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Leon levelled a cold gaze on him. ‘Desperate and exploited,’ he said.
‘Yes, well … as long as they stay in the Third World and don’t keep trying to get here and leech off us—’ started Lassiter, then stopped abruptly.
‘You were saying?’ Leon queried. The coldness in his eyes was sending a message even Lassiter could read.
‘Well, obviously the enterprising ones can make a go of things—just like you have.’ Lassiter was back to blustering again.
‘But those like me,’ Leon pursued, ‘would far prefer to be able to make a go of things in their own countries. Which is seldom possible when outside money is propping up their corrupt, exploitative and grossly economically inefficient government for its own benefit. Which is why,’ he spelt out, ‘Maranz Finance only ever makes investments in such countries direct at ground level, and retains control over them to ensure middlemen and government officials can’t take the profit away from those who do the actual work.’
He got to his feet. He wasn’t about to debate the issue. Those were the terms of his involvement, and if Alistair Lassiter didn’t like them he could walk. But he wouldn’t, Leon knew. He had no choice. There were no other white knights in the offing, and if Lassiter wanted to save his company and, more importantly for him, Leon thought cynically, his fortune, then he’d have to swallow his self-importance and accept the deal on the table.
However, there was no point rubbing the guy’s nose in it—Lassiter might prove a pain to work with if he felt too put down by Leon. Maybe it was time to back off and lighten the atmosphere.
It was obvious that Lassiter liked to do business via socialising, and although Leon had had quite enough of his company, the reverse was true of his daughter. Knowing he was keen on his daughter would definitely sweeten the atmosphere.
‘Now,’ he said, his voice warming as he walked around the desk, ‘with our business discussion out of the way, I wanted to thank you for a most enjoyable evening last night. However, I don’t believe I have the phone number of your London apartment. I’d like to ask your daughter out to dinner tonight.’
A quiet dinner—a chance to make amends for his behaviour the night before, a chance to get to know Flavia properly, woo her properly. That was what he was after now.
He paused expectantly by Alistair Lassiter, who got to his feet. But to his surprise, instead of being immediately and eagerly forthcoming with the number, the man looked discomfited.
‘Ah, yes, Flavia—of course,’ the man floundered. ‘Yes, yes—the thing is she’s gone out of town—left this morning—prior engagement, so she told me.’
Leon stilled. ‘She’s not in London?’
‘Er … as it happens, no,’ corroborated Lassiter.
‘When is she planning to return?’ Leon asked.
His voice was even, unemotional. But inside his emotions were streaming through him. He’d thought, when she’d jumped ship into that taxi, it had only been the spur of the moment, that she’d just panicked, been overwhelmed by what had happened between them, and had needed some space to come to terms with it. But actually leaving town?
‘And,’ he went on, keeping his voice deliberately cool through the emotion spiking in him, ‘where has she g
one?’
‘The thing is, I’m not really sure.’ Lassiter attempted to sound nonchalant, and failed. ‘You know these days they’re so independent.’
‘Any ideas?’ Leon wasn’t about to let him off the hook. ‘Where do her friends live?’
‘Oh—all over, really. I couldn’t say. Could be anywhere.’
Leon decided to cut to the chase. ‘OK, give me her mobile number and I’ll find her myself.’
‘Er—yes, of course. The thing is though … um … she may not answer it.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ said Leon implacably.
Wherever she’d run to, he would find her. He’d screwed up with her and he had to fix it.
He wanted her too much not to.
Far, far too much.
‘Hello, Gran, darling.’ Flavia leant over her grandmother’s bed and kissed her cheek tenderly. She’d only just arrived from the station, but there was no point telling her grandmother that. It would not register. ‘Mrs S says you’ve had a very good lunch,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Mashed potatoes, peas and plaice.’
Her grandmother looked at her uncertainly, and her thin fingers picked at the turned-down sheet across her torso. Pain shafted through Flavia. It hurt so much to see her once vibrant grandmother so frail, so lost in the mist of her own mind.
‘Plaice is your favourite type of fish,’ she said.
