'How old is your uncle?' Liza asked, wondering if she had seen pictures of Louise Bresham in the newspapers at some time in the past. If she had and if Keir Gifford had been in the same photograph, he hadn't impinged upon her memory.
'G. K.'s a good bit younger than my mother,' Bruno said, and she laughed shortly.
'I was beginning to suspect as much!'
'He's thirty-seven, I think—or is it thirty-eight now? He's probably not too keen to tell. It will be funny if Louise does get a divorce and marries him—she came pretty close last time, my mother says. Mind you, G. K. has had several near misses—I can remember several girls who looked like becoming Mrs Gifford for a while, but I think he gets cold feet at the last moment. I suppose you can't blame him; he has a busy social life and women do flock when he's around. Must seem a pity to give all that up to settle down with just one woman.'
Liza settled down in the passenger seat of his car without answering, but all the way back to her flat she kept remembering the way the brunette's hand had strayed possessively along Keir's arm without him doing anything to stop her. Had they been lovers?
What's it to me if they have? she thought aggressively, her green eyes fixed on the road as Bruno drove fast, weaving in and out of traffic. Normally she would have turned a little pale, asked him to slow down, for heaven's sake, was he trying to get killed? Today she hardly noticed; her mind was too busy elsewhere.
He had lied to her so cunningly, so convincingly. Damn him, she thought. Keir Gifford was a bastard; hadn't Bruno more or less warned about that a long time ago? Whenever he mentioned his uncle he added a rider to that effect—G. K. was ruthless, he said. G. K. was a demon polo player, merciless and hard-hitting at play and at work. G. K. had women flocking around him and he wasn't ready to give up his busy love-life for just one woman.
'Sure you won't have dinner?' Bruno asked, pulling up outside her flat, and she shook her head, smiling back. He sighed. 'I wish you'd had more time to talk to my mother. I know you and she would get on once you knew each other.'
'I'm sure we would,' Liza said, forbearing to point out that his mother had got away from her unwanted company as soon as she decently could. Pippa Morris didn't care to know her, thank you very much. She was prejudiced; she had been from the very start, no doubt. She had a simple mind and liked stereotypes; she thought that Liza was an ex-model, a blonde ex-model, as Fleet Street loved to say, and Mrs Morris would fight tooth and nail to stop her beloved only son marrying her. Liza could, of course, explain that she had no intention of marrying Bruno, that they were just good friends, platonic friends, but unfortunately Bruno was not being as co-operative in giving that impression as she had hoped. His mother probably wouldn't believe her.
'You did like her, then?' Bruno asked, his face lighting up.
Liza leaned over and kissed him lightly. 'Of course. You're a darling, Bruno, it's been a nice day—see you soon.'
She got out of the car and waved as he drove away. He was looking cheerful. Liza wished she felt as happy as he obviously did, but the events of the day had depressed her. If she had had any inkling of Keir Zachary's real identity, she would never have let Bruno take her to that polo ground, but it was too late to grieve over spilt milk. In a way, it was lucky she had gone—at least she now knew exactly what sort of man Keir was and she would take great care to steer clear of him in future.
She walked into the marble-floored lobby of the Gifford building at the usual time next morning, producing her security card as she passed the uniformed man on the door.
'Miss Thurston?' he asked as if he had never seen her before, and when she looked at his face she realised that he was a stranger. The usual man was standing just behind him looking worried and uneasy.
'Yes,' Liza said, puzzled but polite, imagining that this was some new check to make sure that the security cards were being properly used.
"Will you come with me, please?' The man had hard, direct, searching eyes. He looked like a policeman, which was probably what he was—she knew that most of the security people in the building had been in the police force earlier in their lives.
'Why?' she asked, but instead of answering her the security man gripped her arm in firm fingers and urged her towards a lift.
'It won't take a few mintues, miss. Please come this way.'
Other arrivals turned to stare curiously as Liza was politely hustled across the echoing lobby, and she felt herself flushing in embarrassment. It was stupid, she had done nothing, but she felt guilty and nervous, even frightened, as if she might have committed some crime without knowing about it, and had now been found out.
'Now, look here----- ' she broke out, pulling herself
together as she realised what she was thinking. 'What's this all about, anyway? I haven't got time for some sort of random security check, I'm in a hurry, today is a busy day for me.'
'I'm sorry, miss, but I'm just following orders!' the man said, not releasing her arm as the lift doors closed on them. Liza felt even more nervous as she saw that they were alone; nobody had liked to join them in the lift, although people had been flocking around the lobby. No doubt they had imagined that Liza was being arrested and they weren't sure whether she was armed and dangerous. Did they think she was a terrorist? A criminal? Whatever they had thought, they had stayed clear of the lift and stared at her until the doors shut and hid their astonished, wide-eyed faces.
'Where are we going?' Liza asked tensely, her colour high.
The security man didn't answer; the lift was shooting upwards like a bullet from a gun, the floor lights flashing as she watched: tenth floor, fifteenth floor, twentieth floor. Where on earth were they going?
The lift stopped and she was urged out into a deeply carpeted corridor, hushed and reverential, like a cathedral. Liza seemed to have left her stomach behind in the lift; she was hollow and taut with shock. She knew where she was now and she knew who had given the order to grab her and rush her up here.
The security man pushed her into a large office and a woman of late middle years got up from behind a desk, smiling.
'Miss Thurston? Go straight in, he's expecting you.'
Liza walked across the room, head up, back straight, her teeth clamped together and her face burning with rage. How dared he? How dared he?
She heard his voice as she opened the door. He was talking on the phone, his tone brusque. 'Yes, maybe, but that's no excuse!'
His sleek black head lifted as he heard Lisa come in, and he watched her coolly from behind the wide, leather-topped desk at which he sat. She hesitated and he gestured to a chair without speaking.
As she walked across the room she was angrily conscious of his wandering eyes; they were busy talking in the eau-de-Nil two-piece she wore; a tight, lapelled jacket and finely pleated skirt, in silk crepe which clung to her warm skin, outlining her body. He didn't miss an inch of her; his eyes sliding down her long, smooth legs to her narrow feet in the fragile, white high heels.
'Of course the board didn't lie,' he said curtly, into the phone. 'They simply left out a vital fact or two, and we should have expected that. In their place, I'd have done the same. You shouldn't have got caught out.'
Liza reluctantly sat down, crossing her legs, her throat hot under the permanent, fixed appraisal. She would love to slap his face, but the atmosphere of this long, spacious room weighted heavily on her. It was richly austere; warm, golden panelling, a bowl of white roses, deep chairs with oxblood leather upholstery and a panoramic view of London's skyline. The desk was neatly stacked with files, one of which was open under his elbow; a bank of telephones ranged along one side and on the other stood a console.
He looked different again this morning—not the shabby relaxed man she had met in Essex, nor the powerful sportsman on the polo field. This, finally, was the real man—the G. K. Gifford she had imagined, the man the financial press talked about with such awe and envy, the man who had dreamt up the very building in which they sat, whose companies were far-f
lung and various, whose private fortune, she had once read in a gossip column, was impossible to calculate.
Here he was, in his own persona at last; remote, powerful, authoritative, icily assured in that expensive tailoring, the dark, pin-striped city suit with a tight-fitting waistcoat and a blue and white striped shirt, the dark blue silk tie with the tiny silver emblem on it. A club tie, no doubt; she couldn't quite work out what the emblem was supposed to be—it seemed to be some sort of bird in flight.
The clothes in this case were a form of armour; formal and distancing, proclaiming his authority and keeping you in your place. His face was closely shaven, his hair glossy, his blue eyes half veiled by drooping lids, but they were still flicking over her, almost absently, as if he didn't realise he was staring.
'I want this tidied up, and soon,' he said in a voice which left no room for discussion. 'Too much time has been wasted, don't waste any more. I'll expect to hear from you before the end of the week.'
He put the phone down and laid his hands flat on the desk, smiling at her,
'Sorry about that. It was an important call.'
'Oh, I understand about business calls,' Liza said bitingly, without smiling back. 'I have important business waiting for me in my own office.' Her voice hardened, lifted angrily. 'So why was I dragged up here? No explanations, just some goon grabbing my arm and hauling me into the lift while everyone in the lobby stared and probably thought I was being arrested. I got that impression myself! What do you want, Mr Gifford?'
He leaned back, his long fingers tapping on the desk in an impatient rhythm. 'I apologise if you were embarrassed or alarmed ...'
'Thank you,' she said with icy dismissal, and rose to her feet.
'Sit down!'
The voice was like the crack of a whip and she sank back into her chair automatically, then flushed and gave him a furious look.
'I have better things to do with my time than
'I'm sending Bruno to the States,' he interrupted tersely.
Liza's mouth froze, parted but silent. He got up and walked to the enormous window, stared out with his back to her. 'For two years,' he said.
Liza got her breath back and laughed angrily. 'Because of me? You're sending him to the States for two years to get him away from me? I suppose I ought to be flattered that you think me such a threat, but it's ludicrous, crazy.' She thought about it, watching his long, smooth back in the expensive suit. Oh, yes, it was armour—and this was war, a conflict he had every intention of winning.
'I didn't say I thought you were a threat!' He still didn't turn round. He put one hand flat on the glass, his fingers spread wide, his lean body taut and there was a faint reflection of his face on the window as he shifted.
'Oh, of course not!' she snapped. 'Your decision has nothing whatever to do with me, does it? So why are you telling me about it?'
He was silent for a moment, leaning forward to stare downwards, and Liza had to look away, shuddering, because she got vertigo if she ever looked down from a great height. It made her feel as if the street was rushing up to meet her or she was falling helplessly down through empty air towards the toy cars and the antlike people far below.
'You know I'm sending him away because of you,' Keir said harshly, and she bit down on her lip, both angry and strangely excited.
She had made quite an impact of his exclusive, protected world. She had him running scared, scrambling to whisk Bruno out of her proximity before it was too late. It was a backhanded compliment, but she couldn't help a twinge of triumph. She had never seen herself as a femme fatale before; it was an intriguing role.
'I'm tempted to marry Bruno just to teach you a lesson,' she told Keir and he turned then, his blue eyes dark with emotion.
T wouldn't let that happen!'
'You couldn't stop us—Bruno's over twenty-one, he isn't a child.'
'You aren't in love with him!' Keir took a step and she suddenly began to tremble as it dawned on her that she had misread what was being said, misunderstood what was happening.
She scrambled out of her chair and headed for the door, feeling frightened, although she couldn't quite put into words what was alarming her. Keir crossed the room much faster, with long-legged strides, and caught her before she was half-way across the carpet.
'You aren't seeing Bruno again,' he told her as his hand fell on her shoulder and whirled her to face him.
She slapped his arm down, hoarsely muttering, 'Don't touch me!'
'Not yet,' Keir said and her ears buzzed with hypertension. What was going on? What did he really mean?
'You can't stop me seeing Bruno,' she said and he laughed without bothering to answer, because he could and they both knew it. Liza had a drowning feeling; her head was whirling.
'Have you told Bruno?'
'Last night,' he said curtly.
'That you're sending him to the States and
'That you're not for him,' Keir said, and although he wasn't touching her she felt his stare like burn marks on her skin. He watched her, waiting, not smiling, almost grave and she tried not to believe he meant this, but knew he did.
'You have no right to decide whether Bruno and I could be happy!' She was arguing about it, although she had never had any intention of marrying Bruno, it hadn't crossed her mind, she had always known that Bruno wasn't someone she could love like that. She wasn't going to tell Keir that, though.
'He's leaving at the end of the week and I want your promise that you won't see him.'
'I'm not promising you anything!'
He gripped her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. Pulling her close to him, his face lowered just inches from hers, those blue eyes staring fiercely at her.
'You will,' he said softly, so softly she had to watch his mouth to read the words. 'You'll promise me here and now.'
'Get your hands off me,' she muttered, writhing in his grasp, but that only made her more aware of the firm muscle and flesh clamped against her body. She could hear him breathing, her eyes were on a level with his mouth and she could see a tiny muscle jerking beside his lips. Keir was angry, tense.
"Bruno didn't dine with us last night, although he'd promised to,' he said. 'Did he stay with you last night? Until the early hours?'
She shook her head.
'Don't lie to me,' Keir said furiously, his skin dark red now. 'I'd begun to think I was wrong about you—you just didn't seem the sort of gold-digger my sister said you were.' His blue eyes were hard and remorseless, lashing her with contempt, making her wince. T thought I was being very clever, meeting you without telling you who I was, getting to know you when you didn't have a chance to put on an act, but you still managed to fool me, didn't you?' He glared at her. 'I rang Bruno at midnight. There was no answer, was there? He wasn't in his flat and he didn't answer his phone until after two in the morning— so what the hell were you two doing until then?' He laughed harshly. 'That was a rhetorical question! I don't need to be told!'
Liza frowned, completely taken aback. Where on earth had Bruno gone after he dropped her back at her flat? She had taken it for granted that he was going to have dinner with his mother. Mrs Morris had reminded him that that was what he had promised to do, and Bruno hadn't breathed a word of going anywhere else.
'What did Bruno say when you rang him?' she asked slowly.
'You want to make your story fit his, is that it?' Keir said cynically. 'Oh, no, we aren't playing games. I want the truth, Liza.' He moved his hand, gripping her fiercely by that tethered wrist, while his other hand caught her chin and pushed it backwards so that she had to stare up at him or shut her eyes.
'Tell me, damn you!' he said, his face hard and cold.
Her mouth was dry with fear. If she had ever wondered just how menacing Keir Gifford could be, she knew now. He was an adversary to be wary of, but she was trapped. She couldn't avoid this intolerable physical intimacy, and although she fought not to let it show she was icy and her stomach had butterflies.
The only way
she could fight back was to attack; wasn't that the best defence?
'Who the hell do you think you are?' she snapped, and was relieved to find her voice steady, amazingly, almost normal. 'Don't you manhandle me, Mr Gifford! What are you going to do if I don't tell you what you want to know? Beat me up?'
'No,' he said, staring down at her, his blue eyes glittering, compelling, making her face burn hotter. T don't know what the hell I am going to do about you, Liza! All I do know is that I don't want Bruno anywhere near you!'
She took a long fierce breath, staring angrily. 'Do you realise how insulting you are? You may not think I'm good enough to marry into your family, but
'Has Bruno proposed to you?'
'If he had, that wouldn't be your business!'
T won't have it,' Keir grated and she stared incredulously.
' You won't have it? You can't do anything to stop it— we're both over twenty-one and
She never finished that sentence. His mouth came down, crushing and barbaric, as if he wanted to hurt her, hated her—and yet at the same time with a wild sensuality that made her give at the knees. She put her hands on his shoulders to push him away, but her mouth clung and she shuddered in excited pleasure which was bitterly familiar. She had felt like this before! Her body had betrayed her, given in to this sweet delirium which made it so easy to forget everything else.
She broke free of it, shoving him away at the same time. 'Don't you...' Her voice broke and then she forced the rest of the words out, 'Ever touch me again!'
Keir stared at her; his blue eyes seeming blind, dazed. 'Liza', he said hoarsely, reaching for her and a note in his voice made her head spin. This was no game, no pretence—he wanted her and she hated her own weakness as she felt her senses jangle in response. She wanted him, but she couldn't lose control of herself again. Last time she had been hurt so badly. This time she had far more to lose; she knew the world now. She knew what could happen—she was no longer a romantic, wide-eyed adolescent; she was a hard-headed business woman who had fought her way to the top and meant to stay there. No man was muscling his way into her life again, or wrecking it for her. She was free, independent and safe, and she meant to stay that way.
Out of Control Page 8