Husband-To-Be

by Linda Miles

  ‘Oh, sure,’ said Grant. ‘You know I never take risks.’

  ‘Never what?’

  ‘Unnecessary risks,’ he amended. ‘And, speaking of frustration, maybe I’d better go back to my room. Maybe I’ll strike it lucky and dream about you.’

  ‘I thought I was always out of reach in your dreams,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Yes, but that was before you knew my intentions were honourable. Now that we’re engaged you may stop playing hard to get.’ He sat up reluctantly, refastening the single button. ‘I’ll let you know at breakfast how we get on.’

  ‘If you don’t respect me in the morning I’ll know why,’ said Rachel.

  ‘You know I’ll always respect you, R. K. V.,’ he said seriously. ‘It’s an odd experience to respect someone who drives you mad with lust, but if you ask me it’s the basis for a perfect marriage.’ He flicked her chin with a finger. ‘Sweet dreams, darling.’

  ‘You said that before,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ He grinned and disappeared through the door.

  Rachel slept badly. Her dreams were fitful and sinister. They were not, as she’d rather hoped, of Grant in his ill-fitting pyjamas, of herself removing the ill-fitting pyjamas and falling into his arms. Instead she dreamt of faceless, ominous enemies who closed in on Grant. She saw him going forward to meet someone as a friend, then falling to the ground in an ambush, and each time she could do nothing to stop it. Each time she was too late.

  It was a relief to wake up. It was only a dream, she reminded herself. She’d see him at breakfast, and then refuse to let him out of her sight. It was as simple as that.

  The sight of him at breakfast, in his own clothes, was reassuring.

  ‘Pleasant dreams?’ she asked, helping herself to toast.

  ‘I never kiss and tell,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’ve got a couple of phone calls to make, then we’ll go into town. I need to see a solicitor.’

  He disappeared into Uncle Walter’s office to make the necessary phone calls. By ten he and Rachel were back in the Jaguar, bowling into town.

  ‘Did you talk to Olivia?’ she asked. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Well, all is not lost, but it’ll take some unravelling. Too complicated to go into now.’

  They got into town too early for the appointment with Uncle Walter’s solicitor, and wandered about window-shopping. Grant insisted on going into a toy-shop and buying Rachel a large black plastic tarantula.

  ‘A memento of the day we first met,’ he said cheerfully.

  Rachel pointed out a number of anatomical inaccuracies on the creature, then shrugged and laughed and thrust it into a pocket.

  Grant then explained that his business with the solicitor might take some time.

  ‘I asked some of my London staff to take the fast train down,’ he went on. ‘Your uncle’s solicitor has kindly agreed to let me use a room. It may be a few hours. Can you amuse yourself in town? Then you can meet me back here—say around three?’

  Rachel agreed to this, and they parted company at the solicitor’s door.

  After about half an hour she began to get bored. Her lunch hours at Murcheson’s had left her all too familiar with the clothes in the shops, and she didn’t share Olivia’s passion for furniture. At last she bought a book on wildlife in the African veld and headed back for the solicitor’s. She’d read in the waiting room, she decided.

  The secretary greeted her politely. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought I’d just sit here and read while Mr Mallett has his meeting,’ said Rachel. ‘I understand he’s using one of your rooms.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said the girl. ‘Mr Mallett left ten minutes ago.’ She smiled. ‘We’re a very small office, you know. We don’t have a spare room that could be used for a meeting.’

  ‘I see,’ said Rachel. She left without further argument, her book still in her hand. He’d lied to her. But why?

  With a sinking heart, she realised that she knew very well why. Why do things the safe way, when he could go and offer a bunch of thugs a little extra target practice? Mr Grant ‘No Unnecessary Risks’ Mallett was heading for Arrowmead at this very minute, or she’d eat her hat.

  She looked for the Jaguar just to give him the benefit of the doubt, but wasn’t surprised that it was gone.

  ‘I’ll kill him!’ she growled to herself. She just hoped nobody else got to him first, because she was going to tear him limb from limb.

  She would tear him limb from limb in private, after it was all over. Meanwhile she’d had enough of amateur heroics. It was time to call in the police.

  Rachel ran breathlessly up the cobbled high street to the police station and encountered an unexpected setback. The station was only manned part-time: its hours were posted outside, and it was already closed for the day. A number was given for emergencies.

  Rachel ran back down the high street to the single public telephone. It was out of order.

  All right, so it was out of order. There was no need to panic, she told herself. Panicking, she ran even more breathlessly to Joyce’s antique shop.

  ‘I’ve got to call the police!’ she panted. ‘Can’t explain!’

  There was no reply when she called the emergency number. She tried numbers for several of the surrounding villages with no better success.

  So much for calling in the experts.

  Rachel poured out her dilemma to her old friend. Ten minutes later she was bounding over the road to Arrowmead in Joyce’s van.

  Rachel didn’t like the idea of going back and facing people who’d hit her over the head and tied her up, and who might decide, this time, to put her out of commission permanently. The problem was that she liked the idea of Grant’s facing these people alone even less. Mouth set grimly, she gunned the accelerator, and was soon twisting along the drive to Arrowmead.

  She stopped the van out of sight of the house, and pulled it off the road to park it behind a thick stand of rhododendron. Then she gritted her teeth and set off for the house.

  No one seemed to be about, but a curtain was billowing out of one of the windows of Grant’s office. If the window was open, maybe that meant someone was in.

  Rachel entered the house unchallenged, heart thumping in her chest.

  Moving as silently as she could, she crept along the magnificent corridors of the ground floor to the wing which held Grant’s office.

  The secretary’s office was empty. Voices were coming faintly from Grant’s office through the closed door. Rachel tried it very carefully. It was locked.

  She hesitated, then bent to listen at the keyhole.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ It was a man’s voice—one she didn’t recognise.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ The cool, certain voice didn’t match the words. ‘We may have gone too far to go back.’

  ‘You mean…?’

  ‘We’ve got to consider the possibility. He’s made a will in my favour, you know.’ There was a short pause. ‘It might be simpler if everything were under my control.’

  ‘We’d better decide one way or the other. He’ll be coming round soon. He’s got a head like a rock. Shall I tie him up again?’

  ‘Don’t you think the two of us can deal with him?’ Olivia sneered. ‘He’s not Superman, you know.’

  ‘All right, whatever you say. So what shall we do?’ Rachel didn’t stop to hear more. One thing was clear: there was no time to call in the police. Any minute now Olivia might decide to be a wealthy widow without bothering with the wedding.

  What could she do, though? Shout through the door that Grant had made another will? Preposterous. Bang on the door, then hit them over the head when they came to investigate? Absurd.

  No, she thought, but if she could somehow buy more time…

  Suddenly her eyes fell upon the phone. It had five or six lines; it would be simple enough to call Grant’s personal number on one of the other lines. It was risky, of course, because both lines would light up on Gra
nt’s phone; if Olivia stopped to think, she would realise that the call was coming from inside the building. Still, it was worth a try.

  She tiptoed across the room, picked up the receiver and dialled Grant’s direct line. The phone rang, and rang, and rang. Was Olivia going to leave it to ring? she wondered in despair. On the eighth ring, however, the receiver was lifted at the other end.

  ‘Arrowmead Conference Centre,’ Olivia said curtly.

  ‘May I speak to Mr Mallett? I’m calling from the solicitor’s office,’ said Rachel, disguising her voice with a nasal falsetto.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s stepped out of the office,’ Olivia said smoothly. ‘I’ll be happy to take a message.’

  ‘We just have a question about the will he had Mr Fairfax draw up this morning,’ said Rachel. ‘He said we could send the invoice to the office, but he asked us to send the actual document to the residence of a Rachel Hawkins. It seemed rather irregular; we just wanted to make sure there was no mistake.’

  ‘Oh, I rather think there has been a mistake,’ said Olivia, with scarcely a pause. ‘Please send both the invoice and the will to the office.’

  Rachel scowled. Clever Olivia! She’d obviously seen her way at once to destroying the will.

  ‘I’m afraid I need to confirm that with Mr Mallett personally,’ Rachel said pompously. ‘Perhaps you could give him the message.’

  ‘I can assure you I speak for Mr Mallett,’ Olivia said sharply. ‘I’m—I’m his personal private secretary. He will find it extremely inconvenient if the will isn’t sent to his office.’

  ‘We shall be happy to send it to the office,’ Rachel said starchily, ‘as soon as we receive authorisation to that effect from Mr Mallett. Kindly ask him to call us at his earliest convenience.’ She hung up the phone.

  Well, she reflected, that should at least give Olivia pause for thought. It still left Grant unconscious, though, and unable to defend himself.

  Her eyes narrowed. Grant’s office looked out, she remembered, onto a sunken garden. Latticed trellises climbed the walls, framing French windows onto tiny individual balconies. It was true, of course, that roses climbed the trellises, so that ascending them would be a delicate business. Still, it was not impossible, she decided.

  That wouldn’t help, she knew, if she couldn’t get in that way either. She remembered the curtain whipping in the wind, though; wasn’t it possible that with so much else going on that open window might have been overlooked? She could at least go out and see.

  If it was, it would take her some time to get in. By that time, Grant might be conscious, and between the two of them they might do something.

  There were an awful lot of possibles and mights to this scenario, but it made her nervous to think of Grant at the mercy of those two. Olivia was still just about rational, but she was in a tight spot. At any minute she might lose her nerve. If she had a gun, it might not take too much to make it go off in Grant’s direction, will or no will.

  Ten minutes later Rachel stood looking up at Grant’s office from the ground. The air was still, but she could see that the window was still open. Wonderful, she thought sourly. So now all she had to do was climb up through this blasted rose-bush and come to the rescue.

  Without the rose-bush, the climb might have taken a minute or two. Contending with the thorns, Rachel took a solid fifteen minutes. Each move involved moving a hand or foot to a new resting place, then prising free the briar that had fastened itself to sleeve or trouser leg. By the time she had reached the top she had decided not to tear Grant limb from limb after all. She would stick pins in him instead.

  At last she stood on the tiny balcony. Inside, Olivia and her comrade were still arguing.

  ‘At least let me tie him up,’ said the man. ‘Look, he’s stirring now.’

  ‘You’ve got a gun, for heaven’s sake,’ Olivia said contemptuously.

  Rachel slipped behind the curtain and peeped into the room.

  Grant sat on a chair, his hair matted with blood. He was staring dully ahead. As Rachel took in the scene, though, his gaze shifted slightly, and his eyes widened as he caught her eye.

  Olivia sat at the desk, her back to Rachel. Rachel couldn’t tell whether she had a gun or not. The man was leaning against the desk, holding a gun and looking rather uneasily at Grant.

  Rachel looked again at Grant. What did he want her to do? They would only have one chance, she thought grimly. Was he fit enough for a fight?

  His face was very pale. Rachel forced herself to wait. There was no point in rushing things.

  ‘I don’t care what you say, I’m going to tie him up,’ the man said sulkily. ‘I saw some gaffer tape in the storeroom.’

  ‘All right.’ Olivia shrugged. ‘Leave me the gun, then. I’ll keep him covered.’

  The man left the room. Olivia went round to the front of the desk and held the gun aimed at Grant.

  His eyes were open now, though he was obviously having trouble sitting up. His mouth quirked in amusement at the gun. ‘Second thoughts, darling?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  Olivia made an impatient gesture with her gun hand. ‘I’m sorry it had to come to this, Grant,’ she said. ‘Of course it’s absurd. Why did you have to be such a bloody fool, though? You were sitting on a gold-mine. You could have named your price.’

  ‘It’s always such a tragedy, isn’t it, when people don’t like the same jokes?’ said Grant. ‘Here you thought you’d found a solvent man, GSOH—good sense of humour,’ he translated helpfully. ‘A lovely girl like you wouldn’t go trawling the lonely hearts so you wouldn’t know that. And then to find someone hell-bent on destroying his liquidity, and with no sense of humour worth speaking of!’

  ‘Oh, you were always very amusing,’ said Olivia.

  ‘But not amused, darling,’ he said drily. ‘Not at all amused by the way you had Rachel attacked.’

  ‘That little meddler!’ Olivia said viciously. ‘I tried to get rid of her, but would she listen? No! She had to poke her nose in. Well, it served her right. I hope it taught her a lesson!’

  This, Rachel decided, was her cue.

  ‘Olivia!’ she called.

  Olivia whipped round.

  Rachel stepped through the curtains. ‘Look out!’ she shouted. And she hurled something large and black and leggy at the other woman.

  Olivia recoiled instinctively.

  The split second was all Grant needed. He hurled himself forward, knocking the gun to the ground.

  Olivia screamed. Footsteps thundered down the corridor outside. Grant snatched up the gun; in two strides he had reached the door and placed himself just inside.

  Griffiths burst through the door and was knocked to the ground as Grant brought the gun down on the back of his neck.

  But now, from further away, they heard voices and more running footsteps.

  Grant’s eyes swept the room, and came to rest on the walk-in closet.

  ‘Well, much as I hate to leave you this way…’ he murmured to Olivia. Her eyes moved nervously from Grant to the unconscious figure on the floor. Before she realised what he had in mind, Grant took her by the shoulders and bundled her into the closet. He slammed the door shut, then locked the door to the office and began blockading it with furniture.

  Rachel spotted the roll of gaffer tape on the ground beside Griffiths. She snatched it up and rolled it around his arms several times.

  Grant glanced down. ‘Well done, Spidergirl!’ He grinned. ‘Now, let’s get out of here.’

  He strode across the room to a window and threw it open. It was around the corner from the one Rachel had entered, and though it had a trellis the gardeners hadn’t yet persuaded roses to climb up it.

  ‘Ladies first,’ he said, with a bow and a flourish. Fists were pounding on the door behind them. Rachel swarmed down the trellis, closely followed by Grant.

  They took off across the lawn. Grant seemed to run effortlessly, in spite of his ordeal; Rachel had trouble keeping up. At last the driveway
was in sight. She put on a burst of speed. Suddenly there was a searing pain in her arm—and for the second time that week everything went black.

  Rachel came to in the front seat of the Jaguar. Grant was driving it along the road to the village with more than his usual urgency; his profile was grim. She thought for a moment of asking what had happened, caught a glimpse of the speedometer and thought again. Her arm was throbbing; after a minute or so she fell into an uneasy half-sleep.

  About ten minutes went by; Grant was negotiating the streets of the town. The car bounced over the cobbles, took a turn, and slowed abruptly. Grant swore under his breath as the Jaguar drifted implacably to a halt.

  The next thing she knew, Rachel was being carried in Grant’s arms through the streets. The movement jarred her arm painfully; she drifted in and out of consciousness, and woke at last in her aunt’s living room.

  She was lying on the sofa, wrapped in a brightly coloured blanket. A fire was burning in the fireplace. There were low voices in the background.

  ‘She’ll be all right, Grant,’ said Uncle Walter. ‘It’s just a flesh wound.’ Just, thought Rachel indignantly. ‘Why, a little thing like this is nothing to Rachel.’

  ‘I did think she’d settle down like ordinary people with Driscoll,’ said Aunt Harriet. ‘But I suppose it’s just in the blood.’

  ‘She looks very pale,’ Grant said anxiously. ‘Shouldn’t she see a doctor? I know you sterilised the wound but I still think an expert opinion wouldn’t be amiss.’

  ‘Never you mind,’ Aunt Harriet said comfortably. ‘She’ll come round. Did she ever show you her scrapbook?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a brief pause while Aunt Harriet rooted about for this treasure.

  ‘Look at this. SCHOOLGIRL EXPOSES TROPICAL BIRD RACKET. That was when she went on a school trip to the Amazon.’ There was a rustling of pages. ‘Or this one: BRITISH TOURLST UNCOVERS WHITE SLAVE TRADE. That was when she went on a package tour to Sicily with a couple of girlfriends.’

  ‘Her leg was in a cast for weeks afterward, but that didn’t faze Rachel one bit,’ Uncle Walter said cheerfully.