by Liz Fielding
‘You can make up your own lies, Parker, you don’t need me for that.’
‘Lies won’t do. Even rumours need a little fuel to feed on if they’re going to do any damage; I need something with at least a grain of truth to glue it together. If you come across any suggestion of other women, money problems in her father’s life, I want to know. Do you understand?’ Parker didn’t wait for a reply, taking his understanding for granted. And Matt Crosby understood. He didn’t much like it, but he understood. ‘Her mother remarried three or four years ago,’ he continued, then paused. ‘Her new husband is James Lambert. He’s a property developer, too,’ he said, thoughtfully tapping the file. ‘Nyssa Blake dropped out of university at about the same time. That might be an angle worth pursuing. You’ve got plenty of material to work with-’
‘It’s quality that counts, not quantity.’
‘Everyone has something to hide, Crosby. Something that wouldn’t look too good on the front page of the tabloids. If you can’t find anything on the girl, maybe you can dig up some dirt on her family. There are a couple of stepsisters. One is an actress… I just need a lever, I can apply the pressure myself.’
‘If she doesn’t like the man her mother married she’s hardly likely to back off to protect him or his daughters. Why don’t you just ask her what she wants, Parker? It would save time and probably money in the long term.’
‘Wants?’
‘Well, she knows that she’s not going to win in the end. You’re going to tear down a past-its-sell-by-date cinema and replace it with a supermarket. Maybe a few locals have gone all dewy-eyed with nostalgia, remembering their lost youth spent in the back seats of the stalls, but most of the town would rather have the supermarket. All she can do is delay you.’
‘All? Every day that passes is costing me-’ He stopped abruptly but Matt didn’t need to be drawn a picture. The rumours were true; if Parker didn’t get the redevelopment of the site through the local planning committee quickly, he was going to be in serious trouble.
‘So why not ask her what she wants? You never know, keeping the original facade might do it. Try reason, be accommodating. And if you can smile while you’re doing it you might discover that you’ve become the hero and Miss Nyssa Blake will be the one who has to convince her supporters that she hasn’t sold out.’
‘That’s an excellent idea, Crosby. Unfortunately the supermarket has a corporate image; art deco Gaumont style doesn’t even come close. Besides, Nyssa Blake wants the whole thing restored to its former glory. She believes town needs an entertainment centre more than it needs a new supermarket.’
‘Is it? Needed?’ Parker gave him a sharp look, but since Matt hadn’t expected a straight answer he carried on. ‘Look, this isn’t six-lane highway being bulldozed through a site of scientific interest. It’s just a local battle with the planners. Small stuff. The media will soon lose interest. ‘
‘You think so?’ Parker, for the first time since Matt had entered the room, smiled with genuine amusement. ‘I wish I shared your confidence. It might be small stuff, Crosby, but Miss Blake is small in the manner of a mosquito - annoying as hell and quite capable of administering a lethal bite.’
‘Maybe you should call the local pest exterminator.’
‘I have. You.’
‘You’ve been misinformed. I’m considered something of a pest myself-’
‘Even pests have to eat, and since I’m reliably informed that no one in the City is going to employ you within the foreseeable future…’ He shrugged. ‘I’m no so fussy, and if you find something on the girl that I can use there’ll be a bonus on top of your fee.’ The fee he mentioned was substantial but nowhere near enough.
‘Your informants are out of date, Parker. You’ll have to double that,’ he countered, then smiled briefly. ‘Inflation,’ he offered. Parker said nothing and Matt had the uncomfortable feeling that he could have asked for more and still have got it. ‘I’ll want ten days payment in advance before I start, non-refundable and my expenses will be what I need to do the job, no more, no less, no quibble.’ He might not particularly relish this job, but right now he couldn’t afford to be picky; he had research of his own to finance. ‘And no dirty business,’ he added, just to reinforce what he’d said earlier about Nyssa Blake being locked in a dungeon with the key thrown away.
‘You think a lot of yourself, Crosby.’ Not true. What he did think was that the chance of finding dirt that would stick to Miss Nyssa Blake rated alongside winning the National Lottery, or the discovery of a hoard of Celtic gold jewellery beneath the concrete yard at the rear of his flat, or even a credit balance in his bank account. All things were possible ... but the odds were against it. ‘Cash isn’t a problem, is it. I’d prefer to keep this unofficial.’ Parker took a pack of banknotes from a small concealed safe.
‘So long as the ink’s dry,’ he replied, wryly, taking one of the notes and flicking it through his fingers as if testing its veracity. ‘It all goes through my books-’ his enemies would enjoy seeing him on the wrong side of the Inland Revenue audit - ‘...but what you do this end is no concern of mine.’ He stowed the money about the pockets of his suit, picked up the file and nodded. ‘You’ll be hearing from me.’
*****
Image is everything. Nyssa had learned that at her first press conference. Eighteen years old, her hair had been cropped punk-short then, henna-bright against the hastily applied ivory pale make-up, the black dress borrowed for the occasion from one of step-sisters.
It had been pure drama and the press had loved her for it. She’d learned a lot that day about image and what it could do for a cause, and she’d abandoned charity store cast-offs and taken on the establishment on its own terms. These days there were developers who backed away from anything she showed and interest in. People took her seriously.
Presumably Charles Parker had thought a neglected cinema would be beneath her notice.
Image. Nyssa stared at her reflection in the mirror. She’d grown out the cropped hair to the briefest of sleek page-boy bobs, but it was still bright red. These days, though, the effect was the result of regular visits to Knightsbridge crimpers rather than the enthusiastic use of her mother’s dressmaking shears and a packet of henna.
Her naturally pale complexion was accentuated by bright red lips that rarely smiled. And now that solemnity too was part of her image.
She sprayed herself with her favourite scent, with its luscious green top note of gardenia and turned to the elegant designer dress hanging over the wardrobe door. Black. Of course.
Fine jersey, smooth and flowing as silk. Taking the dress down from its hanger, she lifted it over her head, sliding her arms into long, narrow sleeves, easing the bodice against her skin, letting the skirt fall in a gentle swirl about her legs. She fastened tiny buttons over breasts lifted and emphasized by a black lace bra, the kind of bra that had caused traffic accidents when the advertising hoardings went up.
She was well aware that the effect was sexy as well as dramatic. It had been planned that way. Short of World War Three breaking out, that glimpse of cleavage would guarantee her a place on the front page of every tabloid tomorrow morning.
She’d learned a lot in three years of campaigning. More than how to walk past a security guard and have him hold open the door for her even as she breached his defences. More than how to convince cynical reporters that she was right. More than how to stick it out when she appeared to be the only person in the whole world who cared…
As she fastened a pair of antique jet drops to her ear lobes, there was a tap at the door.
‘Nyssa?’
Her hands trembled as she was seized by nerves and she nearly dropped one of the precious earrings, fielding it with fingers that were suddenly all thumbs. Damn! She hung onto the edge of her dressing table for a moment, taking slow, careful breaths until she recovered. Then she carefully fastened the second drop, painted a smile on her face and opened the door.
‘Gil!’ She tried to ke
ep the heart-leap out of her voice. Since her group had grown so large and so loud and annoyed so many important people, her brother-in-law had been trying to get her to use one of the specially trained drivers from his security company. So far she had managed to resist him but on occasion he would turn up before a big event to “offer her a lift”. And his home was not more than twenty or so miles away from the bustling market town of Delvering. ‘How unexpected,’ she said, managing just a touch of irony. ‘Just passing were you?’
‘Not exactly. But I thought you might welcome a little moral support.’
Moral support was the last thing she wanted from her brother-in-law. ‘I have the uncomfortable feeling that roughly translated, that means you still think I’m a little girl who has bitten off a chunk more than she can chew. Right?’
She longed for him to deny it, but he just laughed. ‘I might think it, but I wouldn’t dare say it. Not the way you’re looking tonight.’
‘Really?’ She hated his laughter, but she’d learned not to let her feelings show around Gil; it wasn’t his fault that she was in love with him, so she kept her voice light. ‘Was that a compliment? I couldn’t be quite sure.’
‘Don’t fish, brat. You’ll have every man in the country leering over your picture in the papers tomorrow, isn’t that enough?’
No. Of course it wasn’t. There was only one man she had ever wanted to leer at her. Unfortunately he was married to her stepsister.
‘Only if it encourages them to write to the Department of Environment and demand a planning enquiry,’ she said, briskly. ‘Is Kitty with you?’
‘No, Harry’s got the sniffles and you know how she fusses about him, but she sends her love.’ He paused. ‘Actually, she’s a bit tired...’ Nyssa, not exactly panting to hear about his domestic life, smiled politely and made a move towards the door. Gil put his hand on her arm, stopping her. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know, Nyssa. She’s expecting another baby.’
He had wanted to tell her himself. Before someone else did. That was why he’d come tonight.
He’d never said a word, yet it was obvious that he knew all about the schoolgirl crush she’d had on him. A friend of her father’s, albeit a younger one, he had tried to be kind, walking tiptoe around her feelings, taking care not to hurt her. It was why he still treated her like a schoolgirl, because he suspected, as Kitty did, that it wasn’t just a schoolgirl crush. Well, it couldn’t be, could it? She wasn’t a schoolgirl any more, she was twenty-two. And kindness was the last thing she wanted from him.
‘I’m very happy for you,’ Nyssa said, brightly enough. ‘Have you told James and Sophia?’ She hadn’t called her mother anything but Sophia since she had married Kitty’s widowed father – the memory of her own father was still too precious. ‘You’re going down for James’s birthday, I imagine?’ Nyssa asked.
‘We thought we’d tell everyone then. You’ll be there, won’t you?’
‘If I can,’ she hedged. ‘The feeling is that Parker will attempt to demolish the cinema quickly, before we can get it listed.’ She frowned. ‘He’s been very slow off the mark.’
‘Sophia will be terribly disappointed if you don’t come,’ Gil said, distracting her. ‘We could give you a lift down if you don’t want to drive yourself.’
‘No. I’ll try. Really.’ And then she’d discover something desperately important to do. The alternative was to go and smile and hide her feelings as she had been doing ever since Gil and Kitty’s wedding. Except that if she stayed away Kitty would know why and feel sorry for her. And her mother would know why and worry about her. And Gil would know why and feel guilty. She couldn’t win. But at least she had an excuse to send him away now. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Gil. You should be at home with Kitty.’
‘She wanted me to come. She worries about you, too, Nyssa.’
Did he really think that knowing his wife had sent him would help? ‘The entire Lambert clan appear to have cornered the worry market on my behalf, but it really isn’t necessary. I’m among friends here, Gil. The worst thing that’s going to happen is the slide project jamming in the middle of my presentation.’
As if to confirm the truth of her words, someone beat a lively tattoo on the door. ‘Nyssa? Are you ready? We’re all down in the bar waiting for you.’
‘I’ll be right with you, Pete. Get me an orange juice will you?’
‘Who’s that?’ Gil asked. ‘Your boyfriend?’ He sounded hopeful.
‘Boyfriend?’ She laid her hand against her breast and managed a laugh. ‘What a quaint, old-fashioned word. You might still think of me as a schoolgirl wearing pigtails, Gil, but in case you hadn’t noticed I’m all grown up.’
‘Actually I had noticed. In that dress it’s impossible not to,’ he added, dryly. Then, ‘So why don’t you give your mother a treat and bring him home for the weekend?’
Pete, stick thin and with a stud through his nose would hardly be her mother’s idea of a treat, she thought. But if she had a man with her it would help to diffuse the tension that seemed to be in the air whenever she and Gil were in the same room. ‘I’ll make a deal with you Gil. I’ll come to the party and maybe I’ll invite a friend for the weekend, but only if you stop fussing and go home. Right now.’
Please.
Before I do something stupid like cry.
Table of Contents
Forewords
Praise for Liz Fielding
About the author
Some recent books by Liz Fielding
The Beaumont Brides Trilogy
Wild Justice
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wild Lady
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wild Fire
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bonus Read