AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘A crook,’ Terry always said of Jack Lee. ‘And a cheap crook at that. You could buy him outright for a packet of crisps and a glass of beer. What does she see in him?’
Miranda never attempted to reply, she knew he was talking rhetorically, but she imagined Sandra liked Jack’s party-going attitude to life. He joked, laughed, took nothing seriously, and he had a rough sort of sexuality, an instinctive body language with women.
He was, Miranda had decided long ago, very like Terry except that he didn’t have Terry’s brains or aptitude for business. So perhaps women also chose the same type, too? It wouldn’t be surprising – it was all based on character, wasn’t it? Everyone saw through their own eyes, and chose a partner accordingly.
Jack had money, and spent it with a free hand – but it was never clear how he made it. Maybe Terry was right. Jack might well be a crook. Was that why he lived in a villa somewhere in Spain? Miranda had heard the stories about British criminals migrating to Spain to spend their loot outside the reach of the British police.
She had only met Jack and Sandra a couple of times. They were both deeply tanned, wore a lot of gold, bracelets on wrists, necklaces around throats, rings on fingers. They glittered when they moved, and they hated the cooler temperatures of southern England.
‘They can’t wait to get back to Spain,’ Terry commented, last time they were in London and called at the firm. ‘Thank God. The less I see of
them the better. If she wasn’t Sean’s mother I’d never let her through the door.’
Sean, though, seemed very fond of his mother. His taste in girls reflected this – he clearly liked the showy blondes his father did. Yet the girl he planned to marry was very different.
Nicola was nineteen, tiny, fragile, sweet; with sleek black hair which framed a heart-shaped face dominated by big, wide, innocent, blue eyes. She was the only child of a wealthy merchant banker, Francis Belcannon, whose bank had been very involved with Terry’s company from the beginning.
Wearing an elegant blue and white organza outfit which made her look like a Barbie doll, she met Miranda at the front door of Terry’s country house, Blue Gables. Behind her the rooms swirled with people in beautiful clothes, talking, laughing, drinking champagne.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Nicola said with such warmth that Miranda almost believed she meant it, except that they had only met a handful of times and Nicola probably hadn’t even known she was invited.
She handed over the silver-wrapped box of wine glasses she had bought and Nicola eagerly unwrapped it, held one of the glasses up to the light to watch it sparkle.
‘Oh, they’re gorgeous, so classy – thank you so much, I love them. Sean will adore them too.’
She looked round and waved a hand at one of Sean’s friends, a great hulk of a boy with cropped gingery fair hair and features set in concrete.
‘Georgie, will you get Miranda a drink and take care of her for me?’
‘Sure,’ George Stow growled. He might look like a stone wall but Miranda saw from his glance at Nicola that he worshipped the girl. She was so very much his opposite – tiny, where he was huge, gentle where he was tough, articulate where George was barely able to utter a word.
Miranda hoped Sean loved the girl that way, but she wouldn’t bet on it. She had a sinking feeling that Terry had put the idea of marrying Nicola into his son’s head because it would be so very convenient for the business. Nicola was going to inherit a great deal of money one day, and meanwhile her father was vital to the firm’s finances. Medieval as it might be, the idea of the marriage made a lot of sense – but would Sean make Nicola a good husband?
George steered her through the throng, produced a glass of champagne for her and hovered.
‘You work for Terry, don’t you? Are you his secretary?’
‘No, I run the PR department. Nicola looks happy, doesn’t she?’
George shot her a glower. ‘Sean had better make her happy or I’ll smash his face in.’
Startled but liking his honesty, Miranda smiled at him. ‘I know what you mean. Hurting her would be like running over a kitten, wouldn’t it?’
George made a growling noise in his throat. ‘She’s too good for Sean, that’s for sure.’ He was clearly besotted by the girl and very jealous of Sean – did Sean realise it?
A moment later, Miranda saw the angel of death on the other side of the room and stopped in her tracks, taking a sharp, indrawn, painful breath.
It couldn’t be! She closed her eyes, took another deep breath, and opened them again.
She wasn’t imagining it. It was him. He was wearing black again, but with a difference. Today he was wearing an immaculate black jersey wool suit, with a crisp white shirt, a dark blue silk tie. She saw other women in the room watching him with eager, covetous eyes. Couldn’t they see that brooding air of threat about him?
‘Something wrong?’ George asked.
She swallowed, managed to wave a hand. ‘Who is that? The guy talking to the woman in a pink hat.’
George looked, frowned. ‘Never seen him before in my life. He must be a friend of Terry Finnigan or maybe Nicola’s father. Or do you think he’s a gatecrasher? Shall I go and ask to see his invitation?’
‘No, leave it. I think he’s probably a friend of Terry’s.’ He had been on the yacht after all – and Terry must have invited him. She knew he was not one of the company excecutives, she hadn’t seen him at work, either before or since the yacht foundered.
