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He had lied to her so cunningly, so convincingly. Damn him, she thought. Keir Gifford was a bastard; hadn't Bruno more or less warned about that a long time ago? Whenever he mentioned his uncle he added a rider to that effect—G. K. was ruthless, he said. G. K. was a demon polo player, merciless and hard-hitting at play and at work. G. K. had women flocking around him and he wasn't ready to give up his busy love-life for just one woman.
'Sure you won't have dinner?' Bruno asked, pulling up outside her flat, and she shook her head, smiling back. He sighed. 'I wish you'd had more time to talk to my mother. I know you and she would get on once you knew each other.'
'I'm sure we would,' Liza said, forbearing to point out that his mother had got away from her unwanted company as soon as she decently could. Pippa Morris didn't care to know her, thank you very much. She was prejudiced; she had been from the very start, no doubt. She had a simple mind and liked stereotypes; she thought that Liza was an ex-model, a blonde ex-model, as Fleet Street loved to say, and Mrs Morris would fight tooth and nail to stop her beloved only son marrying her. Liza could, of course, explain that she had no intention of marrying Bruno, that they were just good friends, platonic friends, but unfortunately Bruno was not being as co-operative in giving that impression as she had hoped. His mother probably wouldn't believe her.
'You did like her, then?' Bruno asked, his face lighting up.
Liza leaned over and kissed him lightly. 'Of course. You're a darling, Bruno, it's been a nice day—see you soon.'
She got out of the car and waved as he drove away. He was looking cheerful. Liza wished she felt as happy as he obviously did, but the events of the day had depressed her. If she had had any inkling of Keir Zachary's real identity, she would never have let Bruno take her to that polo ground, but it was too late to grieve over spilt milk. In a way, it was lucky she had gone—at least she now knew exactly what sort of man Keir was and she would take great care to steer clear of him in future.
She walked into the marble-floored lobby of the Gifford building at the usual time next morning, producing her security card as she passed the uniformed man on the door.
'Miss Thurston?' he asked as if he had never seen her before, and when she looked at his face she realised that he was a stranger. The usual man was standing just behind him looking worried and uneasy.
'Yes,' Liza said, puzzled but polite, imagining that this was some new check to make sure that the security cards were being properly used.
"Will you come with me, please?' The man had hard, direct, searching eyes. He looked like a policeman, which was probably what he was—she knew that most of the security people in the building had been in the police force earlier in their lives.
'Why?' she asked, but instead of answering her the security man gripped her arm in firm fingers and urged her towards a lift.
'It won't take a few mintues, miss. Please come this way.'
Other arrivals turned to stare curiously as Liza was politely hustled across the echoing lobby, and she felt herself flushing in embarrassment. It was stupid, she had done nothing, but she felt guilty and nervous, even frightened, as if she might have committed some crime without knowing about it, and had now been found out.
'Now, look here----- ' she broke out, pulling herself
together as she realised what she was thinking. 'What's this all about, anyway? I haven't got time for some sort of random security check, I'm in a hurry, today is a busy day for me.'
'I'm sorry, miss, but I'm just following orders!' the man said, not releasing her arm as the lift doors closed on them. Liza felt even more nervous as she saw that they were alone; nobody had liked to join them in the lift, although people had been flocking around the lobby. No doubt they had imagined that Liza was being arrested and they weren't sure whether she was armed and dangerous. Did they think she was a terrorist? A criminal? Whatever they had thought, they had stayed clear of the lift and stared at her until the doors shut and hid their astonished, wide-eyed faces.
'Where are we going?' Liza asked tensely, her colour high.
The security man didn't answer; the lift was shooting upwards like a bullet from a gun, the floor lights flashing as she watched: tenth floor, fifteenth floor, twentieth floor. Where on earth were they going?
The lift stopped and she was urged out into a deeply carpeted corridor, hushed and reverential, like a cathedral. Liza seemed to have left her stomach behind in the lift; she was hollow and taut with shock. She knew where she was now and she knew who had given the order to grab her and rush her up here.
The security man pushed her into a large office and a woman of late middle years got up from behind a desk, smiling.
'Miss Thurston? Go straight in, he's expecting you.'
Liza walked across the room, head up, back straight, her teeth clamped together and her face burning with rage. How dared he? How dared he?
She heard his voice as she opened the door. He was talking on the phone, his tone brusque. 'Yes, maybe, but that's no excuse!'
His sleek black head lifted as he heard Lisa come in, and he watched her coolly from behind the wide, leather-topped desk at which he sat. She hesitated and he gestured to a chair without speaking.
As she walked across the room she was angrily conscious of his wandering eyes; they were busy talking in the eau-de-Nil two-piece she wore; a tight, lapelled jacket and finely pleated skirt, in silk crepe which clung to her warm skin, outlining her body. He didn't miss an inch of her; his eyes sliding down her long, smooth legs to her narrow feet in the fragile, white high heels.
'Of course the board didn't lie,' he said curtly, into the phone. 'They simply left out a vital fact or two, and we should have expected that. In their place, I'd have done the same. You shouldn't have got caught out.'
Liza reluctantly sat down, crossing her legs, her throat hot under the permanent, fixed appraisal. She would love to slap his face, but the atmosphere of this long, spacious room weighted heavily on her. It was richly austere; warm, golden panelling, a bowl of white roses, deep chairs with oxblood leather upholstery and a panoramic view of London's skyline. The desk was neatly stacked with files, one of which was open under his elbow; a bank of telephones ranged along one side and on the other stood a console.
He looked different again this morning—not the shabby relaxed man she had met in Essex, nor the powerful sportsman on the polo field. This, finally, was the real man—the G. K. Gifford she had imagined, the man the financial press talked about with such awe and envy, the man who had dreamt up the very building in which they sat, whose companies were far-f
lung and various, whose private fortune, she had once read in a gossip column, was impossible to calculate.
Here he was, in his own persona at last; remote, powerful, authoritative, icily assured in that expensive tailoring, the dark, pin-striped city suit with a tight-fitting waistcoat and a blue and white striped shirt, the dark blue silk tie with the tiny silver emblem on it. A club tie, no doubt; she couldn't quite work out what the emblem was supposed to be—it seemed to be some sort of bird in flight.
