by Marsh, Susan
Regretfully, though, she had to tear herself away. She picked up her bag and slung it on her shoulder. His eyes sharpened and followed the movement.
He strolled over to her, standing idly with his weight on one foot, his hands loosely tucked into his jeans pockets. ‘I can see why you’re so anxious to rush back and write your story.’ His tone was very, very casual. ‘Covering the memorial was of great importance to you, personally.’
She nodded, wary at a sudden tension she sensed in him.
‘It must be quite a temptation to report everything. All that you overheard.’
‘No, no,’ she hastened to reassure him. ‘The memorial itself is a great story. I’m aware the private stuff is off the record. The legal boys probably wouldn’t even let me use it. And if I know I’ll have the big scoop at the end …’
‘And you will.’ He smiled, but his eyes were unreadable. He added, as if he’d only just thought of it, ‘You could phone your copy in, though, couldn’t you?’
She gave a light laugh to disguise her unease. ‘I hope you’re not trying to keep me away from my desk. You can’t lock me up and keep me prisoner, you know.’ She saw him flick a glance towards the outer door, and wondered with a small shock if he’d considered doing just that. She added softly, ‘You’ll have to trust me, won’t you?’
He didn’t answer, but a tiny involuntary flicker of his black lashes said it all.
An ominous truth dawned on her. No way did he trust her. Not in the slightest.
Phones started ringing, several phones, all shrieking at the same time. He hung there poised, glancing from her to the door with a narrowed gaze—measuring the distance?—then with a muttered curse sprang to deal with them.
Perhaps she had been momentarily beguiled, but her brain hadn’t quite lost it. If Tom Russell was dreaming of locking her up, he could forget it.
She made a dash to the front door, dragged it open, and, vacillating between the lift and the stairs for less than a nanosecond, was in the lift pressing the button for ground before the heavy door even had time to click shut.
Quickly, quickly, she willed the lift doors, in a torture of suspense as they took an eternity to glide across. An instant before they met, her frantic gaze caught the flash of his dark figure racing towards the stairs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE LOBBY seemed quiet. At one end the concierge leaned on his lectern, chatting with a security guard. As Cate burst from the lift to flee for the entrance she saw them look up in surprise. Although in a fever of expection of Tom Russell’s hot breath searing the back of her neck at any second, she thought it prudent to slow a little, and flashed them a friendly glance to allay any suspicions.
They smiled uncertainly, then the smiles froze on their faces. She noticed the guard snap up straight and move sharply away from the desk, while the concierge’s gaze seemed to be captured by something behind her.
Someone.
A strong, lean hand closed around her upper arm and her heart jarred in her chest.
‘You didn’t say goodbye,’ Tom Russell said, spinning her around to face him.
She was panting, partly from the exertion of dashing, and partly from the strange exhilaration of being physically pursued by an attractive and dangerously sexy man. Even after he’d raced down several flights of stairs his breathing was as even and controlled as a somnolent lion’s. He tossed some car keys to the concierge over her head, then turned back to grill her with his smouldering gaze. She had the sensation of being bathed in a shower of sparks.
‘No, well …’ she said, wilting to the stern accusation in his compressed and sensually stirring mouth, ‘I was feeling queasy. I’m actually very susceptible to seasickness, and this building does churn about, doesn’t it?’ She dragged in some air. ‘As well as that, you were … so busy with all your important calls, I didn’t want to intrude on your private business affairs.’
He looked sceptical. ‘Since when?’
It was a cynical gibe, but she let him get away with it. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘you know I’m in a hurry to get back. I thought if I took a taxi it would save time.’
His eyes grew reproachful, as if he were completely innocent of abducting her with the intention of making her his prisoner, and probably his sex-slave. She felt a qualm of doubt. Had she been unfair to mistrust him?
‘I can drive you there before you can even say taxi,’ he said tightly, almost spitting the word. ‘Unless you don’t trust me to?’
Though he was no longer gripping her arm, his chest was practically grazing her nipples, swelling her bra to bursting point and rendering her knees strangely weak. She was breathlessly alive to the persuasive power of his bronzed, muscular arms, her chances of making a break seemed slim.
‘Oh. No, no, it’s not a matter of trust. Of course I—I trust you …’
His mouth only made the tiniest curl, but it was so potently expressive of disbelief.
She was racking her brains for a neat way out when she noticed his eyes shift, then light with satisfaction. Following their direction she saw a sleek, sporty car sweeping into the driveway. Emblazoned on its red mudguard was a prancing horse, almost certainly a stallion. Tom Russell overrode her protestations about hailing a filthy taxi. He hustled her outside and deposited her into the car’s deep leather passenger seat, then strode around to assume the driver’s seat.
‘I know this can be difficult for a woman,’ he said grimly, firing the ignition, then easing them down the driveway and into the traffic stream, ‘particularly one in your profession, but I expect people to be straight with me. If you had no intention of honouring your end of the deal, you should have said so.’
She gasped and retorted, ‘I did—I do intend to honour it.’
‘My point being,’ he continued in a measured, chilly tone as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘that with all the life-and-death matters screaming for my immediate, urgent attention, so far I’ve dedicated most of this day to you. I had even started to believe that there was some sort of rapport happening. But after your astounding exit, how can you expect me to trust you?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she snapped, to cover a degree of guilt. ‘I explained why I did that. You know very well I’m in a hurry to get back to work. I’ve wasted enough time as it is.’ She glowered mutinously ahead. ‘Haven’t I already agreed not to report your conversation with Olivia? You should learn to trust people.’ An upcoming traffic light exacerbated her frustration. ‘Can’t this thing go any faster?’
There was a brief, appalled silence. ‘This—Ferrari?’
He made a smooth, deliberate gear change, put his foot down, and whizzed the machine through the intersection, then, as if to taunt her, wove it with giddy, split-second timing, in and out between the lanes, speeding down a confusing series of streets, alleys and narrow old byways until she had no idea where they were.
She refused to be impressed. ‘It must be dreadful to have a pretty toy like this and still be stuck with having to drive it through the same shabby old streets and grimy old buildings as everyone else.’
‘Not at all,’ he said politely. ‘I happen to love these shabby old streets. I find these grimy old buildings quite beautiful.’
How did he manage to make her feel like a snark? Scanning the current streetscape, she supposed some of them could be considered beautiful for anyone rich enough to have the time to look at them. Now that he’d mentioned it, it was as if she were seeing them for the first time.
In fact …
She peered anxiously about. She wasn’t familiar with much more of the city precinct than the shopping streets and those that were visible from the train she caught to work, but weren’t they travelling away from the Clarion? Surely now they were heading east. She strained to see some landmarks and to read the lettering on the shop fronts. She should have been able to see Chinatown by now. With a lurch she realised that the city towers were gradually giving way to lesser buildings and maritime factories. ‘I don’t know thi
s route. Isn’t this Woolloomooloo?’
‘It’s a short cut.’
She felt a pang of alarm. Wasn’t that what kidnappers always told their victims? She glanced at him, but his harsh profile was inscrutable, his mouth firm and controlled.
Of course, she reflected with growing certainty, how could he risk her spilling the beans? He knew she’d be weighing up the chances of her scoop going cold, of circumstances changing and it all whittling away to nothing. In his shoes she’d do the very same thing. Where would he be taking her? She couldn’t help thinking of that house with high stone walls and steel grilles.
A shameful surge of excitement swept through her at the things he might intend to do with her there, but she sternly repressed it. As lean, gorgeous and addictive as Tom Russell was proving to be, she was in charge of her destiny, and any physical clashes she might choose to engage in.
She considered her narrow range of options. If she wanted to file her story there was no choice but to open the door and jump out at the first opportunity. An intersection was coming up, and she tensed as the traffic light flicked to orange. She eased open her seat belt catch with one hand, and inched the other to the door handle. A tentative tug revealed it was locked.
Blast. The car’s smooth, gleaming luxury closed in around her like an implacable prison. There had to be a way. Her roving glance alighted on the pristine carpet beneath her feet. In a wave of what must have been divine inspiration, she plunged into her bag for a handful of tissues and pressed them to her mouth.
‘Do you mind stopping here? I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘What?’ The word was wrenched from the depths of him. He swivelled around to stare at her in disbelief. ‘Is this for real?’
She gazed wanly at him and dredged up a sick little cough.
With a muttered exclamation, he twisted around to look for a break in the traffic, then swerved across a lane and skidded into the kerb, halting before the striped awning of a row of shops.
He leaned an arm on the wheel, studying her with amused suspicion. ‘It can’t be the motion of the car. This vehicle was custom-built to give the smoothest possible ride.’
‘Please,’ she choked, rolling him a distressed glance. ‘The door.’
His brows edged further together. ‘Though I s’pose … you did say …’
She put her hand over her mouth and made a convulsive heave. Alarm shot into his eyes, and he swiftly released the central lock. The instant she heard the click, she opened the door, flailed her way out of the seat belt, and in her panic nearly fell onto the pavement, dragging herself upright just in time to avoid crashing into a bunch of afternoon shoppers.
The nearest shop entrance was crowded with a display of Eastern carpets. Recovering her balance, she ran for it, dimly conscious of the sound behind her of Tom’s door closing.
‘Sorry,’ she gasped, colliding with a fat teenager buried in a drink carton.
Barely avoiding a rack of clothes a man was pushing along the street, she raced past the warehouse doorway, and fled into the entrance of a neighbouring arcade. The mall promised to stretch to the next street, but, knowing how easily Tom could catch her on the straight with his long athletic stride, a third of the way along she veered into a shop door, and found herself inside the rug warehouse.
The vast musty interior smelled of dust and exotic places. It was crammed with enormous racks of ceiling-to-floor rugs, piles of Indian dhurries and carpets in massive rolls—a perfect maze of hiding places.
She crept behind a suspension stand of Pakistani rugs, waiting for several heart-thundering minutes for Tom to pounce on her from behind like a slavering wolf. When her wild pulse had calmed a little and she judged he’d have given up her pursuit and driven off, she stole back towards the entrance, and peered between the carpets in the front windows.
Her lungs seized. He was still there, standing by the kerb, scanning the street, anxious impatience in every line of his big, lean body. She watched him glance at his watch and pace to the entrance to the arcade to stare down its length. He moved so close to the window she could see the sexy shadow under the taut skin of his jaw. She shrank further back behind the display, fearful he’d somehow realise she was on the other side of the glass.
After a few more minutes he returned to the car, but he didn’t drive away. It homed guiltily in on her that he was waiting. Waiting for her to come back from whatever private sanctuary she’d sought. Giving her time. Allowing her privacy.
Believing her.
Her urgency to flee down that arcade into the next block, find a taxi, and speed to work warred with a sneaking sympathy for Tom Russell and the low trick she’d played.
She was almost overwhelmingly tempted to run to him and explain. Although, she argued with herself, even if he did believe she was ill, he’d still intended to abduct her. This dangerous weakness she was developing for him was beginning to look like Stockholm Syndrome, and there was only one way to fight it. She had to walk away. Run, in fact.
She did run, down the arcade to the next street, where she hailed a passing taxi. The driver made a neat U-turn, then drove her back towards the city’s heart, and the Clarion. The trouble was that every kilometre away from Tom Russell was a ridiculous, tearing wrench.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AH-H-H … COFFEE.
The essential newsroom aroma infiltrated Cate’s tissues and her hunger, temporarily suspended by serial rushes of adrenaline, came roaring back.
Lunch would have been cleared away by now in the cafeteria, but there were bound to be sausage rolls down in the warming-oven. Her mouth watered at a tantalising vision of their aromatic succulence wrapped in buttery, flaky pastry. If she could bring one back to her desk, she could see Mike, write her story, dash to Gran, and then …
Then …?
Go home. Go home, and … what? Pack?
She closed her eyes as her insides clenched into an excited knot. Would she—could she seriously contemplate going back to Tom Russell?
She glanced almost furtively across the busy newsroom, hoping the fever seething in her veins didn’t show. Everyone appeared intent on their work. How many of her colleagues, she wondered, were harbouring secrets that could blow the country sky-high?
While amazing things had happened to her, and she had an exhilarating sensation of rushing towards a precipice at breakneck speed, around her life was continuing with the same buzz as was usual at this time every day. People were at their keyboards, hastening to meet their five o’clock deadlines. The sub-editors were hunched over copy, poised to strike out offending phrases.
She spotted Mike, sprawled back in his chair with his feet up on the desk, and put her need for food on hold while she threaded her way through the aisles for a look at his pictures.
He accepted her apology for failing to connect earlier with an easygoing shrug, and good-naturedly removed his feet from the desk and made room for her. He’d already edited his best shots, and had set up a clever composite of celebrities arriving at and departing from the church. She drew up a chair and let him scroll her through the elegant selection he intended to pass on to his editor.
There was a compelling close-up of Tom, caught unawares in the church car park before the service. She stared at it for seconds, and halted Mike when he would have clicked on further. Tom’s unguarded expression was so strained and grim, she was seized with a renewed sense of the desperation that had hung about him in the church.
It was no game he was playing, she realised. His contract with her was serious. Deadly serious. He was counting on her.
With a pang of apprehension it occurred to her that after her mad dash to escape, he might assume she was planning to renege. She remembered his cool threat to spill the merger himself. That would be such a desperate move. Proud, ruthless and hopeless. It was clear Russell Inc was in trouble. Tom was in trouble. She should contact him. Let him know what she intended.
Although, what did she intend?
She fin
ished with Mike, then headed for the cafeteria, absorbed in her dilemma. Certainly she’d made a deal, but, immersed once more in the solid reality of the newsroom, it was hard to contemplate not revealing what she knew about the merger at once. The revelation would be such a coup for the Clarion. But could she really contemplate breaking her word to Tom Russell? Her heart flinched from such a betrayal.
She wondered how many of her colleagues had held back on stories because of personal loyalties. Most of them were kind, decent people. Knowing them as she did, she felt sure such things must often happen, despite the bosses’ insistence that friendship must be one thing, business something else entirely.
Still, she had to face it that in a moral sense honest, objective reporting was her first responsibility, to the paper and to the nation.
But how moral would it be to harm him for the sake of a story, no matter how newsworthy?
Although, what if the story leaked and another reporter scooped her? Or what if Tom failed to keep his side of the bargain? Did he even deserve that she should keep hers?
He’d intended to seduce her—or had he? He’d certainly intended to delay her. He’d shown a ruthless disregard for her. Insulting her, kissing her like that, pursuing her like a furious wolf, attempting to abduct her …
Just thinking about it sent a rush of excitement through her veins like electricity.
As she paid the cashier and started back for the newsroom she made an effort to calm her turmoil and think. Tom was no fool. Hadn’t they all told her what a tough operator he was? He was good, she had to give him that. In some subtle way he’d made her feel so feminine and desirable, she’d been mesmerised.
Wasn’t that the real danger? If a man could persuade her to let him stroke her very neck, what else could he persuade her to do? A neck might not have the same intimate status as a breast, or a thigh, but coming so soon after a kiss—two kisses, to be exact—there had been something undeniably sexual about it. If she hadn’t stopped him, who knew how much further that little situation could have developed?