the way Rhiannon’s mounting excitement these past few weeks had begun to infect everyone around her. It was as though everything about her, her hair, her skin, her eyes, her smile, just everything, had taken on a new zest for life, an energy and a vitality that was fuelled by the kind of happiness he would almost rather die than destroy.
Dropping his hand down to the floor beside him, he scooped up the radio phone and answered it. It was Jolene, Rhiannon’s office manager, wanting to give her the latest gossip. Swinging his legs to the floor, Oliver pulled a message pad across the heavy glass and beechwood coffee table and jotted down that Richard Copeland, the current head of Channel 4 and Rhiannon’s avid supporter, was on the brink of announcing his early retirement. Oliver knew how disappointed Rhiannon would be to hear that, but probably nowhere near as outraged as she was going to be to hear who was being tipped to replace him. Then remembering that Lizzy had called earlier, Oliver wrote that down too before going back to his paper. Actually Lizzy had told him not to bother with a message, that she’d see Rhiannon in the morning. She’d sounded, Oliver thought, a lot brighter than she had for a while which might have been good, had he not had the distinct impression she’d been drinking.
Hearing Rhiannon’s footsteps running down the steps outside, he glanced at his watch. It was nine fifteen and not having eaten since breakfast he was starving. He imagined she would be, too, except she’d hardly been eating lately thanks to pre-wedding nerves. And, unless she’d forgotten the PS on her fax, there was every chance they wouldn’t be eating for a while yet this evening.
The ring on the doorbell instead of the key in the lock told him she hadn’t forgotten, and already starting to feel himself harden he got up to go and answer. As he walked along the hall past the bedroom, she rang again and raising an eyebrow at her impatience he pulled open the door to find her standing there looking as flushed and as lovely as he’d ever seen her in a white, knee-length flared skirt, tight, wide tan belt, white shirt and low-heeled tan shoes.
Though her eyes were alive with mischief her voice was perfectly steady and polite as she said, ‘Mr Maguire?’
‘That’s me,’ he responded.
‘I’m from the estate agents down the road. I hope I’m not late for our appointment.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, standing aside for her to pass. She must have removed her bra in the car, for he could see quite clearly that she wasn’t wearing one and with a sharp pang of lust he wondered if she had already removed her panties too. ‘The living-room’s right through there,’ he told her, closing the door and following her down the hall. He wasn’t too sure yet exactly how she wanted to play this, but sometimes finding out was half the fun. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he offered.
‘Oh yes, white wine would be splendid,’ she answered, tossing a glance back over her shoulder as she walked into the living-room. ‘Gosh, this is lovely,’ she declared, gazing admiringly at the large french windows that looked out over the patio garden and the warming yet fresh shades of peach, green and cream that seemed almost to flow between the sofas, the curtains, the walls and the carpet. ‘I really don’t think we’ll have any problem selling this. How much did you say you wanted for it?’
‘A hundred and fifty,’ he answered, going through to the kitchen to fetch the wine. When he came back he found her sitting on a sofa with her legs crossed, her skirt riding high over her long creamy thighs and her plump rosy nipples pushing hard against the flimsy fabric of her blouse.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she smiled as he handed her a glass of wine. ‘Tell me, have you lived here long?’
‘A few years,’ he answered, going to sit on the opposite sofa. ‘And how about you? Have you been doing this job long?’
‘Oh no,’ she laughed, tossing her hair over one shoulder then running her hand over the generous swell of one breast as she pushed her blouse more firmly into her belt. ‘I only started a few weeks ago, but I think I’m beginning to get the hang of it now. It’s a wonderful job for meeting people. Of course you do get the naughty ones from time to time, you know, the type who’re always trying to touch you up and get you to take your clothes off, but I can handle it pretty well now.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ Oliver remarked, hardly able to contain his laughter as he realized what she was asking him to do. And marvelling at her ability to keep a straight face he said, ‘You have very lovely breasts.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said, looking down at them. Then sitting forward she put her glass on the table and got to her feet. ‘Now, is it correct that you want to sell everything in the flat too? All the furniture and knick-knacks and things.’
Oliver’s smile drained. She had already turned away, moving towards the circular table beside the window where she kept her silver-framed photographs and quaint porcelain pill-boxes so he was unable to see her face.
‘And would the contents be included in the purchase price?’ she went on, as though he had answered, ‘or would they be extra?’
Still he didn’t speak, unable to make himself believe that she would play this sort of game with him, yet unable to accept that this was mere coincidence.
Stooping over the table to take a closer look at the photographs she said, ‘I’m sure these aren’t for sale, are they? I mean, you must want to keep some of your memories.’
Oliver was barely breathing.
‘Who are these people here?’ she asked, pointing to a picture of herself, Lizzy and Jolene. ‘And here, and here. Oh, do come and tell me all about them. I mean, if you don’t mind,’ she added, turning to look at him.
Getting slowly to his feet, he kept his eyes rooted to hers, searching for any sign of artifice or rancour. He saw only laughter and the opaque suggestion of a growing desire. But the coincidence, the innuendo, were impossible to ignore. Even so, as he moved towards her he saw the faint flicker of curiosity in her eyes, as though she was sensing his doubt. He wished to God he knew what was going on here. Had one of Straussen’s people paid her a visit? Was this some kind of obscure revenge she was building up to, or was it, as it seemed, a genuine playfulness that had unwittingly stumbled upon reality and gui
lt?
‘Do you really think I’ve got lovely breasts?’ she asked, smiling coyly into his eyes.
‘Yes,’ he whispered.
She turned to look at the photographs again. ‘I can take my blouse off if you like,’ she offered, bringing her eyes back to his.
‘I’d like that very much,’ he told her softly.
Their eyes remained locked on each other’s as she unfastened her buttons one at a time, then sliding the blouse from her shoulders let it fall around her hips.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he murmured.
Thank you,’ she responded politely, but as she made to turn away again he caught her arm and pulled her back.
‘No, darling,’ he said gruffly. ‘No more. I want you, not some stranger. I love you and I want you and I’m going to make love to you, but it has to be you.’
‘Oliver, what is it?’ she laughed uncertainly. ‘You look so worried and afraid . . .’
‘I’m neither,’ he lied. ‘I’m just so damned crazy about you that I can’t make love to another woman even if it’s you who’s playing her part.’
As his mouth came down hard on hers she clung to him, pulling him as close as she could, raking her fingers over his back and searching for his tongue with her own.
He was painfully erect by now, but he felt no desperate urgency to make love. He simply wanted to hold her, to touch her and feel her trembling with the power of her feelings as he already was with his. He couldn’t lose her now. Dear God, he just couldn’t. But he wouldn’t, he told himself firmly. It would all go according to plan. If need be he’d pay with his life rather than continue under the nightmare of their control. His heart stiffened with unease, for in truth he didn’t know if his bravado would stretch that far – he just hoped to God that it didn’t end up being put to the test.
Two nights later Oliver was driving a rented Buick along US9, heading into Westchester County. Somewhere off to his left was the long grey expanse of the Hudson River, ahead of him, some twenty miles on, was the sprawling riverside estate of Theo Straussen.