Re-read this classic romance by USA Today bestselling author Carole Mortimer
Independent and with a successful career, Whitney Morgan is on a mission to get the man she’s been in love with for years to notice her…She has a lot to thank millionaire Hawk for; without him she wouldn’t have anything.
But Hawk still seems to think of her as his best friend’s child who he’d agreed to care for when her father died. Whitney has grown into so much more than that and is determined to make Hawk see her as the woman she’s become…
Originally published in 1986
Hawk’s Prey
Carole Mortimer
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
CHAPTER ONE
‘AND if those threats were genuine, Whitney—which I think they are—you could lose a lot more than the story!’
She suppressed the shiver of apprehension that tingled down her spine at Martin’s exasperated warning. She didn’t doubt for a moment, either, that the threatening telephone calls she had received during the last week were genuine. The two made here to the newspaper had thrown her a little, but she had been working here two years now and accepted that very often the people involved didn’t like the idea of a story being written about them; their displeasure was part of the territory. But the call she had received last night warning her off the Beresford family had shaken her up enough for her to mention it to Martin Groves, her editor at the daily newspaper she worked for. Last night’s call had been made to her home, and she had an unlisted number!
‘It’s my story, Martin,’ she maintained stubbornly, her chin raised challengingly.
‘Bill could do just as good a job.’
‘Better,’ she acknowledged tightly, an angry flush beneath her high cheekbones. ‘But it’s my story,’ she reminded him again tautly, not willing to accede to his demand that she pass her information on to someone else.
‘Corruption in local councils has been covered before,’ he dismissed scornfully.
‘Maybe,’ Whitney conceded abruptly. ‘But I’m this close,’—she held the thumb and index finger of her left hand centimetres apart—‘to proving that Tom Beresford is involved in most of it.’
Martin shook his head. He was a thin man with sparse grey hair, grandfather to a girl not much younger than the one seated before him. But even paternal pride couldn’t make him claim that his granddaughter’s beauty came anywhere close to Whitney Morgan’s. From the top of her ebony head, her uptilted, violet coloured eyes, and ethereally lovely face, to the slender grace of her five-foot-seven body, she was a beauty. In the hard-bitten profession she had chosen for herself that beauty had been as much of a hindrance as a foot in the door. It was far from the only drawback he knew she had had to overcome.
‘That close isn’t close enough,’ he told her harshly. ‘I run a newspaper, not a suicide squad. I told you to lay off the Beresford story days ago,’ he added sternly before she could interrupt.
She hadn’t relished the idea of telling him about the calls, had expected this anger at the fact that she hadn’t done as asked and dropped the story. But she hadn’t been able to forget what she already knew, the fact that innocent people were being affected, incentive enough for her to ignore Martin’s order, knowing he would be the first to congratulate her if she came through with a story for him.
‘He’s as guilty as—’
‘Whitney, you know that old gangster joke about going for a swim with concrete shoes?’ Martin cut in pointedly. ‘Well Beresford wouldn’t be joking,’ he added drily, now that he had her full attention.
Whitney studied him warily, uncertainty in the wide violet eyes. ‘You’re just trying to frighten me,’ she dismissed finally.
He sighed. ‘Am I succeeding?’
‘No!’ she lied. Of course she was frightened!
He stood up forcefully. ‘Whitney, the man is a barracuda! He wouldn’t even bother to gobble you up himself, you’re too unimportant and scrawny for him; he’d leave you to one of his minions.’
She knew exactly what Tom Beresford was like, knew that he ran an English version of the Mafia. In his early sixties, a big rough-diamond of a man, he ran an empire in England that was almost as powerful as the one across the Atlantic, although Whitney had found no connection to them during her investigation.
‘I’m glad you told me that, Martin,’ she laughed abruptly. ‘I’m lunching with him today.’
‘What?’
She winced at the expected reaction to her announcement. But if what Martin said about the concrete shoes was true she at least wanted someone to know who had been the last person she had seen! Martin looked ready to explode, though, his small wiry body tense with disbelief. Maybe she had been a little rash inviting Tom Beresford out to lunch, but with the security he had surrounding his privacy how else was she supposed to talk to the man himself? He had accepted the invitation, hadn’t he! But after what Martin had just said she couldn’t help wondering if they made concrete shoes in size five!
‘I’m sure you heard me, Martin,’ she sighed. ‘We’re meeting at the restaurant in twenty-five minutes.’
‘Which restaurant?’ His eyes were narrowed.
‘Now, Martin—’
‘I just want to make sure I have the right river dragged,’ he told her blandly.
‘There is only one river going through London,’ Whitney chided drily at his effort to frighten her out of keeping the appointment.
‘At least you had the sense to arrange to meet in town,’ Martin scowled. ‘What on earth possessed you to meet the man himself? Don’t tell me,’ he sighed resignedly. ‘You wanted to give him the chance to defend himself!’
‘He couldn’t do that,’ she said with certainty. ‘But if I challenge him with what I already know he just might let something slip.’
Martin gave her a pitying look. ‘How long did you say you’ve worked on the National?’
‘Two years.’ She told him what she knew he already knew, probably down to the day! ‘I know, people like Tom Beresford don’t let things slip out,’ she sighed. ‘I’m not completely stupid—’
‘You could have fooled me,’ he derided hardly. ‘Just what are you hoping to achieve?’
Her eyes flashed deeply violet. ‘I hope to show Mr Beresford that I’m not easily frightened off!’
Martin’s expression softened at the disclosure. ‘I admire your spirit, Whitney—’
‘But you also deplore it!’ she finished drily.
‘It stinks,’ he acknowledged tautly. ‘Hawk will have to be told about this—’
‘No!’
‘Whitney—’
‘I said no,’ she bit out harshly, the thought of Hawk knowing about this sending her into a panic. She could just imagine his reaction.
‘He owns the damned newspaper, Whitney,’ Martin reminded her exasperatedly.
She was well aware of who and what Hawk was. And James Hawkworth—the last person to actually call him James was probably still trying to pick themselves up from the floor!—was not a man she wanted to get into an argument with. And she had no doubt that his reaction to what she was doing would be the same as Martin’s. But for a very different reason.
‘There’s nothing to tell him—’
‘One of his reporters receiving threats comes under the heading of something, Whitney,’ Martin cut in determinedly. ‘And I know Hawk is going to want to know about them. What did you say?’ He looked at Whitney suspiciously as she mumbled something under her breath.
&n
bsp; Her face was flushed as she looked at him challengingly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters,’ he bit out grimly. ‘Although I can see you aren’t about to repeat it. I just want you to know that my decision to take you off the story—’
‘If you try to do that I’ll go to another newspaper,’ she told him stubbornly.
‘Whitney!’
‘I mean it, Martin,’ she told him in a calm voice. ‘I’ve worked too long and too hard on this one to just calmly let it go.’
He looked at her with narrowed eyes, sighing his defeat in the face of her determination. ‘We’ll see what Hawk has to say about it.’ He maintained control of the situation with the threat. ‘Maybe he’ll decide that your pretty little body isn’t worth saving,’ he added grimly. ‘Or maybe he’ll agree with me that a reporter’s life is worth more than a story!’
‘Someone has to do something about Tom Beresford!’
‘Then let the law deal with him!’
‘They don’t seem to be able to get the evidence on him.’
‘And you do, I suppose,’ Martin scorned.
She sighed, knowing she didn’t have enough for them to print the story either. ‘We both know what Hawk’s answer is going to be,’ she said disgustedly.
‘Do we?’ Martin taunted. ‘I haven’t noticed him leaping to your defence lately.’
Whitney felt her cheeks pale. She knew Martin was only being cruel to be kind when he mentioned Hawk’s lack of interest in her recently, that he just wanted to shock her into realising what she was getting into any way that he could. But she was too sensitive of Hawk’s dismissal of her from his life to feel anything but mortified about Martin’s reference to it. Most of the people that worked on the newspaper knew of the history of her closeness to Hawk, but a lot of them had put it from their mind as Hawk continued to ignore her existence, seeming to accept that she was unconcerned with the situation, too. Only Martin had guessed how very much Hawk could still hurt her by his indifference.
‘Tell him what you like, Martin,’ she said wearily. ‘I’m going through with my decision to meet Tom Beresford. If Hawk’s the newspaper man that I think he is then he’ll approve of what I’m doing.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’ her editor grated.
She shrugged. ‘That will be your problem.’
‘Only until he catches up with you,’ Martin warned derisively.
‘As you just pointed out, why should he bother?’ she dismissed bitterly, glancing frowningly at her wristwatch, diamonds studded about the slender gold face and strap, a twenty-first birthday present from Hawk the previous year. Her twenty-second birthday the previous month had passed without even receiving a card from him. She dismissed the memory impatiently, tossing back her mane of below shoulder-length hair to look at Martin. ‘I’m going to be late if I don’t leave now—’
‘Whitney—’
‘For goodness’ sake, Martin,’ she scorned, ‘stop acting like an old woman.’
Anger flared in dark brown eyes at the taunt. ‘Someone should have put you over their knee a bit more when you were a child!’
‘ “Someone” didn’t dare,’ she taunted.
‘OK, Whitney,’ he conceded wearily. ‘Go to lunch with Tom Beresford. I’ll be here to help pick up the pieces when you get back. If you get back,’ he added softly.
A lot of her anticipation for the meeting had gone with Martin’s disapproval of the idea; she had expected him to show a little more enthusiasm for what she had already achieved. No doubt the threat of Hawk’s disapproval had a lot to do with his reaction, but he really needn’t have worried; Hawk had made it obvious he no longer gave a damn what happened to her. But no doubt he would have something to say when he received the bill from the exclusive restaurant on her expenses! She could hardly have invited Tom Beresford to the local McDonald’s.
She had dressed with great care that morning for her luncheon appointment, knew she was going to need all the cool poise she could muster to bluff her way through what she had insisted to Tom Beresford’s assistant was a human-interest story. In view of the threatening telephone calls it was going to be a double bluff, Tom Beresford obviously knowing exactly what her interest in him was! But there were plenty of other things she could ask him about besides the local councils issue, one of them being his rise from the eldest son of a Yorkshire miner to a property and building tycoon who was rumoured to be under consideration for a lifetime peerage in the New Year’s Honours List next year for his contribution to British industry. If you were unaware of the corruption that had enabled him to make that meteoric rise in the building industry, then he did indeed appear a worthwhile candidate for the honour.
But Whitney had literally stumbled across his involvement with a councillor who had been sacked for taking bribes, and the deeper she looked into Tom Beresford’s luck in receiving big building contracts from several of the councils, the more she had been convinced he was the one making the pay-offs. Six months of investigation had convinced her she was right. But she was going to need more than she had to convince Hawk to run the story; he only dealt in solid evidence, not beliefs.
She gave the maître d’hôtel her name once she reached the restaurant, allowing him to take her over to the table where Tom Beresford was already seated; she knew every inch of the man’s lined and craggy face, had numerous photographs that she had taken during her study of him. But for today she was just another interested reporter; it wouldn’t do to show she had instantly recognised him in the crowded room.
This morning her mirror had reflected back a coolly sophisticated young woman, her slender body shown to advantage in the pale lilac dress that made her eyes appear more violet than ever and gave a blue-black sheen to her loosely curling hair, its thickness cascading half-way down her back. Whitney was no fool, knowing that her height gave her an advantage over a lot of men, and with the three-inch heels on the black sandals that she wore she knew she was going to tower over Tom Beresford’s five-foot-eight frame by a couple of inches.
Her wish was granted as Tom Beresford politely rose to his feet once the maître d’hôtel had brought her to the table, and she smiled her satisfaction as she shook his hand before sitting down in the chair held out for her, ordering a glass of wine at the query, the man seated opposite her already having a glass of whisky in front of him.
A quick glance at the table to the side of them confirmed that Tom Beresford had brought along Alex Cordell and Glyn Briant, the two men she had learnt were his ‘minders’ or bodyguards, and whom he preferred to call his ‘associates’. She had half expected the two men to be seated with them, the two of them accompanying him everywhere he went, but resisted the impulse to ask him why they weren’t and instead gave him a brightly glowing smile. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this meeting,’ she told him truthfully.
‘Really?’ Pale blue eyes looked at her coldly, although his mouth curved in answer to her smile.
Whitney felt her control of the situation slipping a little. Martin’s comparison to a barracuda had been wrong; this man was more like a shark, watching and waiting before he struck. But they were in a crowded London restaurant, for goodness’ sake; what could he possibly do to her here!
She pushed the unsatisfactory—to her—answer to that to the back of her mind, giving him a guileless smile. ‘Everyone likes to hear a success story, don’t they?’ she encouraged.
‘Do they?’ he drawled.
She gave a light laugh. ‘You must know that they do.’
‘Miss Morgan.’ He spoke in a bored voice. ‘What new angle on my success do you think you can come up with that the supplement of a—more prestigious—newspaper hasn’t already covered?’
She had read the article that had been run a couple of months ago, had been amazed at the gullibility on the part of the newspaper. But that was half of Tom Beresford’s success; the majority of people had no idea of the underhand methods he had used to get where he was. It was only if one dug deep enou
gh, as she had, that the stench began to be apparent.
She gave him a sharp look as she thought the question over. Were the gloves to be taken off immediately then? No, she didn’t think so; not yet, anyway. ‘I write for a daily newspaper, Mr Beresford, with a circulation of two million a day. My story on you would run over two to three days.’
‘I’m really not in need of the free advertising, Miss Morgan,’ he drawled derisively.
Anger flared briefly in her eyes at his condescending tone before it was quickly dampened. Losing her temper with the man wasn’t going to help one bit!
‘Think of the New Year’s Honours List,’ she encouraged warmly. ‘The story of the ingenuity and success of your enterprise can only encourage all those young people leaving school without any prospect of employment that there’s hope for them after all.’
His mouth twisted sardonically. ‘Flattery, Miss Morgan?’ he mocked.
This man may once have been the ‘rough diamond’ she had thought him to be but the years had refined him, and his wealth had given him an arrogant confidence that was daunting. At sixty-two, he should have been paunchy and balding like Martin was, but Tom Beresford still had a head of thick silver hair, the very distinction of the style indicating the expensive cut, his body still lithe and athletic beneath the light grey suit and even paler grey silk shirt he wore. She was quickly learning, as he spoke with smooth assurance, that he was a man in complete control.
‘Not at all, Mr Beresford,’ she dismissed lightly. ‘Your story could be uplifting for a lot of people.’
‘I wasn’t aware James Hawkworth ran stories like this in his newspaper,’ he returned drily.
Whitney raised dark brows. ‘I wasn’t aware I had told you which newspaper I worked for.’
‘You didn’t,’ he confirmed smoothly. ‘A man in my position doesn’t meet just anyone who telephones out of the blue claiming to be a reporter. I naturally did my homework on you.’
‘Naturally,’ she echoed tightly, knowing just how intense that ‘homework’ had been. How had he got her unlisted telephone number?
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