by Janet Tanner
Mark Bristow had telephoned him the day after Hugo had died.
‘I don’t want Harriet worried any more than she has to be. She is very upset about her father’s death – they were very close. So to save her as far as possible I’d appreciate it if you would talk to me. I think I can answer any questions you may want to ask.’
‘That’s very decent of you,’ Tom had said, feeling distinctly hollow.
Of course he wanted the case tied up, but once it was he would have no further legitimate excuse to see Harriet.
Mark had been extremely helpful. He had filled Tom in on the details of Paula’s fate and Harriet’s recent Italian trip and Tom had begun to understand just why Harriet had been so touchy about it. What a hell of a story to uncover! He wished he could do something to comfort her but he felt sure she would reject any overture. She had not forgiven him for what had happened in Australia and in his heart he could hardly blame her. Hadn’t he started out with the intention of using close contact with her to help him discover the truth? That made him technically guilty – even if the game had changed along the way. No, for the moment Tom did not think there was anything he could do. Harriet had made herself only too clear. She did not want him around.
He had resigned himself to it. He had stayed on for the funeral and watched from a discreet distance as the mourners walked from their limousines to the graveside in the bitter wind and the occasional flurry of rain. There was enough money there around the graveside to pay off the entire national debt, he thought wryly, and some of the most beautiful and fashionable women in New York to boot – but none of them could hold a candle to Harriet.
If Paula had been a mesmeric figure, then Harriet was without doubt her daughter, for amongst all those wealthy well-dressed women she shone out like a candle on a dark night, incandescent even in grief, her face pale and creamy, half-hidden behind a short black veil, her hair bright against the severely sculpted collar of her suit. As he watched her toss a single rose down on the coffin he felt he was intruding on her grief and he turned away, sick at heart.
He spent a couple of days liaising with the FBI to tie up the last loose ends in the Greg Martin affair and filed his report. He didn’t know whether British and Cosmopolitan would ever recover the money they had been cheated out of and guessed it would be some time and probably a long legal wrangle before the financial tangles were satisfactorily sorted out, but that was not his problem. His job was done. Now there was no longer anything to keep him in the States. It was time to head for home – and the next job.
Tom wished he could feel enthusiasm for it, but he could not. Dammit, Harriet was still under his skin as no other woman had ever been. If circumstances had been different perhaps it could have been goodbye to his footloose bachelor existence, hello to a whole new way of life. He had never given a single serious thought to settling down – the very suggestion of it had always turned him cold – but now, coupled with a vision of Harriet, it was a very different matter, for he knew if he had her now he would be determined never to let her go again.
Pure hypothesis, he thought grimly, for the whole thing had been well and truly blown. Of course there was always the chance that he could look her up in London when enough time had elapsed for her to realise he couldn’t possibly still be delving into her family history, but it would probably be too late. Prejudices and resentment would be too deeply entrenched – and there was always that damned Nick Holmes. Back in London she’d probably team up with him again. At the thought of it Tom felt his stomach physically turn. He remembered the night he had spent keeping watch outside her hat and the parked car that had signified that Nick Holmes was staying with her. At the time it had meant nothing to him, now, in retrospect, it clawed at his guts and in the fury of fevered emotion, which was quite new to him, he made up his mind.
Bloody hell, he couldn’t give her up without a fight! Fool that he was, he had to try again. She would probably send him packing but that was a chance he had to take.
He lifted the telephone receiver and hesitated, wondering what he was going to say to her. Where was the incisive private eye now? For one of the few times in his life, Tom O’Neill was scared to death.
One more try. Just one. If she refused to speak to you, you will just have to accept it. But don’t give up without a fight. Not now – when the stakes are so high.
He called the number and the maid answered.
‘I’d like to speak to Harriet Varna. It’s Tom O’Neill.’
There – done – probably blown before he’d even begun. He waited, sweating. Then he heard her voice cool but revealing just a hint, just an echo, of his own turmoil.
‘Hello?’
‘Harriet, I’m just about to leave for London. But I can’t go without seeing you again. I know we’ve had one hell of a bad start but I’d like the chance to explain. Shit – I’m not very good at this sort of thing …’
There was just the smallest hesitation though it seemed to him like a very long time. Then: ‘When shall I see you?’ she asked.
He thought furiously, cursing himself for not having it all worked out.
‘Can I buy you lunch?’
‘Yes, all right. I’m going down to my father’s showroom to take some pictures. I’ll meet you underneath the statue of the Garment Worker at twelve forty-five.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Only Tom,’ she said. ‘No more questions – right?’
‘Not a single one.’
Liar, he thought, even as he said it. There is one very big question you intend to ask her. But not today – not today.
As he replaced the receiver Tom O’Neill, confirmed agnostic, sent up a heartfelt prayer of thanks.
He’d wanted one more chance and he had it. So far so good. But tread carefully. Tread very carefully. Blow this and you’ll never get another.’
She saw him the moment she emerged from the doorway, standing there at the foot of the plinth, the collar of his coat turned up against the biting wind, and her heart missed a beat.
Foolish, foolish Harriet! Ready to put yourself on the line to be hurt again … for what? But just looking at him, bulky in his dark overcoat, his face as craggy as if it had been carved out of the same stone as the statue, she knew the reason.
‘Hi,’ she said.
He turned and in spite of everything it was still there, that crazy powerful chemistry they had experienced in the outback. This might be New York, with bustling crowds and hooting taxis, the skies heavy lowering grey, the wind making them shiver, but it made no difference.
‘I’m sorry if I hurt you,’ he said. ‘I had a job to do.’
Not the most exciting words, but they scarcely mattered.
‘I expect I was a bit touchy,’ she said.
‘But that’s all over now. If I ask you to meet me you’ll know it’s because I want to see you, not probe into your past. Harriet, I know this sounds exceptionally corny, but could we begin all over again?’
‘No,’ she said.
His eyes narrowed. ‘No? But I thought …’
Her mouth curved. ‘I don’t want to begin again because there are some things I’d hate to erase. Really, Tom, I’d rather say ‘‘let’s continue where we left off’’.’
He nodded, smiling. ‘I’ll settle for that.’
‘So, where are we going for lunch?’
‘Do you know, I haven’t given it a thought I was so sure you wouldn’t turn up.’
‘Why should you have thought that?’
‘Because,’ he said truthfully, ‘it mattered so damned much to me that you should. So, where do you suggest for lunch? You are the one who knows New York.’
‘I suggest somewhere very quiet where we can have that talk.’
‘I second that.’
In the end it had been so very easy, so very right. If none of this dreadful business had happened she would never have met Tom, she thought suddenly. It was an almost insupportable thought.
She smiled
up at him and put her hand on his arm. In a city of eight million people there was an intimacy in the touch that tore down the last barriers.
‘I know the very place,’ she said. ‘ Shall we go?’
Together they walked along Fashion Avenue and the tall shadow of The Garment Worker seemed to follow them.
Copyright
First published in 1991 by Century
This edition published 2014 by Bello
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Copyright © Janet Tanner, 1991
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