FATAL DECEPTION
Sally Wentworth
He was deceiving himself this time...
Norrie had fallen disastrously in love with Bruno Denton four years ago, when he'd taken over her father's newspaper. Unwittingly she'd given him everything he'd wanted--her body, her soul and the information he'd needed to destroy her father.
Now that she'd succeeded in rebuilding her life, she couldn't bear to sit idly by as history repeated itself--not when Bruno was trying to take control of more than just a newspaper..
He was also trying to take control of her little nephew--as if he thought the boy belonged to him.
CHAPTER ONE
The moment she entered the wide double doorway of the Welford Observer, Norrie Peters could tell that something had happened. Neither of the women whose job it was to answer enquiries and take in small ads were at the desk, and the office on the other side of the glass partition sounded different; instead of the clatter of typewriters, there was only the hum of human voices, some of them raised to an angry pitch.
Pushing open the door marked 'STAFF ONLY', Norrie walked into the big office, the level of noise dropping for a moment as everyone looked round; then picking up again as they recognised her and went back to the subject that was so engrossing them.
'What's going on?' she asked one of the reporters standing on the edge of the crowd.
But he only smiled grimly and said, 'You'll find out soon enough,' and turned away to listen to the man next to him.
Mystified and extremely curious, Norrie went out of the main office by the far door and down the corridor to a door marked, 'Sue Stewart, News Editor', knocked and went inside.
Usually at this time on a Monday morning her boss was up to her eyes in work, but today Sue was perched on the edge of her desk, talking to two other full-time employees of the Observer. She paused as Norrie came in and said, 'Hi. Have you heard the news?' And before Norrie had time to do more than begin to shake her head, added, 'We're being taken over. They told us this morning. They gave each of us this letter. Here, I've got a copy for you, too.'
Sue passed over an envelope and Norrie quickly read the photocopied letter inside. 'Oh, no,' she groaned. 'This happened to me once before; when I was living down in Devon some years ago.'
'Not by the same people, surely?' one of the other women put in.
'Provincial Press Limited,' Norrie read from the letter's heading. 'No, that was an entirely different company. Have you heard what's going to happen?' she asked quickly, not wanting to bring back memories of that other time, memories that even now could hurt appallingly when they caught her unawares.
'Not really.' Sue shook her head. 'But I suppose that something like this was bound to happen eventually. The paper's been losing money for too long and it either had to go under altogether or else be taken over by a big conglomerate like Provincial Press.'
'Let's just hope they don't make too many changes,' one girl said anxiously; she was saving up to get married and hadn't been there long. 'Mrs Bronwen in Personnel told me that she had to send a list of all the staff over to the head office of Provincial Press at the same time as they looked at the accounts. There's bound to be a shake-up among the staff and the people who came last will be the first to go.'
'Not necessarily,' Sue corrected her. 'They'll probably let the part-timers go first.'
'Thanks,' Norrie said feelingly.
'Oh Lord. Sorry, love.' Sue touched her arm in sympathy. 'And you with young Ben to support. But try not to worry. I'll fight tooth and nail to hang on to you all.'
'It wouldn't make any difference,' Norrie told her with remembered bitterness. 'People from big companies like Provincial Press don't have any feelings, they don't care who they hurt so long as they make a profit. Their only god is money.'
Her feelings came through so strongly that the other three women looked at her silently for a moment, taken aback by the venom in her voice, but then Sue recovered and asked, 'Does anyone know who they're sending down?'
'No, but Mrs Bronwen said that someone would be arriving tomorrow.'
'Well, take-over or not, the paper still has to be got out on Friday, so we'd better get to work.'
But there was too much apprehension and anticipation running through the old Victorian building that housed the newspaper office for much work to be done that day. Everyone wanted to talk it over with everyone else, and it was only when Harry Simons, the editor, came and told them all to get on with it, that even a semblance of normal order returned to the place.
As a part-time features writer, Norrie could go into the office more or less when she liked, but when she had first started working for the Observer two years ago, she had got into the routine of going in on Monday and Wednesday mornings; Mondays to hand in her copy and Wednesdays to discuss new feature ideas. The rest of the week she worked on her own initiative, researching the features and writing them up, in between looking after Ben. At first she had had to pay someone to take care of him while she'd gone to the office, but for the past year he had gone to nursery school three mornings a week, which had helped a great deal. At twelve Norrie went along to collect him, still thinking about the take-over and worried that she might lose the regular work the Observer gave her. She wrote for other outlets where she could, magazine articles and short stories mostly, but very little of that was commissioned and it was a bonus if it got accepted. Of course she wasn't exactly penniless; Geoff sent her money regularly every month and there was some money that her father had left her, but most of that had gone on buying the cottage and she didn't want to have to break into the balance if she could possibly avoid it. And not only that, she needed to work to keep her mind active and alert; she'd go mad if she had nothing to do all day except chat to a toddler whose conversation, although surprising at times, wasn't exactly stimulating.
Norrie reached the nursery school, which was only a quarter of a mile or so from the High Street, and joined the crowd of mums waiting inside the gates for their offspring. They all thought that Ben was hers and Norrie didn't bother to enlighten them; she had taken Ben over on the day he was born, the day his own mother had died and his father, her elder brother Geoff, had rejected him, and now all they had was each other.
She grinned at him as the children came bursting out of the building and he ran across the grass towards her. He was nearly four now and considered himself too big to be helped, but his fat little fingers couldn't manage the zip of his anorak so that it blew out around him as he ran. 'Hi. Had a good morning?' She zipped him up while he proudly showed her his drawing of a van being chased by a police car. He certainly didn't have any hang-ups; he was a normal bloodthirsty little boy. Norrie took his hand and they walked home to the cottage, Ben chattering away asking dozens of questions, a habit she encouraged in him but often regretted as she struggled to find an answer, only to be met with another question two seconds later.
When they got home, Norrie made lunch and then sat down to read the paper for ten minutes while Ben had his sleep, but her thoughts kept coming back to the take-over and then, inevitably, even further back to that other take-over back in Devon, over four years ago now, when her father had been the editor of the local paper and she was working on it as a junior reporter in her very first job. The paper had been losing too much money and the owners had sold out behind everyone's backs to a company called Westland Holdings, and they had sent...
Norrie threw the paper aside abruptly and put her hands to her face. She wouldn't!' She wouldn't think back to that time. To that man. She would never forget him, that was impossible, but at least the raw pain had worn off and she'd been able to put him out of her mind, nevertheless this morning's news had brought it all flooding back, the pain and the fear. But th
at was silly, she scolded herself; there was nothing to be afraid of this time—except losing her job—it was an entirely different company with entirely different personnel. No one this time would come to disrupt her life and leave it empty and in ashes.
On Wednesday, Norrie went to the office with very mixed feelings, wondering if she still had a job, although reason told her that it was too soon yet for the new management to have made any decisions. But people moved fast these days and they'd had the staff list and the accounts for some weeks, the management could have made up their minds who they were going to get rid of even before their representative had set foot through the door.
Everyone was working assiduously today, from the women on the reception desk, all through the main office and into the smaller individual offices of the more senior staff in the corridor beyond. Typewriters clacked busily and people moved purposefully about as if the work they were on was of supreme importance; a far cry from the casual, friendly atmosphere that Norrie usually met. There was a definite feeling of tension in the air and people she'd known for years hardly even paused to look up and say good morning to her when she greeted them. So the new man had obviously arrived and everyone was out to make a good impression. Norrie smiled rather wryly; somehow she didn't think it would fool him for a minute.
Sue was alone in her office and looked up apprehensively when Norrie walked in, then relaxed with a sigh of relief.
'God, I'm a bag of nerves this morning.' She put out a cigarette, then automatically reached for another. 'Want a fag?' Norrie shook her head. Sue said, 'Oh, that's right, you don't, do you? I must have smoked half a dozen already and it's only half past nine.'
'I gather the new management's representative has arrived?' Norrie said sympathetically.
'I'll say he has,' Sue answered feelingly. 'He was in here waiting for us at eight o'clock yesterday morning. Poor old Harry nearly died when he came in at eight-thirty and found that the wretched man was there before him; Harry thought he'd be here first, of course, and could put on an act of being dedicated to the paper.'
'I thought he was,' Norrie observed mildly.
Sue drew deeply on her cigarette. 'Only when it suits him. He likes the perks that go with the job: being invited to join the Rotary Club, giving talks and that kind of thing. Being a big fish in a small pond, I suppose. But he spends too much time on that and not enough on improving the circulation figures.'
Norrie looked at the other woman in some surprise; she'd never heard her criticise anyone at the office before. Sue was nearly forty, about fifteen years older than herself, divorced, and with several boyfriends in her past—and present probably—and had come to the Observer straight from a London paper when she had moved into the area because of her husband's job many years ago. There were rumours that her husband making her leave London had caused the break-up of their marriage, but the two women didn't know each other well enough to confide in each other, and whether Sue stayed in Welford because she wanted to or because she couldn't get back into Fleet Street, no one really knew.
'Has anyone heard anything yet?' Norrie asked to change the subject, not wanting to talk about Harry behind his back.
Sue shook her head. 'Nothing definite. All the editors have been asked to submit reports on the people under them together with samples of their work if applicable. So I suppose Harry has been asked to do the same with the sub-editors,' she said grimly. 'But all day yesterday he was busy showing the man from Provincial Press round the place, introducing him to everyone and explaining how everything works. Not that he looked as if he needed to be told anything,' she added with a grimace.
'Why, what's he like?'
Stubbing out her cigarette viciously, Sue gave a short, unmirthful laugh. 'An arrogant bastard. Cold as hell. But quite youngish and damn good-looking though. In other circumstances ...' She shrugged. 'But he's so formal and distant you wouldn't believe. That icy kind of politeness that makes you feel as if you've crawled up out of a hole, you know?'
'He sounds ghastly,' Norrie agreed with a shudder. 'What's his name?'
'Er—Fenton, I think. No, Denton, that was it. Bruno Denton.' Sue looked up when Norrie didn't speak and her mouth opened in astonishment. 'Why Norrie, what on earth's the matter? Are you ill? You're as white as a sheet.'
There was a spare chair by the desk and Norrie collapsed into it, the room gyrating around her. She was aware that Sue was talking to her but couldn't hear properly for the roaring in her ears. Waves of blackness came up to meet her and she would have passed out except that Sue pushed her head down between her knees and then thrust a bottle of smelling salts under her nose, making her eyes water as she tried to flinch away.
'Is that better? Are you okay? Or do you want me to send for a doctor?' Sue asked anxiously, the open bottle of smelling-salts hovering near Norrie's face.
'No. No, I'm all right.' She pushed Sue's hand away.
'What on earth happened? Did you suddenly feel faint?'
'It was . . .' For a moment Norrie almost blurted out the truth, but thankfully came to her senses enough to realise how stupid that would be. Instead she nodded and stammered, 'Everything seemed to go round suddenly.'
Sue put a hand on her forehead, looking at her worriedly. 'Well, you don't feel hot or anything. Are you getting enough to eat?' she demanded.
'What? Oh yes, of course. Perhaps I've got a cold coming or something.' Norrie straightened up. 'Sorry. That was stupid.'
'Don't be silly. You'd better go home and go to bed. You haven't got a car, have you? I'll get someone to drive you home.'
'Oh no, please, that isn't necessary. I feel fine now. Honestly,' Norrie assured her.
'Well, you don't look fine. You look as if you've seen a ghost.'
No, not seen one, Norrie thought bitterly, just heard that one I hoped was laid had been resurrected.
'I suppose you've been worrying yourself sick in case you lose your work here,' Sue said admonishingly.
'I expect we all have,' Norrie answered, getting to her feet. She was more in control of herself now but wanted desperately to get away, to get out of this building and put as much space between it and herself as possible.
'Yes, but some of us have more responsibilities than others,' Sue remarked, referring to Ben. She crossed to pick up the internal 'phone. 'I'll ask one of the reporters to take you home.'
'No, please. I'd much rather go alone.'
'All right,' Sue agreed but with a puzzled frown. 'Look, if you're short I can let you have some money to. . .'
Norrie flushed, bright spots of colour filling her pale cheeks. 'It isn't that, really. I'm loaded.'
'Well, if you're sure,' Sue agreed reluctantly. 'But promise me you'll go to the cafe across the road and have something to eat before you go home?'
'Yes, okay.' Norrie somehow managed the travesty of a smile and edged towards the door. 'If you say so.'
'I insist. And don't worry about submitting any work this week. I've got enough features in hand to cover.'
'Okay, thanks.'
At last Norrie was out of the office. She ran down the corridor but saw the door of the Editor's office opening and the sound of voices, so she turned on her heel and dived into the ladies' cloakroom, her heart palpitating with fear. Luckily there was no one else in there and she was able to lean against the wall until her heart stopped racing quite so much. Oh God, she thought miserably, why did it have to be him? Why, why, why? Of all the places in the world why did he have to come here? When I was so settled and starting to make a life for myself again. Bruno Denton. His name rang in her ears. But how? Before, he had been working for a different company. He must have changed his job or something. Norrie's stunned brain tried to grapple with the situation but she was too distraught to think straight. She would have to leave the Observer, that was certain; she couldn't possibly risk coming into the office again while he was here. But perhaps she could get her assignments by 'phone and send the copy through the post, then he'd never know that
she was working there. But then Norrie remembered the staff list he'd been given and the reports that Bruno had asked for and her heart sank again. He must already know that she worked for the Observer. The room began to sway again until suddenly cold cynicism took over. If he even remembered her name. If she wasn't just one in a long line of women that he'd used to further his ambitions—and to satisfy his bodily needs into the bargain, she thought with world-weary bitterness.
Slowly Norrie straightened up and looked at herself in the mirror; her mascara had run and she didn't have any with her to repair it. So she washed her face and ran a comb through her soft fair hair, unaware that her paleness emphasised the beauty of her long-lashed grey eyes. She had to leave the sanctuary of the cloakroom sometime. Reluctantly Norrie opened the door a little and listened, but the corridor was quiet with only the sound of distant voices coming from one of the offices down the far end. Summoning up all her courage, she stepped out and hurried into the main office, walking through it with her head down, praying that Bruno wouldn't be in there and see her. She reached the far door safely and gave a shuddering sigh of relief as she went through into the reception area.
The kind of luck she'd been having the last few years, she ought to have known that nothing could go right. As she stepped towards the main door and safety, two men came in. Harry Simons, the editor, and beside him Bruno Denton. He saw her immediately and paused. So at least he remembered her. She tried to look past him, but her eyes were drawn to his face as to a magnet and met his for a searing moment that seemed to last for eternity. Somehow she managed to turn her head away and move to walk past him, but he put out an arm to stop her.
She stopped a couple of inches away from his arm, making sure it didn't touch her, and kept her head averted.
'Norrie?'
Slowly she turned to look at him, her gaze meant to freeze him. He hadn't changed much in the four and a half years since she'd told him to get the hell out of her life. Not physically anyway. There were a couple of lines around his mouth that hadn't been there before, but that was all. God, could she really remember his face that well after all this time? But when you'd been so much in love with a man that you'd delighted in kissing every pore of his skin.. .
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