by Penny Jordan
As she thanked the solicitor for his help and replaced the receiver, she wondered why it was that she should feel so shocked by what she had just learned. She ought if anything to feel contempt, especially when she remembered the arrogant way in which Daniel had once thrown at her accusations of duplicity, of deceit, of using others for her own ends.
She was prowling restlessly round the room when the door opened and Camilla came in.
'Ma not back?' she enquired. 'That's odd—she and Gran are normally back by this time. You don't suppose something's happened to her, do you?' she asked, outwardly nonchalant, but Sage had seen the shadow of apprehension darkening her eyes, and guessed with intuitive sympathy that the shock of Liz's accident had left the young girl feeling vulnerable and insecure.
'I'm sure she's fine. She probably got involved—I expect people will have asked her what's happened to Mother, and that's probably delayed her… Where exactly are these meetings?' she asked, glad to have something to distract her from dwelling on the subject of Daniel Cavanagh. Why did it have to be his company that was involved in building this section of the motorway? It would have made her role in all of this far easier if she didn't have to deal with him, but rather with an anonymous and unknown stranger.
'I don't know.' Camilla frowned. 'In fact, I don't really know where they go… it's just sort of something that always happens. Neither Ma nor Gran talks about it really.'
Sage watched her curiously. In other circumstances, with a different woman, and if Faye hadn't always been accompanied by Liz on these trips, she might have imagined from the secrecy that shrouded them that Faye was meeting a lover; and then she checked a tiny frown scoring her forehead, wondering why it was that she should feel with such certainty that Faye would not have a lover.
Surely not because she chose to play down her beauty, to wear dull clothes and little make-up? Surely she was not so stupid as to believe that men only found attractive women who made an effort to attract them?
She had seen for herself on enough occasions, surely, the effect of a woman who to the rest of her sex might appear ordinary, even plain, and yet who had that certain indescribable something that drew men to her like flies to amber? Yet Faye did not have that unmistakable sex appeal, she was quite sure of it. But Faye had been married when she was still a comparatively young woman… had had a child, and, although Sage was prepared to admit that no one outside a marriage truly knew what went on inside it, she was reasonably confident that her brother was not the kind of man who, for whatever reason, would treat a woman—any woman, but especially his wife—in such a way that after his death the memory of their relationship was so abhorrent to her that she now eschewed any kind of relationship with another member of his sex. Neither did she believe the opposite: that, having loved David and lost him, Faye could not endure the idea of putting another man in his place. She might not wish to remarry, but sexually…
A mature woman would have to have a powerful ability for self-deceit indeed if she truly believed that it was impossible to feel sexual desire without being deeply in love. And if there was one thing that Sage prided herself on it was her honesty.
She was not Faye, though, as she was the first to recognise, and the idea of Faye stealing away to spend time in the arms of an unknown lover was so impossible to imagine that she instantly dismissed it.
So why did she have this niggling, nagging feeling that there was more to these monthly disappearances than there seemed? The very fact that her brain should automatically pick on the word disappearance underlined that feeling.
She looked at her niece. Camilla was still looking worried, and she immediately tried to reassure her. 'As I said, Cam, I'm sure that your mother has merely been delayed. I promise you bad news always travels fast. If there'd been an accident…' She saw Camilla wince, but went on firmly '… if there had been an accident we'd know about it by now.' What she didn't say was that she was surprised that Faye hadn't said anything to her about her plans—that she hadn't suggested leaving a telephone number where she could be contacted, especially in view of her anxiety about Liz—but Faye was an adult, not a child, and certainly Sage did not feel that she had any right to question her movements.
'What's that?' Camilla asked, glancing at the map she had unrolled.
'I wanted to check up on who had bought that piece of land,' Sage told her.
'Oh, that… yes. Gran tried to buy it when it came up for auction.'
'Mmm.' If Daniel Cavanagh did plan to build houses on that land, he would be even more obdurate about any change in the proposed route of the road. Sage was pretty sure that Ms Ordman would take whatever view Daniel wanted her to take, but as she mulled over these thoughts it occurred to her that the right kind of publicity campaign could do a great deal of damage to the apparently pristine reputation of Daniel's companies.
She wrinkled her nose, knowing immediately that her mother would have vetoed such a suggestion as being underhand… but what was Daniel himself, purchasing the land in the first place? Sometimes one had to fight fire with fire. As this thought formed, she also realised uncomfortably that some old scars had not entirely healed and that there was a certain pleasure in anticipating throwing back at Daniel some of the insults he had once so bitterly tossed at her, in heaping on him the same kind of scorn and contempt he had once made her suffer, in taking exactly the same kind of high-minded and infuriatingly arrogant moral stance. Yes, she would enjoy making him squirm…and perhaps, after all, there need not be a public battle… Perhaps the mere suggestion that they had the information, that such a publicity campaign could be mounted against him…
She closed her mind to the fact that her knowledge of him, fifteen years or more out of date though it might be, did not incline her to believe that he would readily back down to any kind of pressure. It would do no harm to make a phone call—to suggest a meeting, to test the water, so to speak. And certainly it would do no harm to let him know that his purchase of the land had been discovered.
Behind her she heard Camilla making some comment about going riding and nodded as she picked up the file again and opened it, quickly searching for what she wanted.
Yes, there it was, the name and address of Daniel's London head office and, of course, its telephone number.
As she punched the number into the phone she discovered that her stomach muscles had become unexpectedly tense. Nervous… of speaking to Daniel Cavanagh…? How ridiculous. Why, she could remember when…
The cool, efficient tones of the girl answering the phone stopped her train of thought. She asked for Daniel by name, giving her own and adding crisply, 'I wanted to have a word with him about the proposed new motorway contract…'
'Sage… What can I do for you?'
To be put straight through to him caught her a little off guard, as did the unexpected jerk of sensations deep inside her body—the shocking familiarity of hearing him speak her name, almost as though some hidden part of her had remembered exactly that intonation, that timbre, when there could be no reason for it to have done so.
Infuriating that her brain should have logged Daniel's voice so accurately, when despite all her striving she could no longer even hear a faint echo of Scott's in her memory.
'I think we ought to have a meeting, Daniel…'
The very quality of his silence made her face burn, almost as though she had been guilty of propositioning him. Her fingers curling round the receiver, she forgot about tactics and said acidly, 'This is business, Daniel.'
'But of course.' He sounded so urbane, so polite, and yet she could have sworn there was laughter beneath the calm words… and not just laughter either.
You fool, she derided herself. What an idiotic thing to say—of course it was business… how could it have been anything else?
'What exactly was it you wanted to discuss?'
'I… we need to meet. It isn't something we can discuss over the phone…'
What the hell was the matter with her? She sounded like a t
eenager trying to make a date. Infuriated with herself and with him, she was almost tempted to ring off and abort the whole idea. It was typical of her, she acknowledged bitterly, that she had leapt in without proper planning…without proper thought. In her shoes, her mother would have made notes, carefully calculated what she could and could not say. Her mother would have trailed some bait, and waited cautiously until it was taken up before betraying anything. She, on the other hand—she was a fool, she derided herself, grinding her teeth in vexation.
There was another telling pause, and then a thoughtful, 'I see… Well, in that case, I believe I have half an hour free tomorrow, if you could be at my office for—'
His office. No way. This wasn't something she was going to tackle on his territory, giving him the advantage…
'I'm sorry, that's impossible,' she told him quickly. 'My sister-in-law is away at the moment and I can't really be out of touch with the hospital.'
Not strictly true, but it was the best excuse she could come up with.
'I see… and this matter you wish to discuss with me appertaining to the new motorway is urgent, I take it… Something that can't be dealt with through the usual channels of your committee?'
He sounded so suave… so polite… so understanding… so why did she suddenly feel threatened, exposed?
'I think you'll find that it's better if we deal with it on a one-to-one basis,' she told him ignoring the faint frisson of wariness cautioning her, adding with what she hoped was a suaveness to match his own, 'It would certainly save us both time.'
First the threat and then the palliative… wasn't that the way it was done?
She had little experience of this kind of thing. It ran counter to everything she believed in. Deceit was not her currency. She did not have the mind for it.
'Well, of course, in that case… Perhaps if I were to drive down this evening to Cottingdean…? Or would you prefer a more—anonymous rendezvous…?'
Why was it that the words 'anonymous' and 'rendezvous' made her nerves prickle so uncomfortably? Was it because she had so recently been thinking them herself, but in a different context? There was no reason, was there, why she should suspect that Daniel was deliberately trying to undermine her, to use the words of lovers rather than adversaries?
'There's no reason why we shouldn't talk here at Cottingdean,' she told him crisply. 'At least from my point of view…'
There, let him see how he liked a taste of his own vile suggestiveness. She certainly had nothing to hide in meeting with him… while he, on the other hand… Ms Ministry had been extremely possessive… She hesitated, wondering if she dared imply that he might not want the other woman to know he was meeting her, and then regretfully abandoned the idea as too dangerous. The last thing she wanted to do was to alienate him to the point where he refused to meet with her.
'Generous of you, especially when you need to be so close to home in case the hospital need to get in touch.'
Sage stared bitterly at the receiver, wanting to tell him exactly what she thought of him and his sneaky purchase of the land, but knowing that the last thing she could afford now was to lose her temper. So many, many times in the past she had done exactly that, to spectacular and certainly momentarily satisfying effect, but afterwards… well, on more occasions than she cared to remember afterwards had come the humbling and often soul-destroying realisation that her temper had cost her dear. Too dear…
'We normally finish dinner around nine,' she told him, fighting to sound calm and unmoved.
'Nine it is, then,' came the courteous and yet somehow unnerving response, followed by an even more unnerving, 'Until then, Sage. I must say I'm rather looking forward to it… It isn't often one gets the opportunity to cross swords a second time with an old adversary… I warn you, though—I do hope your blade is well honed. I seem to recollect that on the last occasion you rejected science in favour of passion. Never a wise decision—'
Sage hung up on him, not trusting herself to speak. How dared he…? How dared he allude to that…? How dared he imply that what had happened in the past had any relevance at all to the present? That had been personal—extremely personal. This was different—very different, and this time…this time what! She was going to be the victor. She certainly hoped so!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As he replaced the receiver, Daniel stared across his office. It was a handsome room, its walls cloaked in the seventeenth-century pine panelling he had rescued from a demolition site, its floor covered in a very masculine dark green wool carpet to complement the traditional tapestry weave fabric which covered the two large wing chairs either side of the room's fireplace.
The board had been dubious when he had turned down the opportunity to site the company's head office in a prestigious modern city block, opting instead to purchase one of the four-storey seventeenth-century houses in a square in what had then been a very unfashionable part of London.
He had overruled them though. Not by force, but by discreetly working on them as individuals, bringing them round to his point of view, and it had been worthwhile, not just for the aesthetic advantages of working in such pleasant surroundings. This once unfashionable part of the city was now highly sought after. To the original house they had added those on either side, so that their share of the square, which outwardly retained the facade of three separate dwellings, now housed the entire administrative side of the business.
He considered himself to be a builder, not merely by trade, but by inclination as well—building bridges between people was as much his forte as building homes for them to live in, but when it came to Sage Danvers he doubted that he would ever to be able to construct foundations strong enough to bridge the divide between them.
The last thing he wanted right now was a confrontation with her, and yet quite plainly she was spoiling for a fight. What on earth did she want to see him for? He was quite certain it wasn't to talk over old times.
Old times. His mouth hardened cynically. Ever since the shock of seeing her so unexpectedly at that damned meeting he had been fighting to hold back the memories.
Perhaps it was time to stop fighting them. Perhaps it might even be therapeutic. He prided himself on having a fairly comprehensive knowledge of what motivated him, on being able to look within himself and analyse what he found there. Unlike many of his sex, he did not dismiss the need to understand more about himself, nor did he normally ignore his own intuition. So why start now?
His desk was between the room's two high windows, facing the fireplace. Above it hung a portrait of his mother's second husband. Robert Cavanagh, the man who, on his marriage to Daniel's mother, had also given the teenage boy his surname. Daniel had commissioned the painting after his death. The artist had worked from photographs and had managed to portray an extraordinarily lifelike and vigorous image of Robert Cavanagh.
Strange how much he missed Robert even now. Their paths in life had crossed so very briefly and yet that crossing had had a cataclysmic effect upon him, just as had his brief passage of arms with Sage. In many ways they were two of the most important pivots on which his whole life had turned.
As he stared at Robert Cavanagh's portrait, he pondered on what this man would have made of the new bullish attitude being displayed by builders and developers. An attitude that cut right across the entire field, from the small builder of the odd pair of houses to the mighty giants of construction who were responsible for laying down the new motorways. He had a foot in both camps.
The company he had inherited from Robert Cavanagh was now heavily involved in civil engineering, had gone public, and was no longer his private concern, a move dictated by market demands, by the threat of takeovers and asset-stripping exercises. In his role as chairman of the new public company he had in many ways lost touch with the reality of the industry and spent what seemed like the vast bulk of his time in series after series of often emotive meetings. When it came to new motorways, everyone thought they were a wonderful idea, everyone saw the necess
ity of them, everyone wanted to use them— but no one wanted to live next to them.
The route for this latest part of the road network had been particularly contentious. He frowned again. He still wasn't entirely sure… But the D of E… He realised he was doodling on his blotter, and grimaced a little when he saw what he had sketched; the outline of an old, traditionally E-shaped house… He threw the pencil down in disgust, recognising the sketch for what it was. He was worse than a baby with a dummy, he reflected acidly, reverting to the sketch like a child to a comforter. What was the matter with him? He wasn't afraid of seeing Sage, was he?
He moved violently in his chair and then got up, going to stand under the portrait. In winter a fire burned in this grate; or at least the application of a modern science allowed one to believe that it did. In summer the same firm that planted up and took care of the carefully coordinated window-boxes which lined the windows of the company's headquarters provided fresh flowers daily for the huge urn that filled the fireplace.
As he glanced at the arrangement of country-style flowers, his eyes became hooded, lending austerity to his features. His mother had loved fresh flowers. Not that she had ever been given much opportunity to do so… At least not until…
Was it because of his mother that he had refused to see the truth about Sage, that he had believed…? He closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again, flicking a switch on his intercom and when his secretary answered telling her, 'I'm going to call it a day, Heather. If anything urgent crops up I'll be in the flat, but only if it is urgent. Oh, you can go early yourself if you like.'
The flat, as he casually termed the upper two storeys of the middle property, which he had redesigned for his own use, could be reached only via a private lift tucked away discreetly in the main octagonal hallway, or via a set of stairs, hidden behind a false piece of panelling.
