by Marsh, Susan
‘Oh,’ Marge scoffed, ‘give me a break. She died two years ago, but I’m sure I heard they were separated long before that. Anyway, a man like him knows how to move on. You can’t be that rich without being a villain, one way or another. He’s a man. And a very attractive one.’ She gave the photo a tap. ‘Think of the world he’s been brought up in. He’d have women by the boatload.’ She frowned at Cate. ‘Now, don’t you start going soft on him. I thought you said you’d given up being sucked in by heartless machos.’
‘I have.’ Cate’s gaze was uncontrollably drawn towards the vicinity of the desk. She was over Steve. She really was. It was hard to believe she’d ever had to creep to the ladies’ room to cry when he’d flaunted his girlfriends at the Friday after-work pub session, though, humiliatingly, on the rare occasions she was now able to join them, everyone still looked at her to see how she was taking it.
‘I definitely am,’ she assured Marge. ‘But you still have to give people the benefit of the doubt. Just because Tom looks like that … and has that unfortunate background …’
Unmoved by the counsel for the defence, Marge shook her head. ‘Sorry. It doesn’t look good for him.’
Cate frowned. At twenty-five she was hardly naïve, especially after her brief, soul-destroying plunge into lunacy with Steve, and she had to acknowledge the likelihood of Marge’s words. Tom Russell had been brought up by a father whose endless stream of actresses and models must have caused serious pain for his succession of wives.
She studied the photo. Was he as callous as Gran had so often described his old man? Those cool grey eyes roused an unquiet little buzz in her insides. Her gaze shifted to his mouth. A lot could be deduced from a man’s mouth. His had been chiselled in severe lines and was wide and firm, the upper lip straight, the lower one very slightly fuller. There was no softness there, though more than a suggestion of irony. He didn’t need to spike up his hair to make himself look taller.
She turned the photo sideways. Sexy, from all angles.
‘Cate.’
She started. It took a second for it to filter through to her that Harry had come out of his huddle with the news editor, and seemed to be looking her way.
Her? He wanted her?
She pushed her chair back and rose to stroll the length of the newsroom, vaguely conscious of Steve’s, Toni’s and Barbara’s startled gazes whipping around to stare.
At the desk the others looked up to watch and listen while Harry’s sharp eyes appraised her from beneath his bushy brows.
‘Your Russell obit wasn’t all that bad,’ he stated.
She gazed at Harry through a mystified fog. Were there bells ringing somewhere? Then pleasure, sharp and furious, streamed through her to her toes. ‘Oh. Oh, thank you. Thanks, Chief. Thanks very much,’ she stammered, feeling her ears turn pink.
She continued to babble her thanks, but Harry ignored her.
‘See what you can make of the memorial,’ he instructed with laconic calm. ‘The business people, the politicians who’ve been invited, who’s in and who’s out—the tone of it. Above all, watch Tom Russell. Who he talks to, who his friends are. Take Mike with you. They’re not allowing cameras inside the cathedral, but get there early and see who you can catch on the red carpet. There’s a lunch in some undisclosed location. Press are excluded.’
She nodded. A huge, joyous whoop had risen inside her and threatened to burst out, but Harry wasn’t the sort to encourage a hug, so she squashed it down.
‘Oh, and, Cate—security will be tight. Don’t forget your pass. And don’t even think of trying to get to Russell. He’s a dangerous man to cross.’
She nodded with appropriate newsroom nonchalance, and turned to stroll back to her desk. The little cluster of ace reporters fell back silently to allow her through. She permitted herself one glance at Steve Wilson. He was frowning hard, his ginger spikes quivering, his blue eyes narrowed. Pity it made him look slightly cross-eyed. She should have noticed that sooner.
Everything—the day, the sunshine streaming in through the window, the newsroom—felt suddenly fantastic, as if it was her day. She grabbed some notebooks, pencils and her miniature tape recorder and stuffed them into her handbag. Then she paused a moment to glance down at her dress, beginning to show signs of washing stress. Not quite the thing for a society memorial.
Black. She needed something black.
A vintage suit she’d bought from Rhapsodie, the boutique down the road from her Kirribilli boarding house, was itching for a new outing. She glanced at her watch. Nearly eight thirty. The service was slated for noon and she and Mike, her photographer, would need to set up at least two hours earlier. Time enough to catch the train home.
She found Mike in the canteen, poring over the racing page. She had a hurried conference with him, and a bare thirty minutes later was running up the stairs of the Lady Musgrave.
Her eighties suit was a stunning fit. The slim skirt fell to just above her knees, while the jacket had big, sewn-in shoulder pads and a severely shaped bodice with a modest, though deep-cut neckline. Extremely flattering to her breasts, although hanging the press pass around her neck rather ruined the effect. She tried clamping the pass to her jacket hem, considered it with a frown, then took it off to worry about later.
The other nineteen occupants she shared the boarding house with had left for work, so she had the bathroom to herself. In the presence of black, her blonde hair had turned to a pleasing silvery ash. With no time to waste, she subdued the mass by tying it in her nape with a black velvet ribbon. Black heels and pearl earrings completed the effect.
Not too much later, dressed to kill in vintage Carla Zampatti, she found Mike at the rear of the cathedral with his camera, leaning his long, lanky bones against a brick wall.
Streets had been cordoned off to control traffic, and the cathedral precinct was quiet, apart from a battalion of security guards prowling the boundaries, mobiles to their ears, and an occasional black-clad cleric hurrying across the grounds. There were a couple of big, expensive cars in the visitors’ car park, but no other sign yet of the rich and famous.
A team of television journalists arrived to set up in the front. Cate exchanged mobile codes with Mike, and went to reconnoitre the cathedral.
A security guard with a shaven head was stationed in the porch. She showed him her press ID, and after a growled warning not to even dream of trying to use her mobile inside if she didn’t want it confiscated, he consulted a list before allowing her to pass. She grinned to herself. Fat chance they had of enforcing that rule.
A reception table had been set inside the door, and she helped herself to a programme, which included a sketchy seating plan. As she’d expected, the pews allocated to the press were at the rear.
The cathedral’s soaring interior was cool and dim. At once the deep hush washed over her, reminding her it was some time since she’d been in a church. Awed by the graceful lines of the architecture, she strolled about, examining the stained glass and reading wall inscriptions.
Two women carrying magnificent flower arrangements bustled in from the transept aisle. Cate paused, drinking in the atmosphere. Even the presence of a couple of security guards lurking behind pillars, keeping a watchful eye on her in case she broke into some anti-Russell guerilla activity, couldn’t dilute the spiritual repose of the place.
A priest attending to something in the chancel looked hard at her as if he knew a red-hot sinner when he saw one, and, shamed, she slipped into a pew. She sent up a small prayer for her grandmother. Perhaps heaven wanted vengeance for the damage she’d caused Gran, because a small nagging need she’d been vaguely conscious of for some time suddenly became compelling.
The priest finished his preparations and hurried away. Cate gazed after him. Down that aisle, she knew, were the vestry and church offices. There had to be a ladies’ room. Should she risk it, though? She wasn’t sure the general public were allowed into the inner reaches of the cathedral.
The sound of voi
ces alerted her to the arrival of more guests. She noticed that the security men were both scanning the people crowding the entrance. Taking advantage of the distraction, she rose to her feet. It was now or never.
Hoping she looked like a woman with nothing to hide, she walked coolly down towards the altar, asserting her feminine right to visit the ladies in her dignified gait. No one intercepted her, and when she made a quick turn into the transept aisle, and saw a long, wide hallway stretching ahead, she was grateful to see it devoid of either security or clergy. With her heart hammering at the strange guilt attached to stealing around a church like a thief, she hastened past a couple of unmarked doors, not daring to open them for fear of surprising someone, and turned into the vestry.
A maze of rooms opened from it. There was one with a piano, a robing room lined with alcoves hung with priestly vestments, and a business office adjacent to a small meeting room. In the office the computer was running, as though someone had recently stood up from it and taken a temporary break.
She hesitated, feeling more like a trespasser with every step, then spotted a promising door on the other side of the meeting room. To her relief, it belonged to a tiny washroom, with a small washbasin below a rust-flecked mirror, and a toilet cubicle redolent of disinfectant. To her grateful eyes it looked like heaven.
Afterwards, when she’d washed her hands and tidied some wisps straying from her silvery mane, she opened the door, prepared to exit, then froze. There was movement in the meeting room.
Instinctively she pushed the toilet door to, not quite closing it for fear of alerting the security guard, priest, or whoever, of her presence, while she summoned enough nerve to sashay forth with careless aplomb.
She strained her ears. Had she imagined the sound? Almost at once then the clack of a woman’s heels approached and came to a halt somewhere alarmingly close by.
She nearly dropped dead with fright when a rather throaty, feminine, cigarette-husky voice said, ‘Oh, Tom. Commiserations about your dad. I’m so terribly sorry. I know exactly what you’re going through.’
There was a curt, masculine murmur of response.
Cate closed her eyes and prayed that Tom Russell was not the man outside the door about to discover her breaching his costly security arrangements.
‘And as if it wasn’t enough losing your father, without some of the rubbish being printed about him. Did you see that disgusting obituary in the Clarion?’
Cate stopped breathing.
‘I saw it.’
Though the tone was grim, the deep voice had a dark, liquid quality. Like liquid velvet. Dark, dark brown velvet. Black, even.
‘Where do those jackals get the nerve?’ the female voice went on. ‘All that hogwash about editorial independence. Will you sue?’
Cate’s heart jumped into her throat, then Tom Russell said, ‘Wouldn’t they love that? I hope I have more subtlety. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with Miss What’s-her-name. In my way.’
A chill shivered down Cate’s spine. In his way. What was his way?
He spoke again. ‘Eventually they’ll all work for me. For us. Won’t they, Livvie?’ Cate pricked up her ears, then felt ashamed. She was acting like a voyeur. What she should do now was to walk out there, excuse herself, and make a swift, dignified exit. And she would. Just as soon as she screwed up the courage.
Her heart thundered so loudly she felt sure they must hear it, for the woman’s voice issued through with perfect clarity.
‘That’s why I need to talk to you. It’s about our deal.’ There was urgency in the woman’s tone.
‘This isn’t a good moment, Liv. As you might be able to imagine, I have things on my mind today.’ The response was polite, but Cate detected a sardonic tinge to it.
‘Well, how about this afternoon? After the lunch?’
‘Impossible. I have urgent meetings scheduled that can’t be postponed.’
‘Nothing is more urgent than this,’ the woman hissed. ‘Listen to me, Tom. Everything’s at risk. Malcolm has heard something. He’s playing every card he can to hold up the divorce. Somehow he’s got wind of the merger, so he’s asking for a much bigger slice of the company.’ She paused, then added, ‘My grandfather didn’t build an empire for it to end up being controlled by the likes of him.’ There was a hoarse vehemence to the contralto voice.
Cate’s ears rang with the possibilities. She had a sudden inkling into the woman’s identity. Surely that voice was familiar. With her heart thumping, and careful to make no sound, she moved to the door and risked putting her eye to the crack.
Her gaze lighted on a portion of long leg encased in some dark, expensive fabric, brushing a highly polished black masculine shoe. Next to the shoe rested an elegant black briefcase. Then the man moved further into her view, and her heart lurched in her chest.
It was Tom Russell all right, in the living flesh, negligently leaning his tall frame against an ornately carved piece of church furniture. Though his hands were shoved carelessly into his trouser pockets, there was a coiled tension about him. His black eyebrows were lowered over his cool grey eyes as he scoured his female companion with an alert, intelligent gaze.
Forget what Marge had said about him being attractive. He was so hot he sizzled.
Cate moved her head, trying to see the woman, but she only caught a rear-view glimpse of gleaming copper hair confined at the nape in a sophisticated black snood. It was enough though, she thought with wild excitement. The next words, as abrasive as sandpaper in Tom Russell’s stern, accusing voice, confirmed her suspicion.
‘I thought you understood how crucial secrecy is at this stage, Olivia. Bloody hell, what sort of a businesswoman are you?’
Olivia. The woman was Olivia West.
Cate’s brain buzzed into overdrive. She was onto the scoop of the century. What her editor would give to know this. Russell’s joining with the West Corporation. It would be the merger of the tabloid Titans. This was more than mere front page stuff. This meant headlines.
She had to get out of there and write it. In a sudden brilliant inspiration, she shoved her hand into her bag and connected with the minuscule cassette recorder Gran had given her. Her heart skipped an excited beat. Here was a golden opportunity. She’d be the toast of the newsroom. What reporter could resist? Although—Harry was pretty firm on the ethics of recording people without their knowledge. Her fingers hovered over the button while she waged a war with her conscience. Regretfully, the thought of Harry’s flinty gaze, and his strictures about the journalism code won.
At the same time as the powerful redhead’s response floated through to her she realised, with a sinking feeling, it was too late to announce her presence. Already, she knew too much.
She surrendered to the inevitable and put her eye to the crack again, in time to catch a glimpse of Tom Russell prowling about with his lithe, long-legged stride.
And he was worth watching. Though he seemed tense, it was clear that underneath the sombre black shirt, the pearl grey silk tie, the Armani—the suit could be nothing less—his lean, long bones, muscle and sinew were all working together in a veritable symphony of co-ordination.
Unfazed by his critical tone, Olivia West was launched into a feisty come-back. ‘It could just as easily have been someone from your side who leaked. Anyway, Malcolm doesn’t really know anything for certain, he’s just guessing with that diabolical genius he has for ferreting things out about people. He only wants to hurt me. I need your help with this.’
Tom Russell shot back, ‘I never let domestic arrangements interfere with business. Yours are hardly my concern.’
‘But this does concern you,’ Olivia West retorted. ‘Look at it this way. I won’t go on with our merger until I’m free and clear of Malcolm. And if he manages to hold up the court process for three or more months—and he can if the court believes his claim is worth investigating—our deal will collapse. You know it must.’
Every line of Tom Russell’s big, lean frame was charged with impatie
nce. ‘Well, for pity’s sake, make a deal. Give him enough of what he asks for to make him feel he’s scored something.’
‘I’ve given him enough,’ Olivia said fiercely. ‘I’ve given him everything. He’s taken everything. He’s not getting any more of my company. But that’s not even the reason he’s doing this. It’s not about the money. It’s about you.’
Tom Russell came to a sudden halt, right in Cate’s line of vision.
She stayed glued to the sight, until Olivia West spun in to obstruct the view. Despite the media baroness’s artful makeup, her face was strained. Her glossy red lips were compressed and she held her hands, gloved in slinky black lace, clasped in front of her voluptuous chest.
Cate frowned. Was that much cleavage strictly appropriate for a church service?
Olivia turned her back, spoiling Cate’s view of her. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m sure you know Malcolm has always been insanely jealous of you. Some fool’s informed him of the times we’ve met to negotiate, and he’s had the ridiculous idea that you and I are—together. Perhaps even contemplating marriage.’
Tom Russell stood very still, then said, his voice dangerously soft, ‘Now, how could he possibly get an idea like that?’
Olivia must have felt the sudden scary escalation in the tension, because she attempted to lighten it with a husky laugh. ‘Well, it’s not so outrageous, is it? We’re both attractive people, both high achievers, our backgrounds are similar, we have things in common … Everyone knows how perfect you and Sandra were together. But you’ve been without a wife a long time, Tom. Sooner or later …’ The unmistakable purr in her voice made Cate squirm with discomfort. Was Olivia testing the water in hopes of seducing Tom Russell? Marrying him?
‘My wife is dead.’ The rebuke hung on the air, as stinging as a face slap.
Cate caught her breath in the charged little silence that followed. Tom Russell’s feelings for his wife must still be very raw. Still, she felt a wave of sympathy for Olivia. If he’d spoken like that to her she’d have cringed.
But the glamorous redhead was made of tougher stuff, because she managed a careless laugh. What a remarkable woman, Cate marvelled. To possess such self-control. How fabulous to be able to maintain her poise after such a forbidding rejection.
