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'Why was it so vitally important that we meet?' she demanded, echoing the words he had uttered over the phone last night, the tone he had used very different from her own cool, almost disinterested one.
He leaned back in his chair, looking at her with lazy eyes.
'You haven't acquired any finesse since I saw you last—when was it? About ten months ago?'
She ignored that. She hadn't needed finesse to tell him to go and take a running jump. And yes, it would have been about ten months ago. She had been Jude's PA for just over two months, still hardly able to believe her good fortune in hearing through the grapevine that the chief executive's then personal assistant would be leaving to have the baby she and her husband had been longing for. That she had landed the job out of a formidable list of applicants had still been responsible for the warm glow of achievement that had totally negated the blow of discovering exactly how perfidious Robert Fenton was. Not that she had still imagined herself in love with him at that time; she had simply been annoyed by her own lack of judgement.
Cleo drank a little of
her dry martini, smiled as a waiter placed her order of smoked prawns in front of her, then raised an impatient eyebrow in Fenton's direction. She was in no mood for games.
'It's brass tacks time, is it?' He read her mood. 'I need money, my love.
Rather a large amount of the stuff. And you are going to have to divvi up.'
She might have known! His primary interest in her, she had discovered, had always been financial. But the wealthy were always prey to the avarice of others—Aunt Grace had drilled that into her often enough!
'Like hell I am! And if that's all you wanted to say to me, I'm leaving,' she said softly, a distant smile hovering around her mouth because she wasn't worried, not then. She reached for her bag, not willing to waste one more second on this importuning louse.
But he caught her wrist across the table, his fingers hurting. To force him to release her would cause the type of public scene she abhorred, so she subsided, fury tightening her mouth.
'Very wise.' Fenton's voice was suave as he gradually released his hold on her. 'Eat your nice prawns, duckie— this might take some time. You see, it concerns that pillar of respectable society, your good Uncle John. Though he's not so good, healthwise, I hear.'
He tossed back his whisky and soda and clicked his fingers at the hovering wine-waiter. Cleo felt ill, and she was worried now, but there was no emotion in her voice as she interrupted his conversation with the waiter.
'There's no way my uncle can be any concern of yours.'
'No?' He tipped his head as he finished ordering. 'But I am concerned. And he will be concerned about you— about the state of your morals, in particular. Such a highly moral man, your guardian, I hear. And your Aunt Grace is also a pious lady, very concerned with the family image, with some justification. A twenty-room mansion in Herts and a bank account that must be touching the two million mark is an image even I would try to live up to.'
'Will you get to the point?' Cleo snapped, thrown off balance, thrusting aside her untouched starter as her main course of sole appeared.
'The point? Ah—yes.' He cut into his veal, smiling. 'Adverse reports on your morals would not faze Aunt Grace. Annoy her, of course, but it would be something she could handle—especially if the dirt could be swept under the Aubusson. But dear old Uncle John—now there's an entirely different ball game. Two massive heart-attacks already--' He shook his head in a parody of sorrow. 'If he heard what I could tell him—through the gutter press—then the shock could very well finish the old boy off. Especially when we consider that the second attack followed right on the heels of that naughty little piece about his son Luke which appeared in the Dezzi Phipps column.
And we wouldn't want that, would we, my love?'
She wanted to hit him. Sitting at the same table with him made her insides heave. His tactics were blackmail, but he had no leverage, and that puzzled her even more than it worried her.
But that state of affairs didn't last long after she hissed, her eyes darkening with disgust, 'You're spouting hotair and garbage! You can have nothing to say about my morals, either way. We dated a few times--'
'Rather more than a few.' The look he gave her made her skin crawl. 'And I think my version of the events that led to our break-up might make more titillating hearing than yours. I'd put it about like so: a poor but honest young man—me--' he dipped his head as she snorted violently, 'falling in love with a beautiful young student. You. A touch promiscuous, but our hero overlooked that—being head over heels, you understand. And then the problems—beautiful student had such expensive tastes, having been brought up in the lap of luxury. This forces our hero to take risks with the small amount he does have—it being common knowledge that no one gets to first base with the lady without vast expenditure. But she has promised to marry him, so he believes the risks he's taking worth it. So he gets deeper into debt: gambling, loan sharks, you name it. All to keep the lady happy. He has to give her a good time because if he doesn't she will find someone who will.'
Cleo's eyes narrowed and she sucked in a deep breath. The man was a lunatic. 'If anyone who knew me, least of all Uncle John, would believe that trash, they'd believe day was night.' She had listened to enough verbal slime to sever her connection with her inbred cool caution, but he quelled the imminent storm with five well chosen words.
'The Red Lion Hotel, Goldingstan.'
Then he relaxed back in his chair, his meal finished, raising an eyebrow at the congealing, untouched food on her plate.
'Not hungry? Pity. However, my dislike of waste is tempered by the knowledge that you are going to pay the bill. You can afford it. I can't. Now, where were we?'
'You were trying to blackmail me,' she clipped, her voice controlled. But she was shaking inside and there was no way she could disguise the disgust on her face, the loathing in her huge dark eyes. 'You make me sick!'
'Now that is sad.' His voice was heavy with sarcasm and the smile that curved his lips as he refilled his wineglass made her shudder. 'But I think I'm going to be able to live with that, especially as you are going to settle my debts and get a couple of rather threatening heavies off my back. Oh, and by the way,'
his voice was almost a purr as she opened her mouth to categorically deny her intention of doing any such thing, 'I kept the hotel receipt. Mr and Mrs Robert Fenton, room four, on the night of the eleventh of June last year. And in case there's any doubt, I'm sure Mrs Galway—you remember her— the hotelier's wife who was so obliging and told us she never forgot a guest, will be able and willing to identify you as the said Mrs Robert Fenton. She might even be able to recall that we couldn't drag ourselves out of that room until half-eleven the following morning!'
Still smiling his odious smile, he lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke across the table. 'Not that it will come to asking Mrs Galway to identify you.
You've no intention of being awkward about this, have you, my love?'
