Darling Deceiver

by Daphne Clair

  When she came out he was standing by the desk.

  'Come here,' he said. She came close and he said, 'Give me your hand,' and when she hesitated he impatiently found her arm and slid his fingers down to her wrist and snapped the bracelet on to it. He lifted

  her hand to his lips because he always did at this stage, then dropped it.

  Her voice shook as she asked, 'Did you buy this for me?'

  'Of course. Don't you like it?'

  'Yes, of course I like it. It's beautiful—thank you. But I can't possibly accept it.'

  He heard the click of the clasp and then the small clatter as she placed it on the desk beside him, and her hair briefly brushed his cheek as she straightened. She smelled of soap and flowers, and suddenly his anger could be contained no longer.

  'I'm sorry,' he drawled. 'I'd forgotten that young virgins come more expensive. But then I wasn't to know, was I?'

  'Cade!' He heard the shock and pain in her voice with satisfaction. 'You're not buying me!'

  'Oh yes, I am. I always buy my women, one way or another. It's one way of ensuring they're not motivated entirely by pity,' he said bitterly.

  'I don't pity you. You know I don't. And I can't possibly take such a valuable present.'

  'Why nor? You've earned it.'

  'Please don't, Cade.' No tears 'now. The voice that had fooled him with its husky maturity, was quiet and oddly dignified'. 'Apart from anything else,' she added, wrecking the illusion instantly, 'how could I explain a gift like that to my parents?'

  The reminder of how young she was stirred his anger again. He wanted to show her what a stupid child she was, completely out of her depth playing grown-up games.

  'You'd think of something,' he said. 'You're a great little liar.'

  'I haven't lied to you!' she cried. Then more quietly she said, 'I know you thought I was older, but I didn't tell you so.'

  'You said I was close when I guesed your age at twenty-two or three.'

  'Or twenty-one,' she reminded him. 'All right,' she said, as he remained silent, his mouth implacable, 'call it a lie. Is that why you're so angry with me? Because of one little lie?'

  `Yes! ' He almost shouted at her. 'One lie that any man with two good eyes in his head wouldn't have believed for two seconds! '

  'Oh, Cade!' she protested on a tiny laugh. 'They would! Honestly they would. I look easily twenty.'

  'You don't! Only with your hair up. And I doubt if you look eighteen even then. You little cheat!' he snapped viciously.

  'I didn't mean to cheat you! '

  'Well, you did. I wanted a woman for the night,' he told her, with a fine edge of insult, 'and I got a child.'

  'I'm not a child!' She sounded stung. 'Everyone thinks I'm older. You did!'

  'But not in bed, my dear!' he jeered softly. 'That's where we separate the women from the little girls.' He paused. 'Is that why you did it? Was I supposed to initiate you into womanhood?'

  'No,' she said. 'I did it because you asked me.'

  :"How long have you been waiting for someone to ask?'

  'That's terribly cruel.' Her voice shook, and he wondered if she was crying again. 'I wouldn't have—with anyone else. It was because it was you. I know you only wanted a girl for the night, but I've admired you so much, for so long. And now I've got to know you in person. I love you.'

  Savagely, he said, 'You've known me for two days! So don't be so damned stupid!'

  'I've known you much longer than that. I know a lot about you.'

  'What you read in the magazines? Most of it's lies

  made up by Jack or the writers. Even my name is a lie. You know nothing about me.'

  'I do now.'

  'Because you slept with me? Don't be silly.'

  'I'm not silly! It doesn't matter if some of the stories are lies, or your name isn't the one you use on stage. I know you've worked to get to where you are, to overcome your handicap as well as all the other hurdles any singer has to clear. I know you can be kind and considerate, and—and sometimes cruel.'

  'As a description of my character, it lacks something. All men are kind when they want it, and cruel after they've got it. Didn't you know?'

  'I couldn't,' she said flatly. 'Could I?'

  'Oh, that's right—it was your first time, wasn't it? My God, if I'd wanted a childvirgin I could have found one easily enough. They turn up every so often. Jack metaphorically spanks them and sends them home to their mothers. And why the hell he didn't do the same with you ...' A thought struck him, coldly, like an icecube down his spine, and he said, 'I don't suppose you used anything either, did you?'

  'Wh-what?'

  'Contraception!' he snapped. 'Did it occur to you that you might get pregnant, playing grown-up games?'

  The way she stammered, he knew she must be blushing. 'Oh! I th-thought that you—I mean, I hardly had a chance to—I was with you all day!'

  He thought about the chances and decided it wasn't likely. But he hoped it would give her something to think about over the next few weeks. About as long as it should take him to shove her to the back of his mind.

  'I'm sorry,' she muttered, sounding ridiculously humble, like a scolded child.

  'What the hell were you doing, flying across the world on your own?' he demanded. 'What kind of parents have you got?'

  `My parents are wonderful!' she said indignantly. `They'd be horrified if they knew ... I was on an exchange scholarship in America,' she said. 'And they thought my aunt was meeting me here. I told you.'

  So the sick aunt did exist.

  `I'm sorry,' she said again.

  Irritated, Cade snapped, 'Oh, for God's sake!' And turning from her, his outflung hand sent something crashing on the desk beside them. His sleeve was wet and he realised that someone had put a vase of flowers there that hadn't been part of the desk furnishings when he moved in. Cursing, he pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his sleeve, furious at the stupidity of the hotel staff and his own clumsiness. He felt her beside him, putting back the vase, rustling among the flowers, trying to replace them, he supposed.

  `Leave it!' he said irritably, and moved away from her, roughly stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket.

  She had moved, too, and he turned to the sound of her voice. 'Would you like a towel?'

  'No.' He ran a hand through his hair, trying to be calm. He said, 'You could at least have told me it was your first time.'

  'Would it have made a difference?'

  Yes, dammit! It would. I probably wouldn't have taken you. A one-night stand is no way to lose your virginity.'

  `I thought that men—that it was something special for a man—'

  Brutally, he said, 'My dear girl, collecting maiden-heads is a pastime for college boys and ageing lechers. My tastes are more sophisticated.. Besides, it's well known that virgins are no good in bed.'

  Carissa went so still he thought she had stopped breathing. Or she had moved while he was talking, and left the room. He moved his head and couldn't sense her near him. Had she gone?

  Furious, he took several strides across the room without taking his bearings, and found himself standing and not knowing where he was, nothing within reach of his groping fingers. He didn't know which way he was facing, or if another step would bring him blundering against a chair or the coffee table or into a wall. Sickening panic gripped him before he returned to sanity and said violently, Carissa! Where the hell are you?'

  Suddenly she was in his arms, and he automatically closed them round her as she cried softly, 'I'm here, Cade. I'm sorry! It's all right, I'm here!'

  He put his face on her soft hair and held her tightly, wiping away her tears with his fingers, and poignant bitterness filled him at the thought of the dawn breaking outside.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CARISSA jumped from the trolley-bus and walked quickly along Auckland's Queen Street and around the corner into a relatively quiet side lane. The lobby of the tall building where she worked was deserted, and she had the elevator to herself as
it whisked her silently to the fifth floor.

  She crossed the cushioned vinyl of the corridor to the door marked Morris Carey Wyatt: Entertainment for New Zealand in discreet black and gold lettering, and entered the carpeted offices where she had worked for the last Eve years, since she was barely twenty.

  She said good morning pleasantly to the girl behind the desk where she herself had started with Morris Wyatt, entrepreneur extraordinary, the man everyone in the business credited with putting New Zealand's small islands on the map as far as overseas entertainers were concerned.

  Now Carissa had a small office all her owns and the title of personal assistant to Morris, with a salary to match. She was something more than a super-secretary —more, she told him somewhat dryly once; a super-dogsbody. It was her job to find any loose ends Morris left and tie them up, to deputise for him when he wasn't available, to keep the business wheels oiled and make sure the machine still ran when he was away, as he had been, on a flying visit to Australia, over the last few days.

  The girl's voice stopped her as she was about to enter her office. `Mr Wyatt is waiting for you, Miss Martin.'

  `He's back?' She had known his plane would be here early this morning, but hadn't expected him back in

  the office before noon. His trips tended to be hectic, and usually he went to his flat and snatched a few hours' sleep before he came back to work, sure of a clear head and a keen eye. Not that she had ever seen Morris less than bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He had the energy of a minor hurricane, but a much better sense of direction. She admired the man tremendously.

  'He said he wants to see you the minute you get in, Miss Martin.'

  'Oh—thank you, Sandra.'

  Carissa changed direction and went down the short passageway to Morris's office, wondering what was up, her gaze automatically flicking over the row of famous faces whose photographs relieved the plainness of the white wall. All of them represented well-known overseas acts which Morris had brought to New Zealand at some time, a few of them more than once. Quite a lot of well-known entertainers toured Australia, and Morris had made it his business—almost a mission in life—to persuade them that a short trip across the Tasman sea would repay the time, effort and expense. He had been a bit cagey about just what his aim had been this trip, but Carissa knew that one or two celebrity musical stars were expected in Sydney within the next few months, and guessed he hoped a personal approach might secure some talent for the New Zealand scene. He had good contacts with some of the Sydney side agencies. Perhaps he had arranged a short-notice concert or tour and wanted to make some fast arrangements. Booking venues, advertising, printing tickets—there would be a million things to do ...

  He was standing at the window when she walked in, rubbing reflectively at his chin, which meant he was worried or possibly baffled about something. Morris was a big man with a thick black moustache that matched his hair which he wore long enough to cover his shirt collar, and bright blue eyes that never missed a

  trick if there was likely to be money or entertainment in it.

  'I didn't expect you back so soon,' she greeted him. `Sandra said you wanted to see me straight away. She made it sound urgent.'

  He waved vaguely at a chair, and she sat down and waited.

  'I want you to do something for me,' he started, moving restlessly away from the window, but not sitting down.

  'That's what you pay me for, Morris,' she answered humorously. 'What is it this time? Have you booked a temperamental act? Someone needing oodles of patience and Tender Loving Care?'

  He grinned, but a little uneasily. 'That's part of it. You're awfully good at looking after the difficult cusses. But there's a bit more to it this time. It's .a sort of unusual assignment.'

  She liked unusual assignments, it was one of the good things about her job that the unexpected cropped up quite often, and she enjoyed the challenges it offered. But she felt a stirring of trepidation mixed with curiosity, because Morris didn't seem to think she was going to like this one.

  l Well, what's it all about?' she asked.

  First of all,' he said. 'This is terribly confidential—in fact it could be a matter of life and death, literally, if you breathe a word.'

  Carissa blinked and said, 'I won't, then.'

  'And you're at liberty to refuse to do this, because it's—er—well, strictly speaking, it's not what you're paid for, I suppose. But I hope you will, because I know I can trust you, Carrie. You're discreet and level headed and extremely competent, and this job needs someone like you. Also you're unlikely to lose your head over the guy, which might be an advantage.'

  'You're being very mysterious,' she smiled. 'Who -is

  the guy? One of the world's sex symbols, by the sound of it!'

  'I guess he is. He's a singer—I don't want to name names—' He glanced about the room as though it might contain, hidden microphones, making her smile inwardly. Whatever all the mystery was about, she suspected that Morris was rather enjoying it.

  `Basically,' he said, in a low, confidential voice, 'I just want you to look after him, for a few days—maybe a few weeks. You've done it before, but this time it'll possibly be a bit longer than usual. And—well, there's a risk. It could be dangerous.'

  `Why?' Joking, she said, 'I don't know any homicidal singers, do I?'

  'He isn't homicidal_. He's being threatened.'

  `Threatened? You mean someone wants to kill him?'

  'Someone tried, when I was in Aussie. But they don't know he's here-I hope. The thing is, he's got to lie low for a while, and someone has to nursemaid him. You, Carrie—please?'

  Barely able to assimilate such -bizarre facts, Carissa asked, 'Do I carry a gun?'

  'This is serious!' Morris hissed.

  'Sony. Of course it is—if someone really -tried to kill him, end it isn't just hoax threats. It isn't a publicity stunt, is it?'

  'No, definitely not. I know his agent and his manager. No, this is for real, Carrie. Look, you can say no if you like. It isn't what you're paid for, but the plan needs someone absolutely trustworthy.'

  `I'm flattered!' -

  'No, you're not. Flattery never got a man anywhere with you. That's another reason for picking you.'

  Before she could work out an appropriate response to that, he said, 'Look, will you give me a yes or no, and then if it's yes, we can continue this discussion in my car.'

  DARLING. DECEIVER

  She thought for five seconds, then said, 'Yes. Why in your car?'

  'I'll explain on the way,' he said, relief all over him. 'Come on.'

  Barely five minutes later they were in his car, on the route to his suburban flat, and as they passed the grey neo-Gothic tower of the university on one side, and the stately green trees of Albert Park with its memorial statue of Queen Victoria on the other, Carissa said, 'You are going to explain all this, I hope?'

  'Well, this thing blew up while I was there. Naming no names'—(he was really rather enjoying all this cloak and dagger stuff, Carissa thought)—`our lad is well known in America. Apparently there'd been some notes, telephone calls etcetera before he left for the Australian tour he's just completed. They figured once he left the country he'd be safe, and by the time he got back it would probably have died off of its own accord. But he got attacked—fortunately not hurt badly—when he was in Melbourne. His manager and agent called in a detective agency when the, police seemed to draw blank, and came up with a plan—with which,' he said carefully, 'I offered to help. I'd been trying to get some New Zealand engagements for this guy, and I figured—well, if I help them out, they've got to be grateful, right?'

  'Oh—right!' said Carissa. 'So, what was the plan?'

  `The manager and all the rest of the party flew to the states as planned, on schedule—and he came home quietly with me.'

  'He came home with you? He's—at your flat, now?'

  'Right. That's why I want to get back there as soon as possible. I don't think anyone could have spotted him, but I don't mind tell
ing you I'm nervous.'

  'How long are you planning to hide him in your flat?'

  'Only until tonight. You're going to the lodge.'

  'The lodge.' Carissa was thoughtful. Kamahi Lodge was a place they used occasionally as a quiet retreat for celebrities wanting a few days' peace between engagements. It was on the shore of a beautiful inland lake, surrounded by rugged bush country, the only neighbours a small motel nearby, and the fishermen who occupied for a few weeks at a time some of the huts scattered about the shores of the lake. It should be safe enough. On the other hand, if they were found there; what chance did they have of getting help?

  `Morris,' she protested, I'm not a bodyguard.'

  'Don't worry,' he said. `There'll be bodyguards, laid on by the detective agency. You're going along to provide cover—and be chief cook and bottle-washer.'

  Carissa sat up, a glint in her eye. 'You mean I'm nothing but a cheap housekeeper I '

  'Cheap? On your salary?'

  'I'm worth every cent of it, Morris, and you know it!'

  do, I do!' he assured her hastily. 'Believe me, if I could find a cook/housekeeper I could trust like I trust you, I'd send her along.'

  hate cooking!'

  'But you do it, don't you? Now, don't go all Women's Lib me, there's a dear. Carrie, I need you! '

  `Oh, all right,' Carissa sighed. 'But I don't fancy acting cook to your beefy bodyguards as well as nursemaid to your terrified singer.'

  `Oh, he isn't terrified,' said Morris. 'He's mad as hell! He'd like to wade in there and fight the whole battle himself, if the police and his agent and his manager hadn't practically tied him down and made him see sense.'

  can see it's going to be one happy holiday!' Carissa sighed.

  `By the way, I don't think you'll have to cook for the bodyguards. The idea is they'll be posing as huntin,

  shootin' fishin' types using the nearest fishing hut—the one by the lodge gates, near the road, so they can monitor any callers. You and -er—our client will have the lodge to yourselves. Looks better that way, in case anyone's nosy.'