A man who was known to be dangerous if crossed.
The incident had shown her that Bennett was hardly less dangerous. She had been ready to break off their engagement a number of times in the weeks before. But Bennett had been difficult and elusive, giving her no opportunity for a private discussion. Then her father’s sudden death had clouded the issue further. In her grief, she’d realized she needed time and space to rethink her future.
A future in which she was no longer willing to include Bennett Price.
She had left Montréal, canceling the wedding without consulting Bennett, only telling him that she was going away for a while. She used her father’s death as an excuse. She had told James Michaels, the acting head of Smith Industries, the same thing, apologizing for the inconvenience. Not that it affected the business since she was no more than a rubber-stamping board member.
She’d informed the caterer that the wedding was off, but the reception should go on since there was no time to notify the wedding guests of the cancellation. She hoped that they’d had a lovely party. She didn’t doubt that she had been the principal subject of conversation—not that she cared. “Poor Samantha. She’s done it again. Picked the wrong man.”
The story of her life, but one she didn’t intend to repeat.
Stupid to have fainted. She’d never fainted before in her life, never even come close, not even when the sordid truth about Bennett had hit her in such a brutal fashion.
As the bus continued its journey through the streets, she forced herself to relax, closing her eyes for a moment.
Anthony Theopoulos. His image swam into her consciousness. His dark brown eyes, warm and compassionate, had been full of questions he was dying to ask. He was a Canadian, his accent unique among the clipped tones of the British.
She’d almost given herself away. She couldn’t be positive, but she feared she’d spoken at first in her normal voice, not the finishing school British accent she’d carefully cultivated in the past six months.
She’d thought she was safe, living under a false name, out of reach of Bennett or any of his reprehensible friends. Obviously an illusion, if Dubray was in London, and in apparent good health.
Bennett wasn’t an accomplice to murder, if Dubray had survived. Not much comfort. If Bennett had close associations with a man like Claude Germain, murder might be the least of his crimes.
One thing was certain—she wouldn’t be buying a newspaper at the Regal Arms again. Not that Dubray knew her, but if he was in London it was possible that some of Bennett’s associates weren’t far away.
The bus lurched to a stop. Samantha started, realizing she’d passed her transfer stop. Damn, she was going to be very late reaching Professor Eldridge’s house.
Making a sudden decision, she jumped up and clattered down the stairs, rushing through the doors just as the warning beep sounded.
The street teemed with people, shoppers with their bright bags, and tourists lifting their faces disbelievingly to the sun after days of rain. A pair of Goths in unrelieved black sauntered by. In the past few years London had certainly shed its conservative, staid image.
She liked the sprawling city. She liked her work and the people she met through it. Only late at night, during a rare spell of sleeplessness, did she allow herself to regret the job offer she’d given up when she fled Montréal, a prestigious position as chief translator in the French ambassador’s office.
Only rarely did she let herself give in to fear.
Slipping into a phone booth, Samantha slammed the door against the cacophony of traffic. She dialed a number, listening for the blips before inserting the coins she had ready.
“I’m terribly sorry, professor, but something’s come up,” she said when her client answered. She knew Professor Eldridge as well as she knew anyone in London, having worked with him on several projects. He’d known she would be late today. He wouldn’t mind if she took the rest of the day off.
“Eh?” The professor was almost ninety, and his hearing hadn’t kept pace with his keen interest in life. “You’re not coming, dear?”
“I can’t, after all.” Sam had to shout into the phone as a city sanitation truck stopped next to the booth, its engine throbbing like a tank panting for battle. “What about tomorrow?”
“At ten?”
“Yes, that will be fine.” Sam hung up the phone, automatically checking the return coin slot, something she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing in her former life.
Dusk had fallen by the time she returned to her little flat in a building not far from the Regal Arms. The glow from the street lamps was mellowed by halos of mist, a sure portent of approaching autumn. She liked autumn and was looking forward to experiencing it in London. Despite her extensive travels, she’d never been here during that season.
Her centrally located flat had been a find. The sellers, heirs of the old man who’d lived there, had priced it for a quick sale. Sam had recognized the bargain and snapped it up, complete with furniture, which the heirs didn’t want and were relieved not to have to move. The décor might not have been the style Sam was used to but it was good enough for now.
Idly she switched on the television news, debating whether to cook or to fetch an order of fish and chips from the shop on the corner.
A faint scraping sound drew her to the door at the back of her tiny kitchen. She opened it, smiling as Bagheera wound his sinuous body around her legs.
“Hi, cat.” She wrinkled her nose. “Been in the garbage cans again, have you?”
Damn. She’d done it again. Slipped. In England garbage cans were bins. What she’d thought had become second nature had only needed the presence of one familiar accent to transport her memory and speech patterns back home. Tony Theopoulos, unmistakably Canadian.
Fish and chips, she decided. Her eyes rested on Bagheera as he sat on the floor and began grooming his sleek black fur. She would bring him back a piece of fish for a treat. Which made her realize how quickly she’d become attached to the lean independent cat who had shown up on her back door three months ago.
It hadn’t been a question of her adopting him as much as he moving in with her. He still came and went as he pleased, but he was always there to greet her when she came home, a benign guardian who’d made her his project.
The doorbell buzzed its two-note summons, making her jump. For an instant the fright she’d had today and the hunted feeling she’d carried around for six months flashed to life.
Her mouth went dry. No, it would be too much of a coincidence to believe that Bennett had tracked her down the very day she’d seen Dubray. No, they couldn’t have found her.
Bagheera didn’t seem alarmed. After a glance at the door, he’d gone back to licking his paw and wiping it complacently over his pointed face.
The buzzer sounded again. Sam laughed in relief. It was the door to her flat, not the outside one. Probably just her elderly neighbor.
She threw open the door, bracing herself for the usual complaints about the increase in council tax and the austerity measures instituted by the present government. Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp. The man who stood in the hall with a bunch of gerberas clutched in his hand was the last person she expected to see.
Chapter Two
“They really should have better security in these buildings,” Tony Theopoulos said with a cocky grin. “An old lady just let me in. All I had to do was smile at her.”
Samantha could only gape at him. A smile as dazzling as his would have convinced the door to open on its own, she thought, consternation numbing her vocal cords. Snapping her mouth shut, she swallowed, wishing she’d left the door closed, wishing she’d never gone into the Regal Arms, wishing she could miraculously dematerialize and reappear on another planet.
Groping for words to send him away, she tried to close the door. Much as she’d appreciated his concern this afternoon, she didn’t want him here.
Claude Germain killed people as easily as anyone else might swat a bothersome fl
y. He made his living from the misery of runaways and other unfortunates, preying on their poverty to carry out his crimes. And she had every reason to believe that Bennett, whether or not he was directly involved, knew Germain and even benefited from those same crimes.
She couldn’t drag Tony into the mess that was her life.
Pulling her gaze up to his face, she met his eyes, her dismay growing. He would not be easily discouraged. That chin was too stubborn, as was the foot he’d wedged into the doorway as a precaution against her slamming it in his face.
Bagheera left off his bathing and strolled over to sniff at Tony’s pant leg. Then, traitor that he was, he began to purr, winding himself in a figure eight between Tony’s feet.
Tony leaned down and ruffled the cat’s ears. “Your cat likes me. Must mean something.” He looked up at Samantha. “I don’t want to intrude, but I do have something of yours you might want back.”
“What’s that?” she asked in a whisper.
“This.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket that she immediately recognized.
With a sinking sense of inevitability she pulled the door wider and allowed him to step past her. She closed it, leaning back against the oak panels.
“So that’s how you found me,” she said, her voice low and hoarse. Horrified by the sound of it, she cleared her throat. Her best defense lay in acting as normal as possible. No more fainting, no more palpitations. If she wished to maintain her cover, she’d better pull herself together and start behaving in accordance with her role as one of the impoverished aristocracy.Her mask up, she asked, “How did you know it was mine?”
“Lucky guess, I’d say. And Parker’s nitpicking habits. He never leaves papers lying about.” He gestured with the flowers. “Have you got a vase to put these in? They’re already staring to wilt. I’ve walked around the neighborhood three times waiting for you to get home. They’re tired.”
He wasn’t about to leave. Resigning herself to the inevitable for the moment, she went to the cupboard in the kitchen and found a vase, which she handed to him. As if he’d been there many times, he filled it at the sink and stuck the gerberas haphazardly into the water. He set it on the small round table, stepping back and smiling at his artistry. “Just what the place needs, a touch of color.”
She suppressed a smile as she turned to face him. “Mr. Theopoulos, I think you’d better go.” This time her voice was steady, laced with just the right touch of indignation.
“I’m Tony.” The brown eyes didn’t waver as they studied her. “Why should I leave? We’ve only just met.”
“You’ve no right to come barging into my life.” Inwardly she was weakening. The temptation to let him stay tugged at her. If only things were different. If only she didn’t have to hide.
“Perhaps not.” He walked over to the overstuffed sofa that had been in the flat when she bought it. He sat down with easy, loose-limbed grace. “But then again, maybe I have. After you left, I thought of a lot of things that didn’t add up about you.”
“Add up?” she said, injecting scorn into her voice while her heart beat so rapidly it threatened to choke her. “What do you mean add up?”
He linked his fingers behind his head and set his right ankle upon his left knee. For the first time she noticed that his clothes were different from those he’d worn this afternoon. A sweatshirt with an indistinguishable logo stretched across his chest, and worn jeans molded themselves to his long legs.
The successful hotel executive? If she’d met him like this she would have mistaken him for a student despite the lines of maturity in his face.
Bagheera sat himself down in front of the chair, his green eyes avid with curiosity. Tony stared back at him, grinning as he saw the ragged scar that replaced the tip of one ear. When the cat tilted his head, he had a whimsically, lopsided look that didn’t go with the dignity of his demeanor.
Tony extended one hand. “Come on, cat.”
Bagheera jumped up, kneaded his sheathed paws for a moment and settled himself on Tony’s lap. He purred in ecstasy as Tony sank his fingers into the sleek fur and began to massage the underlying muscle.
“Bagheera, don’t be a nuisance,” Sam said sharply.
Bagheera raised his head and regarded her with a brief, you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look before settling back to purring.
“He’s not,” Tony said. “I like cats. I like their independence, the way they know their own minds.”
Regret stitched a tentative path through her anxiety. Tony was an attractive man, his manner and actions showing sensitivity and character. A good man to have on her side. The thought died. Her instincts had never been reliable barometers where men were concerned. She couldn’t rely on them.
Tony’s eyes rested on her face—cool, speculative. “You don’t add up,” he said, picking up the dropped thread of conversation as if the cat hadn’t tangled it. “Drab clothes, but bright nail enamel where nobody will see it. Your shoes are Guccis but they’ve seen better days.”
He paused, giving her a chance to comment. When she didn’t, he added, “But it was the least obvious that raised the most questions.”
She lifted her brows. “What was that?”
“The way you talk. The first words you said were in a different accent than the one you used afterwards. And even then you don’t sound like anyone I’ve heard here. I’ve heard almost every accent in the British Isles by this time, and I’ve got a good ear. Yours doesn’t quite fit.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time abroad.” She knew the game was up, but desperately tried to bluff.
“Where abroad? Canada, perhaps?” She shook her head, but he went on relentlessly. “Eastern Canada, to be exact. The English-speaking part of Montréal. You can’t fool me. I grew up there.”
It was worse than she’d feared. They might even have acquaintances in common. Realizing that her knees were about to collapse, Samantha sank down on the sofa.
She picked up the mug of coffee she’d made earlier, grimacing at the cold bitterness of the brew. She set it down again, almost spilling it as her fingers caught in the handle. “Do you think anyone else noticed?” she asked, stalling.
“I doubt it. Parker was too busy wringing his hands, and all of them were too far away in any case.” Tony stroked the cat, his hands as relaxed as Sam’s were tense. “So what’s the story, Samantha? Are you an escaped fugitive or what?”
She eyed him warily, her eyes round and dark behind her glasses. She would have to come up with a good story, one that sounded plausible. The questions he put to her were blunt and uncompromising, but implied a readiness to accept whatever explanation she was willing to give. But it had to be close to the truth. He would see through a lie at once.
Yet the truth would endanger them both.
She looked at him, the dark hair tumbling over his brow, the expectant look on his handsome face. She had to say something. “No, I’m not a fugitive, at least not an escaped one. I came here of my own free will.” Her voice was cool and remote, her eyes carefully shuttered behind lowered lashes. “My father died. I needed time to myself.”
“I’m sorry,” he said with ready sympathy. “Were you close?”
“No, not really.” As always when she thought of her father, a vague uneasiness stirred. She should have cried when he died, but there was no emotion, and she felt guilty about the lack of it.
“Was that what you meant by the remark you made?”
“What?” Lost in her thoughts, she only half heard the question.
“Something made you faint,” Tony said patiently. “You looked as if you’d seen a ghost, and muttered something about a dead man.”
Dubray. Her breath hitched in her throat with an audible click. No, she couldn’t tell him. The less he knew, the safer he would be.
She gave a soft laugh she tried to inject with humor. “You might say that. I saw someone I thought I knew. I’d heard he’d died. It was a shock.”
She recited this without once meeting his
eyes, her fingers plucking at a loose thread in the cushion next to her. “However, since I’ve thought about it, I realize I only got a glimpse of him.”
“He was in the hotel?” Tony asked.
“Yes, going up in the lift.” Her mouth was so dry she could barely continue the half lie. “But it closed before I had a good look.”
“Do you know the man’s name? I could look it up in the register. Of course he’ll only be there if he’s a guest.”
“I don’t know his name.” An outright lie she hoped didn’t show on her face.
“Then how would you know if he was dead?”
She looked at him, her jaw clenching as she fought panic. She had truly painted herself into a corner. “I can’t recall. Probably in the newspaper or on TV.” Her gaze dropped. “It was probably just somebody who reminded me of him.”
Evasions. Tony knew she was lying. Her body language betrayed her discomfort. In the glow of the lamp next to her he could see the glistening sweat on her upper lip.
And yet the precise pseudo British accent hadn’t slipped once, and would have fooled most people.
His hand tightened in the dense fur, making the cat flinch and bolt off his lap. Bagheera stalked to the kitchen, tail high, the picture of affronted dignity. Tony barely noticed.
Who was Samantha Clark? he asked himself, drawn despite the discrepancies between her appearance and her story. Drawn? Hell, he was fascinated.
Where had she come from? She’d neither confirmed nor denied his guess at her origins.
She was afraid of something, something that had driven her from home. Despite her words, he was willing to bet that free will had little to do with her present circumstances. There was a dangerous secret in her past, involving a dead man.
A dead man who wasn’t dead.
If he had any sense, Tony thought, he would get out of here before he was ensnared in a situation rife with unanswered questions and badly hidden lies. But something about her touched him, ever since he’d looked into those rain-clear gray eyes and seen the shadows that stole their laughter. He’d tried to tell himself he’d imagined the fear, but they’d haunted him all afternoon.
Past Tense Page 2
