Nikki slid out of the bed, a servant to some great imperative, and fumbled for her jeans which were lying neatly on the floor. Her money and keys were still in the pockets; with extreme difficulty she managed to wriggle into them and get the zip up. She sat, panting slightly, to stuff her feet into her tennis shoes.
Damn, damn, damn. The doctor had been right, of course. Some amount of movement was necessary but excruciating, and she could feel the cuts break open and start to bleed again.
The town house was so silent. Carefully Nikki eased into the hall and towards the stairs. She had to pass another dark room to get to them; she didn’t know why she stopped, turned aside and glided soundlessly over the carpet to peer within the open door.
The figure in the bed was so very still. Nikki crept over to the side of the bed and stood for long moments staring down at Harper’s serene face.
The mane of his thick hair spilled from his forehead, scarcely darker than the pillow it rested on. A sheet tangled at lean hips; he was bare from the waist up, and there was a suggestion of a darker shadow on the wide, strong chest. One muscled arm was flung out straight, the other bent with the hand tucked under the pillow.
He was asleep. He was a stranger, and Nikki’s heartbeat was a crazy thing.
She tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs. The pale illumination had come from a light left on in the kitchen, whose door was propped open. Duncan was not up yet either.
What an ungracious thing to do, she thought, as she found a pad of paper and a pen by the phone in the hall. It wouldn’t have hurt her to endure until morning to thank Harper and Duncan Chang in person. She was quite willing to admit that she was behaving in a somewhat erratic fashion, as she gritted her teeth against the pain, found a way to grip the pen and scrawled across the top page in shaky letters, “Thank you for everything.” She left the note in the middle of the hall table and fumbled through the locks on the front door. There was no denying that she was over-reacting to the stresses of the night before, but she needed to be home in the privacy of her bed-sit just as soon as she could possibly get there, and waking up alone in a strange place after such a night was a cold and comfortless experience.
Besides, she did remember everything, and Harper had been right of course—she’d been in no shape to go home at all, though she’d done her best to fight it. How galling to be an imposition on a man such as he.
She eased out of the house, shivering in the pre-dawn air, totally unprepared for the sense of bereavement she felt as the front door closed behind her on the briefest of glimpses into another life—it was like a candle going out in the dark. “Nikki, Nikki,” she muttered darkly, shaking her head as she jogged down the steps and across the street, “you’re a proud and willful soul.”
Perhaps it wasn’t the true reason why she was running away, but it comforted her to think so.
Upstairs in the town house Harper opened his eyes, which were quite alert and contemplative.
With remarkable ease Nikki caught a taxi which took her to Knightsbridge and pulled to a stop just outside the little mews where she lived.
Her bed-sit was spacious and airy, the fourth-floor attic of a building of flats. She had two huge skylights that let in great quantities of natural light or a dizzying panoramic view of the stars, both of which more than made up for the exorbitant gas bills she had to pay for her central heating. If fingers got cold, fingers couldn’t work.
Nikki spared a wry glance at the bandaged fingers that wouldn’t be doing any work for a while, and moved slowly, awkwardly, to make herself a cup of tea. Now that she could unwind in her own precious space she would have preferred just going to bed and curling up under her covers to sleep the day away, but she had far too much to do. Considering how long it took her to make a cup of tea, she couldn’t even afford the luxury of an hour in bed.
She managed to put the cup on a tray and carry it over to her couch, which was shoved back against the one wall not covered with bookshelves. She turned the telly on so that the morning news would help keep her awake, then settled back to drink her cup of milky tea.
Thank God her mother and brother lived on the other side of the Atlantic! Much as she loved them, Nikki felt as though she’d spent her whole life battling to live independently from her family’s wealth and influence. If either one of them found out what had happened to her last night, she’d never hear the end of it—besides, as she did love them very much, she wouldn’t want to put them through the anxiety they’d experience were they to hear of her attack.
Nikki checked her watch and groaned. She had to go into the office; she had a meeting with Peter, the owner and managing director of the marketing company, and she wasn’t looking forward to telling him that she would be unable to meet her obligations for the next couple of weeks. Peter’s business was small but highly successful, and she was his most popular designer.
Nikki performed, in her mind, a minor miracle. With plastic bags over her hands, she managed a shower of sorts without getting her bandages too damp. She dressed in an ankle-length black skirt and sleek boots, and an off-the-shoulder black velvet top, with long, tight-fitting sleeves and an equally snug-fitting bodice. She looked smart and stylish, the sobriety of the outfit broken by the extreme femininity of her exposed collarbones and neck. The only problem was her pale, drawn face and tousled hair, and by nine o’clock she was in the small local hairdressers at the crossroads of the main intersection near her bed-sit where she normally got her hair cut.
She was. lucky, as Gemma, the girl who usually cut her hair, was fine for half an hour and more than willing to shampoo and blow-dry the short black locks into a layered profusion of shining wisps which lay lightly along the pronounced angle of Nikki’s cheekbones and delicate blue-veined hollow of her temples. Then Gemma, excited and sympathetic for the story Nikki told her about how she’d cut her hands, offered to help with a little make-up, and stroked a skilful blend of bluish-grey shadow under Nikki’s eyebrows, making her blue eyes seem larger, along with a touch of dusky red colour along her cheekbones, which did much to disguise the effects of her interrupted night.
By ten Nikki felt ready to meet whatever reaction would be facing her at Peter’s, and she travelled by bus to the smartly decorated offices, which were buzzing as usual with a high-octane mixture of impending deadlines and a fast-paced turn-over of work.
A chorus of greetings were called out as Nikki manoeuvred her way through the busy ground floor, and she responded with a quick smile and wave. She didn’t stop to chat with any of the staff as she normally would have done, however, but went directly to Peter’s office. He was on the phone and she cooled her heels for a quarter of an hour, waiting outside until he had finished.
Peter’s door finally opened and he came out to greet her. He was a whippet-thin man in his forties who could never seem to sit still, full to overflowing with nervous energy. Nikki found him likeable, but exhausting.
“Fantastic news!” Peter said. “I’ve just been on the phone to a prospective client, who’s very interested in your work, Nikki, my love. This could be big, very big. If we manage to bag this guy, both of our reputations would sky-rocket. He’s coming in for a chat in a half an hour, so our meeting will have to be brief, but I’d like you to stick around until he gets here so that he can talk to you himself. OK with you?”
“That depends,” she said warily as she rose to her feet and followed him into his office. Decorating his walls were several large framed paintings, most of them her work, the originals of advertisement posters for Covent Garden operas, West End musicals, and one for a Tate Gallery exhibition from last year. The elegant, colourful pictures were all so familiar to her that she didn’t spare them a second glance, but settled with an inward sigh into the seat opposite Peter’s desk. “You see, I have some rather bad news.”
Peter forsook his chair to perch on the corner of his desk, then his glance fell, and he
froze. “Good God, what have you done to your hands?”
“That’s the bad news, I’m afraid,” she said wryly, as she looked down also with a grimace. She told him, briefly, what had happened to her the night before, and finished with, “So you see, I won’t be able to work for a few weeks. You’ll have to find someone else to take over my projects that won’t wait.”
“I thought my luck was too good this morning!” he groaned deeply, and raked both hands through his untidy hair. “Now what am I going to do? I’ve got this new client coming in fifteen minutes, specifically asking for you as designer, and I’ve all but promised him that we could deliver whatever he wanted!”
“Well, can’t you put him off for a few weeks?” Nikki asked, rubbing at the bridge of her nose tiredly. Normally she loved the fast-paced pressure and took pride in the popularity of her work, but today she felt sluggish, unable to cope with the demand. “Anyway, it would have taken me that long to finish the work I’ve already got. He wouldn’t be losing out.”
“I was already counting on getting the other designers to do what you’ve got at the moment, so that you could concentrate on this project.” He looked at her helplessly. “Forgive me for asking, but are you sure you can’t do any work?”
She gave an angry-sounding little laugh and spread out her half-curled, bandaged hands. “There’s nothing wrong with my brain, Peter. But I’m afraid that any artwork is out of the question. I couldn’t even wash my own hair or put on any make-up this morning; I had to stop at a hairdressers on the way.”
“Damn,” he swore softly.
“Look, I’ll hang around,” she said, taking pity on him. “Surely if I meet this guy and talk to him myself, he’ll be reasonable about waiting. We won’t lose this account if I can help it—that is, if he’s as important as you say he is.”
“Oh, he is, darling,” she was assured fervently. “A very important man. He’s practically a British institution in himself—financial wizard, international entrepreneur, multi-millionaire, comes from a prominent family. Not only does he advise governments from time to time, but he’s also one of the most prominent art collectors in the country, and all by the age of thirty-six. At one time all he had to do was appear at a private exhibition to establish an artist’s reputation, but he’s very elusive and hasn’t been seen at an art gallery for five years now. Do you see why it’s so vital to keep his business, if we can get it?”
She did, indeed. If they could win the business of a man of that calibre, not only did it mean possible international exposure for Peter’s marketing firm, but it also meant a watershed for her own career. Intense frustration welled up so strongly that her hands started to tighten into fists until a sharp sear of pain brought a muffled exclamation from her.
“Don’t worry, Peter,” she said grimly as he shot a sharp, enquiring glance at her. “We’ll work something out. Just how, I don’t know, but we will.”
His buzzer on the desk sounded, and he answered it impatiently. It was his eleven o’clock appointment, and Peter straightened from the desk and attempted to smooth down his unruly thatch of hair. “Bring him in, please,” he said to his secretary, and as they waited he whispered, “Showtime, Nikki.”
The door opened, and Nikki’s gaze swivelled to it and stopped. Everything stopped.
Peter stepped forward, hand outstretched to the man who had stridden into the office. “How do you do? I’m Peter Bellis,” he said smoothly. “And this is the designer we talked about over the phone—Nikki Ashton. Nikki, meet Harper Beaumont.”
“What?” she murmured, not really hearing, still in the grip of shock and surprised excitement. She could not tear her eyes away from him. He shook Peter’s hand courteously yet somehow managed to hold himself aloof, clad in a formal, conservative dark blue suit, his hard, lean expression one of thorough boredom until his dark eyes met hers and flared alight, with something not quite a laugh, not quite a smile, but which sizzled electrically throughout her entire body.
If she had not already been sitting, she would have then, hard. This man did nasty things to her equilibrium. Peter threw her an exasperated glance. “I said, this is Harper Beaumont—”
“Don’t bother,” murmured Nikki dreamily, “we’ve met.” Peter’s mouth fell open in surprise. Harper was watching her closely with a faint smile, while she strove very hard to maintain a composed expression. Underneath she was trembling from head to foot, when he hadn’t even so much as said a word to her. What a ridiculous fool she was, what a ridiculous, naive fool not to have recognised the electric current between them last night for what it really was. She didn’t want to feel this kind of attraction for any man, let alone this vibrant, intense sexual voltage. It was both frightening and disturbing, and just what in the world was she supposed to do now?
She felt, against all sense or reason, an incredible urge to run over to Harper Beaumont and throw her arms around his waist in delighted welcome. How impossible, how absurd, what a haughty, repellent surprise he would show at such an uncontrolled gesture, and how inexplicably miserable she felt at quelling the urge.
“You look tired,” said Harper silkenly, ignoring the incredulous fascination of the man standing beside him.
“Delayed reaction,” she replied in a wry voice, furiously willing the tide of colour away from her face. Wretched man, to remind her of how she cravenly ran from his house. Without taking her eyes away from Harper’s face, she explained to Peter, “Harper was the man I bumped into last night in Soho. He took me back to his place, and called a doctor and the police. I—don’t know what I would have done without him.”
“I see,” said Peter, which of course he didn’t. “Well, at least that takes care of one issue. You’ll already know that Nikki is unable to take on new assignments for the next few weeks, but I’m sure that once you’ve looked at the quality of her work you’ll agree that it’s more than worth the wait.”
Harper turned his grey head and said softly, “That remains to be seen.”
Nikki recoiled, her expression swiftly changing into one of haughty affront, but Peter just nodded and smiled and replied, “Of course. Now if you can tell me what you want, I’ll be happy to show you around the offices so that you can see what sort of things we can provide.”
For the next forty-five minutes the two men talked, while Nikki sat back and bore silent witness, alternately seething for how completely she was ignored, offended at Harper’s earlier dismissal of her work, and feeling a fugitive sense of abandonment for what appeared to her to be a total rejection of whatever connection they had established last night.
Which was stupid. More than stupid, irrational, she told herself, inwardly struggling with the chaos her emotions were in. Of course any former personal contact would have nothing to do with the business of the day. He was far too successful; she was too successful to conduct her profession on that level. Besides, what did they really have established, anyway? Nothing, nothing at all—a chance meeting, and a display of common decency for someone in distress. That was over with, finished, kaput. A closed chapter. If it were not for the business at hand, they might never have met again.
Nothing of her inner turmoil showed on her delicate, calm face. Indeed, she looked withdrawn to the point of coldness, blue eyes watching both men analytically as they talked. Peter’s energetic restlessness looked somehow sloppy and unrestrained next to Harper’s relaxed body and contained dynamism. Every action, every nuance in his voice and body was a controlled output. The sheer power of personality he commanded was meticulously aimed and hit its mark time and again, never overshooting, never reaching overkill; how dangerous he was. In fact, she was quite sure Peter did not understand just how much. This man, unleashed and rampant, could destroy a person.
He was looking for an exclusive range of updated material for his own company, from new letter-heads to glossy booklets and magazines, even down to the design in his own City offices. Ev
erything had to be coordinated. The targeted market was not the general public, but was very high indeed: bank managers, boards of directors, even governmental offices. Harper’s own international clientele was cosmopolitan, sophisticated and extremely wealthy. They had expensive tastes and lifestyles, and a daunting level of expectation; in fact, Harper considered the matter so important that it warranted his personal attention, instead of being delegated down to some other department.
She could see Peter becoming more and more awed as the meeting went on, but Nikki had been brought up in just such an atmosphere of global connections and her mind was already racing ahead, anticipating each consideration before Harper ever mentioned it.
Then it was Peter’s turn to present what he thought his company could provide, and by that time Harper had set him up so cleverly that the man was falling over himself in an effort to procure Harper’s business. Nikki, her expression very wry, declined to go on the grand tour of the offices with the other two but instead had coffee with Peter’s secretary as she waited for their return.
She refused to fall into the intelligent pitfall Harper had constructed. Though inwardly she was as much a victim as Peter and longed to be given the job, she would not scramble for it. Pride forbade it, especially after the cool way Harper had responded to Peter’s high opinion of her work. Nikki had studied in Paris for seven years, first at a private boarding-school, then later at art school. She had been trained by the very best, and knew just what she was capable of. What she was not used to was having her work dismissed so cavalierly, not even by a renowned art collector. If he wanted her to do the job, he would have to ask her himself.
The sound of their voices echoed down the corridor, and Nikki turned her head. With every appearance of aplomb, she met Harper’s shrewd, dissecting gaze, then set aside her coffee-cup and stood. “Well?” she asked.
A faint, disturbingly enigmatic smile deepened the corners of Harper’s stern mouth, but it was Peter who said, “I’ll leave you two to talk alone, shall I? Feel free to use my office.”
Cry Wolf Page 3