His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All

‘No.’ She paused. ‘I—I haven’t forgotten anything.’

‘You said earlier that we’d start again, and that’s what I’m asking for. A chance to prove to you that I mean what I say. And we’ll go at your pace, not mine. That’s a promise. When you come into my arms, it will be because you want to be there.’

His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Now relax, and drink your coffee, while we discuss our first real date.’

She gasped. ‘You—really don’t give up, do you?’

The hazel eyes glinted. ‘You’d better believe it. And at the same time please understand that you have nothing to fear.’

No, she thought. You’re the one who should be afraid.

She picked up her cup and drank, regarding him over its brim. ‘So what do you have in mind for this date?’

‘I thought we might go to the theatre. I have tickets for the opening of the new Lance Crichton play next Wednesday.’

Her brows lifted in disbelief. ‘Heavens. Sprinkled with gold dust, I presume.’

‘Almost,’ he admitted. ‘Are you interested?’

Her eyes danced. ‘I think it’s an offer I can’t refuse. I saw Payment in Kind on Broadway and loved it.’

‘Then I hope you’ll tell him so. He got rather a mauling from some of the New York critics.’

She drew a breath. ‘You mean I could meet him. Are you serious?’

‘I’m sure it could be arranged.’

Tarn thought then shook her head regretfully. ‘The play’s quite tempting enough. I think that meeting Lance Crichton would turn my head completely.’

He smiled. ‘You’re not so easily overwhelmed.’

He drank the rest of his coffee and stood up.

‘You’re leaving?’ The words were involuntary, and so, she realised with shock, was the note of disappointment in her voice.

‘That was what you wanted a few minutes ago,’ he said. ‘If you remember. And I’ve got what I came for, so I’m quitting while I’m ahead. It’s wiser and probably safer.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.’

There was a sudden, odd tension in the room, making her skin tingle. Forcing her to catch her breath.

She made a business of scrambling to her feet. ‘I—I’ll see you out.’

‘Fine,’ he said equably. At the front door, he turned, looking down at her. ‘If you asked me to stay, I would.’ His voice was gentle, but the hazel eyes were asking questions for which, to her horror, she could find no answer. She looked back at him, mutely, pleadingly, and he nodded as if she’d spoken.

He said, ‘Then I’ll be in touch.’ He took a strand of her hair and lifted it to his face. ‘Apples and vanilla,’ he said, and went.

Tarn leaned against the closed door, trembling. Dear God, she thought weakly, just for a moment there I was actually tempted. And he—he—let me off the hook. How shameful is that?

She washed up the cups and glasses, emptied the percolator and put everything away as if she’d spent the entire evening alone. She’d tell Della he’d been there—of course she would. But in her own time, which certainly wasn’t tonight. She needed to get her head straight before she broached the subject.

In her room, she took off her robe and reached for her nightgown. But, on impulse, she let it drop to the floor, and slid into bed naked. The sheets were cool against her heated skin, the fabric a caress that tantalised, offering arousal without satisfaction.

Eyes wide, staring into the darkness, she moved restlessly, languorously, aware, deep within her, of a scald of yearning, as unwelcome as it was unfamiliar.

It was wrong to feel like this, she told herself feverishly. Wrong and hideously stupid. None of the men she’d met in the past had affected her in the same way. She’d enjoyed their company—even found it pleasant to be held—kissed—but never wanted more. Had not grieved when it ended.

At the same time, she’d wrinkled her nose derisively at the thought of Mr Right waiting patiently just off-stage.

Not that Caz Brandon would ever figure in that category for any woman, she added hastily. Unless of course it was Ginny Fraser. According to Della, they seemed well-matched. Another ‘celebrity couple’ in the making, smiling for the camera if not for each other.

And maybe, with the prospect of younger talent climbing the television ladder behind her, Ms Fraser would find a different kind of limelight sufficient compensation for her husband’s practised womanising.

‘They’re welcome to each other,’ Tarn whispered, turning on to her front and burying her face in the pillow. ‘And, once this is over, I—I have my career to get back to.’

She tried to think of the next Chameleon project. A couple of tempting names had been dangled in front of her, but ghost-writing was a two way street. She would have to meet the subjects and talk to them. See if there was any kind of rapport which could develop into a platform of mutual trust and liking. A prospect that they would eventually open up to her completely, maybe even tell her things about themselves they hadn’t guessed until then.

That was the best foundation, and while it was being established, either party could simply walk away. It happened, and sometimes she’d been sorry, but often relieved, scenting trouble ahead.

And now, suddenly, there was Lance Crichton, she thought. One of the most successful playwrights of his generation, yet a man who’d always shunned personal publicity, letting his work speak for itself.

But a man who undoubtedly had a story waiting to be told, if approached in the right way. Only she’d come across him at totally the wrong moment because she couldn’t put out even the most discreet feeler without the risk of self-betrayal, she reminded herself, sighing. Until her work here was done, Chameleon had to remain another closely guarded secret.

And so did the way Caz Brandon could make her feel, she thought, and shivered.

‘You found her diary?’ repeated Professor Wainwright. ‘May I see it, please?’

Tarn lifted her chin. ‘I’d prefer to give it to Evie,’ she said quietly. ‘She’s always kept a diary from being a small child. Written in it every day. It was almost an obsession with her. I thought that having it back might help with her treatment.’

‘I think I am the best judge of that, Miss Griffiths. Her case is a complex one. But the diary could be useful in other ways.’ He held out his hand and Tarn hesitated.

‘First, will you tell me something, Professor?’

‘I cannot guarantee that. What do you want to know?’

‘Her mother told me Evie had taken an overdose but I didn’t find anything like that when I cleared her bathroom.’

‘The police removed them. They are a very strong brand, known abroad as Tranquo, and not legally available for sale in this country. I gather their possible side-effects mean that they never will be so licensed. However, supplies of this drug, among other illicit forms of tranquillisers and stimulants, are regularly smuggled in for sale on black market networks.’

‘Smuggled in? By whom?’

He shrugged. ‘No-one is quite sure, but people who travel abroad a great deal on perfectly legitimate business, and therefore have not attracted the attention of the police or customs authorities are natural suspects.

‘It is believed a lot of them are bought by the rich and famous initially for their own use, but then recommended to their friends and acquaintances. Because these drugs work, Miss Griffiths, in spite of their inherent and serious risks.’ He paused. ‘They also cost a great deal of money.’

‘But Evie couldn’t possibly have afforded anything like that,’ Tarn protested. But Caz could, she thought. And he travels constantly. Could it be even remotely possible…

And found her mind closing against the thought.

‘Well, that is something the police will wish to discuss with her when she has recovered sufficiently.’