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'Don't call me that!' she rasped, her voice hoarse, as though her throat had turned to sandpaper. She was more disgusted by his repeated use of the endearment than anything else. It was a crazy reaction, but that was the way it was, and she wanted to get away from him, get the whole distasteful episode over, so she asked stonily, 'How much?'
'Twenty-five thousand.'
She didn't believe it at first. But she saw from his face that he was serious, deadly serious, and she laughed, without humour.
'You're mad! Where would I get that kind of money? And even if I could, do you honestly fhink I'd believe keeping the Red Lion incident secret worth that amount?'
Leaning forward across the table he called her bluff, 'I think you'd consider it worth it at twice the price. Can you imagine dear old John's face if he read a headline that might go something like: " Slade Securities Chiefs Niece Involved in Debt Scandal" With an opening paragraph that could say something like: "Slade heiress's lover threatened with knee-capping by loan shark's heavy mob. 'I'm in real trouble. I only got in debt for her sake,'
explained Robert Fenton, Cleo Slade's former lover: 'She's used to the best and she said she loved me. But she won't lift a finger to help now I'm in this mess. I'm devastated,' added the distraught Mr Fenton." Or something similar.' He stubbed his cigarette out and Cleo felt the trap close more tightly around her, squeezing until she thought she would die of it.
Yes, she could just imagine what that kind of publicity could do to Uncle John—the piece about Luke had been mild in comparison and that, as almost everyone believed, had brought on that second, near fatal heart- attacK. And it wouldn't exactly ease her career along, either, but that was a minor consideration beside the damage it could do to her uncle.
Fenton added, 'What's a mere twenty-five thousand to a girl who will inherit her father's share of the Slade Millions in—what will it be? Around a year's time? A drop in the proverbial ocean!'
Her mouth tightened. 'Can the heavy mob—in which, incidentally, I don't believe—wait a year? I don't inherit until I'm twenty-five, as you very well know.'
'Or until you marry,' he put in slyly. 'I did my homework.'
'And are you going to suggest I marry you to get my hands on the money?'
She wouldn't put it past him, and there was an edge of hysteria in her voice and it sharpened his eyes.
'I'm not that stupid. Should you marry before you reach your twenty-fifth birthday, then, in order to obtain an early release of your considerable inheritance, your guardians, your so upright and proper uncle and aunt, would have to unreservedly approve your choice of husband. And they wouldn't have to dig very deep to realise that no way could they approve of yours truly. No,' he smiled oilily, 'I've always known that wasn't on the cards, although at one time I had hopes of keeping you sweet until you were twenty-five and free, not only to inherit, but to marry whomsoever you pleased. But the Fenton charm didn't blind you for long enough. I did ask you to marry me, though, remember? I was beginning to realise you weren't as starry-eyed as you had been, so I suggested we marry and, in true romantic tradition, keep it a secret from those stuffy relatives of yours. I thought that might have set the little female heart pounding away again.
However,' he sighed theatrically, 'that wasn't to be, so I've given the matter much thought and decided to cut my losses and settle for twenty-five thou.
You can raise it somehow—with your collateral.'
He beckoned for the bill and stood up, pushing the folded slip of paper between the fingers of her clenched hand.'See you, my love. And thanks for the lunch. I'll keep in touch. Oh, and by the way, I'll want my little pressie in four weeks' time. Cash, if you please.'
Cleo was in her office early the following morning. The thickly carpeted corridors had been silent as she'd walked through the hushed building with the uniformed commissionaire's cheery words echoing hollowly in her head.
'Good morning, Miss Slade. A real touch of spring in the air today!'
The early morning City streets might be awash with warm April sunlight, but winter was in her heart; icy, steel-edged winter.
Her features taut and expressionless, she hung her coat in her cupboard and smoothed the long, narrow lapels of the deep mulberry-coloured Escada suit she was wearing. Expertly applied make-up went some way to hide the pallor induced by a sleepless night and the eyes that met her in the mirror on the back of the cupboard door were sharp with determination.
She had no way of knowing if Robert Fenton was in debt, was being hounded for repayment. It didn't really signify. His threat to her uncle, via herself, was real enough. That kind of heavy blackmail, the threat of the worst kind of publicity in one of the seamier tabloids, would finish the already frail old man. She had no doubt that Fenton could get the slimiest publicity possible. He knew some very dubious characters in the newspaper world, men who didn't care what was printed, or whose lives were shattered, so long as it sold papers.
There was no way she could raise that kind of money without approaching the trustees. And they would, quite rightly, want to know details. And that kind of detail she couldn't give.
She sat at her desk, her spine upright, staring at the polished surface. For the first time ever she regretted the restrictions her father had placed on her massive inheritance.
Throughout her life she had never wanted for material things. Her allowance had been on the generous side, but sensible, and her life with her parents and, later, with her uncle and aunt, had been discreetly luxurious— until, needing to be in London while she was studying, she had persuaded the trustees to buy the small terraced house in Bow where she still lived. She had nothing personal to sell that would raise anything like the amount Fenton was demanding. But unless she was able to raise it, in four weeks' time, Fenton would see those vile lies printed. They had all seen the damage such malicious tittle-tattle had done when Luke's exploits had been snidely publicised and the specialist had warned that the frail old man be treated with kid gloves, that upsets and worry had to be avoided at all costs. So she had to raise that money! She couldn't have his death on her conscience!
Hearing the snick of the outer office door as it opened, she held her breath. It was Jude, as she had hoped, early, well before Dawn was due to arrive. And now had to be the best time to speak to him.
Her breath caught flutteringly in her throat and her stomach wriggled about uncomfortably as she watched him walk past her partly open door to his own office, the inevitable briefcase in his hand. The immaculately cut dark suit he wore clothed his body with easy elegance, and the crisp whiteness of his shirt contrasted sharply with his dark blue tie, with the natural darkness of his skin tones. He always looked as if he had a tan.
Quelling an unwanted spasm of nerves—apprehension had been talked out of her plans during the long, lonely hours of last night, hadn't it?—she rose to her feet and squared her slim shoulders. She had wrestled with the problem Fenton had presented her with and as far as she could see there was only one viable solution— and she had looked long and hard for alternatives. So there was no point in giving way to the jitters now.
The man could always say no. He had said no to business deals before now.
But only ever after giving the matter full consideration, after a careful weighing of the pros and cons. He surely wouldn't turn her business proposition down out of hand.
Drawing in a long breath, she tapped lightly on his door and walked in, her features severe, cool, her heart not picking up speed by the smallest fraction.
