George steered her through the throng, produced a glass of champagne for her and hovered.
‘You work for Terry, don’t you? Are you his secretary?’
‘No, I run the PR department. Nicola looks happy, doesn’t she?’
George shot her a glower. ‘Sean had better make her happy or I’ll smash his face in.’
Startled but liking his honesty, Miranda smiled at him. ‘I know what you mean. Hurting her would be like running over a kitten, wouldn’t it?’
George made a growling noise in his throat. ‘She’s too good for Sean, that’s for sure.’ He was clearly besotted by the girl and very jealous of Sean – did Sean realise it?
A moment later, Miranda saw the angel of death on the other side of the room and stopped in her tracks, taking a sharp, indrawn, painful breath.
It couldn’t be! She closed her eyes, took another deep breath, and opened them again.
She wasn’t imagining it. It was him. He was wearing black again, but with a difference. Today he was wearing an immaculate black jersey wool suit, with a crisp white shirt, a dark blue silk tie. She saw other women in the room watching him with eager, covetous eyes. Couldn’t they see that brooding air of threat about him?
‘Something wrong?’ George asked.
She swallowed, managed to wave a hand. ‘Who is that? The guy talking to the woman in a pink hat.’
George looked, frowned. ‘Never seen him before in my life. He must be a friend of Terry Finnigan or maybe Nicola’s father. Or do you think he’s a gatecrasher? Shall I go and ask to see his invitation?’
‘No, leave it. I think he’s probably a friend of Terry’s.’ He had been on the yacht after all – and Terry must have invited him. She knew he was not one of the company excecutives, she hadn’t seen him at work, either before or since the yacht foundered.
She had been introduced to him briefly, during the cruise, but couldn’t remember his name. That was weird, wasn’t it? He had haunted her dreams ever since, yet she didn’t even know his name.
Terry pushed his way through the crowds of guests, bringing another glass of champagne for her. He was wearing a rainbow: sunshine yellow shirt, blue jacket, hot pink and green tie, blue trousers.
Huskily, tearing her gaze away from the angel of death, she managed to smile. ‘You look . . . dazzling!’
He grinned. ‘You mean I have vulgar tastes in clothes! I know. But I love bright colours, they cheer me up when I’m feeling down.’
He threw a glance over her. ‘You don’t look bad yourself. A bit subdued, all that mauve and white, but it suits you. My old Gran used to wear mauve all the time – it was what widows wore fifty years ago. Black at first, then mauve after six months.’
Their eyes met and he groaned.
‘Hush my mouth! Sorry, Miranda. I spoke without thinking. I’d forgotten Tom.’
‘That’s OK,’ she managed to get out, thinking, how could he forget Tom? But three years is a long time and people do forget. She wished she could, but Tom still showed up in her dreams, especially when she was very tired or under a strain.
‘You look lovely,’ Terry said in a sweetly obvious attempt to change the subject and cheer her up. ‘What are you doing this Sunday?’
‘Nothing much.’ Was he going to ask her out? Now and then she picked up the impression that Terry fancied her and might be going to ask her for a date, but so far it hadn’t happened, and she was not certain whether or not she would welcome his approach if it came.
She liked Terry, but she did not want to get involved with anyone. She was sure she would know if she were ready for a new relationship. So far she wasn’t.
He gave her a coaxing smile. ‘I’d like you to work on projected publicity for the new printer. I don’t want anyone to have an idea what we’re doing, yet, which means you can’t do this during the week with people walking in and out of the office all day. Could you do it on Sunday afternoon?’
‘OK,’ she said, laughing at herself silently. So much for her daydreaming. It had been work on Terry’s mind, after all, not romance. She should have known it would be. Terry was a workaholic.
The day to day workload for her job was not exactly heavy. She had to arrange advertising and publicity, of course, but Terry kept a very small budget for either of those. Advertising was largely in trade magazines, and bought in blocks for so many weeks or months, and publicity came up only from time to time, usually when they introduced a new product.
She had to have a certain technical literacy in order to work out copy for advertising, although Terry usually gave her a sketch of what he wanted her to write, puffing new features of a machine. She would have to know all about the new printer when she dealt with the marketing campaign later that year, so it made sense for her to familiarise herself with the details now.
Somebody loomed up beside them and her nerves leapt.
‘Hello, Terry.’
‘Alex! Great to see you, thanks for coming.’ Terry beamed from ear to ear. He either liked this man a lot or the man was rich and important. Or both.
Seeing the other man staring at her, Terry introduced them. ‘Alex, this is the head of our Public Relations department, Miranda Grey. Miranda, this is Alex.’
‘Alexandros Manoussi,’ the other man expanded, proffering his hand. ‘But we’ve met before, haven’t we?’
So that was his name. It sounded like the hiss of a snake. Sibilant, yet frighteningly sexy. She was sure she had never heard it before. She hesitated to take his hand, to touch him; long enough for Terry to notice.
‘Alex is one of our best customers,’ he told her pointedly, frowning. ‘We make all the navigational computers Alex puts into his yachts.’
‘Of course,’ she said, realising she had dealt with queries about such instruments, which were being put into boats in countries other than Greece, including Britain.
She had no choice; she had to put out her hand, let it be taken into the cool, supple fingers. A shiver went down her spine at the touch of his skin.
‘I’m a boatbuilder,’ he explained and the sound of his voice was bitterly familiar. She had never forgotten it; had heard it in her dreams for years.
‘Alex makes his boats over in Greece, at Piraeus,’ Terry told her. ‘I’ve been there to see how he works, and discuss with his designers what they need the computers to do for them.’
She was looking into Alex Manoussi’s dark eyes. ‘You built the yacht?’ Had he built the yacht they had been sailing on when it was wrecked and Tom drowned. There had been an inquest some months later but she had not been present, she had been too ill.
Only afterwards did she hear that the firm from whom Terry had chartered the yacht had been accused of negligence. That must have been Alex Manoussi’s firm.
What had happened after the inquest? She had never been told. This man must be rich and powerful. Had he had to face consequences? Or had his employees been blamed?
Over the years since, she had never wanted to discuss it, with Terry, or anyone else. When she came out of hospital she had only wanted to forget. The doctors had told her to put the past behind, try to forget, and she had not wanted to think too much about what happened after the wreck, although sometimes she was not sure the medical advice had been sensible. Perhaps refusing to think about something so traumatic allowed it to fester in the mind?
Terry interrupted before the Greek could answer her. ‘Have you seen Sean, Miranda? He should be taking care of Nicola. Why is she alone, over by the front door? Find him and tell him to stick beside his fiancée for the rest of the party, would you? We don’t want her getting upset at being neglected, do we? Her father would be furious.’
Miranda nodded. ‘Of course.’ She half-glanced at Alex Manoussi with a polite pretence of regret. ‘Would you excuse me?’
Did he guess how relieved she was to escape? There was a spark of cynicism in those eyes of his. Or was he simply noticing the way Terry coolly despatched her, like a servant, to do his bidding? Somet
imes she resented Terry’s habit of treating her that way, but since her illness she never had the energy to protest or argue.
It didn’t take her long to find Sean in the Victorian-style conservatory at the back of the house, joking and drinking with his friends.
She whispered her message and he groaned. ‘OK, OK, I’ll go and find her. Why doesn’t my father get off my case?’
She frowned disapproval at him. ‘She’s so sweet, Sean; be nice to her.’ It didn’t sound as if Sean cared much about Nicola and Miranda found that sad. The girl deserved better than a reluctant, indifferent fiancé.
‘Don’t you start! Dad’s bad enough.’ Sean glowered, his lower lip petulant. He hated being criticised.
He had his mother’s colouring – blond hair, rough and curly, bright, selfish, vain blue eyes, and a fresh complexion. If he didn’t stop drinking he would run to fat, his face would turn blotchy, those good looks of his would be destroyed and his liver would start giving him problems.
It was not her problem, though. She was paid to keep the firm in the public eye and make sure it had a good reputation. She was not paid to keep an eye on her boss’s son.
Shrugging, she rejoined the party, keeping well away from Terry and the Greek man, who were still talking on the other side of the room.
Miranda circulated, picking up discarded glasses and taking them out to the kitchen to be loaded into the dishwasher by one of the catering team in charge of the party.
The buffet was served half an hour later. She got herself a plate of food and retreated into a corner with it.
Prawns and curls of white turbot crusted with red peppercorns; strips of chicken in a creamy lemon sauce, a few spoonfuls of warm rice mixed with peas and ham and chopped tomato – and a lot of salad. A perfect summer buffet.
While she ate she watched the other guests. The Greek was talking to Sean now, standing beside Nicola who looked faintly nervous of him. Her long eyelashes flickered up and down, her mouth was a little open, as if she had trouble breathing but she kept a polite smile on her mouth, which Miranda found touching.
She really was far too young to cope with Sean, who might not be much older than her but was much tougher. He stood there, one hand in the pocket of his white jacket, while he held a glass in the other, apparently listening to the Greek but all the time looking around the room with those bold, over-bright blue eyes at any attractive woman in view. Miranda felt anxious for Nicola. Someone like her should be cherished and protected, probably had been all her life. Sean would do neither. He would hurt her and make her miserable.
What was the girl’s father doing, allowing this match? Couldn’t he see what sort of man Sean was turning into?
Come to that, why didn’t Terry see the way his son was shaping? Terry wasn’t a fool, surely he must realise the danger of allowing Sean to run wild this way?
But it wasn’t her business, she just worked for the company. Miranda decided to leave. She had run out of things to say to people she barely knew and she wanted to get home.
She saw Sean walk away, towards the hall, and went out to tell him she must be on her way but just before she reached him she heard the shrill peep-peep of a mobile in his pocket. He got it out, flipped it open.
‘Hi. Of course it’s me.’ He frowned. ‘I can’t. No, I can’t.’
Miranda waited, unsure what to do. Sean saw her hovering and gave her a nod.
‘Hang on,’ he said into his mobile, then looked at Miranda. ‘Yeah? What now? Not another summons from my dad?’
‘No, I just wanted to say I have to be going, I have to drive back to London early. Will you give my apologies to Nicola?’
He cut her short. ‘Sure, fine. Thanks for coming. I’ll tell Nicola goodbye for you.’
She smiled politely and walked out of the house, hearing Sean talking into his mobile again.
‘Look, I told you, I can’t see you this weekend, OK? You know what’s happening – I can’t just walk out on my own party.’
He sounded even drunker now. Well, at least he did not need to drive anywhere. No doubt his father would help him up to bed before he fell over.
Miranda had been careful not to drink too much of the champagne so freely on offer and had just swallowed a mug of strong black coffee. Not that she ever did drink more than a glass or two of wine. But tonight it would have been irritating to have to get a taxi to the station and take the train back to town. It would leave her with the problem of picking up her car some other time.
Sean, however, was not in the habit of thinking about consequences. All his life his father had made his life easy. Miranda did not have parents to do that favour for her. Her father had vanished when she was ten, her mother had not been the sort of parent who believes in mollycoddling offspring. Miranda had left home at eighteen to get a job in London, and had only had herself to rely on for years. It would do Sean good to have to do his own thinking for once.
As she drove away, she caught a glimpse in her wing mirror of Alex Manoussi coming out of the house. From the way he stared after her car she guessed he had followed her, was looking for her, and shivered. Thank God she had escaped before he caught up with her.
He still had the same effect on her as he had had, even before the yacht foundered. Always in black, his face set in strong, hard lines, his manner cold, he was not a man anyone would take to on sight.
When he walked up to her and asked her to dance one evening, on the yacht, she had found being in his arms a disturbing experience and afterwards had avoided him whenever they were in the same room. He had not spoken to her during the dance; she had learnt nothing about him and been left curious.
‘Who is he?’ she had asked Tom.
‘No idea. Obviously the boss knows him. Not exactly the life and soul of the party, is he?’
‘He looks like the angel of death.’
Tom had laughed. ‘You do say the oddest things, darling. What do you mean, the angel of death?’
‘I saw a picture once, when I was about eight. My grandfather had it hanging on his wall. There was a little girl, lying on a bed, and beside the bed a man all in black.’
‘An undertaker? A clergyman?’
‘No, a man like that one there – with a face like stone, wearing some sort of armour. And he had big, black wings. Grandad said he was the angel of death, who had come for the child. It was really spooky. I hated it. And that guy looks just like the angel. All he needs is black wings.’
He had come for Tom, the very next night. Had he come for her today? Why had he suddenly reappeared, after three years?
A shiver ran down her back. Was she going to die?
Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, she told herself. This is rank superstition. Grow up, why don’t you?
That night, she dreamt the old nightmare and woke up with the sound of Tom drowning going on and on inside her head and tears running down her face.
She was glad to get up, take a shower, wash the memories out of her head.
It was hot and sunny that Sunday; a little humid. Miranda would not normally wear shorts and a t-shirt to work, but nobody else was around in the office to see her. The porter downstairs at reception, was reading the sports section of a Sunday newspaper with his feet up on the edge of the desk he sat behind. He looked up as she buzzed at the plate glass doors, recognised her and grinned before zapping the door open.
‘Working on a Sunday? Hope you’re on double time!’
‘I hope so, too.’ She walked towards the lift while he watched, enjoying his view of her neat behind in brief red cotton shorts which revealed most of her long, slender legs.
‘You shouldn’t let him take advantage of you!’ he called, thinking that he would love to take advantage of her, himself. She had a curvy, sexy little bottom and he loved those legs.
She pressed the lift button, lifting the hair from her perspiring nape with her other hand, groaning. ‘It’s already really hot out there. We’re going to have a scorcher.’
‘A
fraid the air-conditioning is switched off,’ the porter apologised. ‘I’m not allowed to have it on at weekends.’
‘I’ll keep the window open while I’m working.’ She vanished into the lift, waving to him and he sighed, settling down to more long hours of tedium, a goldfish in a glass bowl beyond which life swam freely.
The first thing Miranda did in her office was to open the window but lower the wide-banded linen blinds to keep the room cool and shady. The window looked out into a courtyard full of shrubs and flowers, lined with wooden benches where staff often ate sandwiches in warm weather. The scent of roses drifted up to her nostrils, a dizzying aroma.
She made some strong black coffee, then began keying documents into her word processor, scanning the drawings which went with them and putting them into the computer’s memory too, printing them out afterwards, along with other pages of figures already in the machine’s memory. Terry had also left her a sheet pointing out where the printer differed from their previous one.
She began to sketch out ideas for the campaign, but kept yawning. On the other side of the courtyard lay the family’s apartment which was mostly used by Terry himself. Little golden specks of dust danced in the sunlight as Miranda sat at her desk.
Voices suddenly made her jump. Was that somebody in the courtyard? Nobody should be out there on a Sunday.
Then she realised that the voices came from the other side of the complex – from the family apartment. A window must be open.
‘Get your clothes off or do you want me to do it for you?’
Miranda’s eyes widened and her mouth opened in amazement. What on earth was going on over there? Had Terry brought a woman here?
No, that certainly was not Terry’s voice. Surely it wasn’t Sean? But who was with him? It couldn’t be Nicola. Even Sean wouldn’t talk to her that way. Or would he?
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