‘And of course Geraldine recognised your name straight away,’ he added softly, his eyes narrowing as he waited for her reaction to the mention of the woman he had taken as his second wife after years of being a widower.
Geraldine. She still hadn’t recovered from the shock of finding out that Geraldine was married to this man, couldn’t begin to imagine how the other woman could prefer this man, for all his polished manner and wealth, to Hawk.
‘It isn’t exactly a common name,’ she acknowledged tautly, thoughts of Geraldine always having the effect of making her hackles rise. How Hawk could still love the woman—? But he did, probably always would, even though she was now married to another man. Whitney didn’t particularly want to be around when he was told she was doing an exposé on Geraldine’s husband.
‘After meeting you and witnessing first-hand your uncommon beauty I can quite understand Hawk’s interest in you,’ Tom Beresford murmured appreciatively.
Whitney stiffened at the unexpected—and unwanted—flattery. ‘Didn’t Ger—your wife—also tell you that’s all over now?’ she said tightly.
‘You still work for him,’ he shrugged.
‘I’m treated like any other employee,’ she defended hotly. She wasn’t the one that was supposed to be on the defensive, damn it!
He raised thick silver brows. ‘I had no idea reporters earned enough money to be able to buy themselves five-thousand-pound watches!’
She blushed. ‘Mr Beresford—’
‘I’m sorry, Whitney, that was a little personal of me,’ he held up his hands in apology. ‘I hope I can call you Whitney?’
‘Of course,’ she confirmed tautly, her eyes flashing deeply violet.
‘Shall we order?’ he enquired softly, signalling for the waiter as she abruptly nodded her consent to the suggestion.
For all the notice Whitney took of her fresh salmon salad it might as well have been the tinned variety. She had felt, before meeting him, that her in-depth knowledge of Tom Beresford gave her the edge in this interview; she had soon learnt how wrong she had been. Tom Beresford was adept at only choosing to talk about the things he wanted to, politely blocking off any questions that went beyond that invisible barrier he had erected. After almost an hour and a half, when she watched him make his way through a four-course meal and then coffee and brandy, Whitney had had enough, not tasting any of her own food in her agitation. And she was no nearer to finding out anything about his involvement with the local councils from his own lips than she had been when she first made the connection six months ago.
‘Why don’t you invite your bodyguards to join us for coffee?’ She deliberately antagonised him in the hope of getting some reaction by mentioning his two constant shadows.
Laughter in the pale blue eyes was not the reaction she had been hoping for! ‘Glyn and Alex know better than to intrude on me when I’m in the company of a beautiful woman,’ he drawled.
It was the second time he had called her beautiful, and Whitney found she didn’t like the idea of this man finding her attractive.
‘Don’t worry, Whitney,’ he assured mockingly, his eyes predatory. ‘You can’t become contaminated just by my acknowledging your beauty. That was what you were afraid of, wasn’t it?’ he taunted.
She became flushed at his correct assessment of her feelings. ‘What did you—?’
‘I’m sure Hawk must have complimented you on your beauty numerous times,’ he cut in smoothly.
She gave him a frowning look. ‘Could we leave Hawk out of this?’
‘Of course,’ he agreed easily. ‘I don’t exactly enjoy talking about my wife’s previous lover.’
Whitney could have told him that had been in the plural rather than the singular, that Geraldine had never been satisfied with just one man in her life. But, like Hawk, he didn’t look as if he wanted to hear anything derogatory about the woman he had fallen in love with after several years of grieving for his previous wife. What was it about Geraldine that inspired such love! Her father had always said Geraldine was a man’s woman, and as far as Whitney was aware the other woman had never tried to inspire friendship among her own sex.
‘Mr Beresford, what did you mean a few moments ago when you said I could become contaminated by you?’ She returned to what had bothered her about the statement; was it an admission of some kind on his part?
‘You’re the rich young socialite, I’m the son of a miner,’ he shrugged casually. ‘But I think over the years I’ve managed to eliminate most of my northern accent?’ He met her gaze mockingly, seeming to guess that before meeting him she had expected him to be something of a country bumpkin, for all of his wealth and power.
‘Obviously so,’ she conceded with a cool nod, gathering up her bag and notebook. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Beresford, but I really do have to be going now.’
He gave an inclination of his head. ‘I’ve enjoyed our little chat. I trust I’ll see a copy of your story before it goes to print?’
Not the story she intended writing! ‘Of course,’ she nodded, indicating to the waiter that she would like the bill. She had felt that Tom Beresford had been laughing at her all during lunch, that he was probably finding the exorbitant prices for the meal at the restaurant of his choice highly amusing, too.
His hand reached for the bill first, meeting her questioning gaze with bland implacability. ‘As I’ve enjoyed this meeting so much I insist on paying for our meal.’
Whitney blushed at his mockery, feeling more foolish than ever. Martin was going to fall off his chair laughing when she told him what a mistake this had been. ‘The National can afford it,’ she told him stiffly.
‘I insist, Whitney,’ he told her in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘Please don’t hesitate to contact me again if you need any more information for your article,’ he invited derisively.
And I’ll get you measured up for the concrete shoes, Whitney thought furiously as she left the restaurant after giving a mocking inclination of her head to the two watchful ‘minders’.
The man had been pleasant, not a hint of a threat to his tone, and yet Whitney knew she trusted him even less now that she had actually met and spoken to him. Maybe it was the constant coldness of his eyes even when he laughed, or perhaps the complete assurance of his manner, as if he knew himself to be invincible, but she suddenly knew he was guilty of everything she thought he was.
She had too much of an uneasy knot in her stomach to feel jubilant at the knowledge, knew that she still had a long way to go before she had all the facts together, and that Tom Beresford had no intention of letting her write those facts. ‘Know your enemy,’ they said. Well, she knew hers now, and she wished that she didn’t.
She knew that she had also been hoping for some sort of breakthrough, despite her denial earlier to Martin. But Tom Beresford was as likely to calmly hand over the combination of his safe as he was to deny or confirm her suspicions about him. Damn the man, he—
‘Miss Morgan?’
‘Yes—’ She was prevented from turning around to face the man who had spoken to her by one hand being placed on her shoulder and the other clamped about her wrist. ‘What on earth—?’
‘Walk over to the car, Miss Morgan.’ He directed her towards a long black limousine with darkened windows. So that she couldn’t see out or other people couldn’t see in? ‘Don’t make a scene,’ the man urged as she began to struggle.
‘Make a—! You can’t do this to me!’ she protested indignantly. ‘We’re in the middle of a crowded street!’
‘I’ve already done it, Miss Morgan,’ the man told her with satisfaction as he urged her inside the back of the car so that she stumbled slightly, the door closing behind her before she could straighten and face her accoster.
She frantically pulled at the door handle. Locked! Her panic increased as she heard the low purr of the car engine being started, banging on the black glass partition between her and the man now driving the car; she could see out of the window after all, w
hich meant no one was supposed to see in!
The partition window lowered only enough for her to be able to see the back of the man’s head, his hair thick and dark, a pair of enquiring brown eyes meeting hers in the driving mirror. And as Whitney had never bothered to take note of the colour of eyes of Tom Beresford’s two dark-haired ‘minders’ it could be either of the men driving the car.
‘Yes, Miss Morgan?’ His voice was cajoling, as if he found the situation amusing.
‘Stop this car immediately and let me out of here!’ she ordered with a confidence that had long deserted her. She had been kidnapped, for goodness’ sake!
‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ he shook his head.
Whitney sat forward on the edge of her seat, wishing she could see more of the man through the inch-wide gap at the top of the glass than the back of his head and a pair of amused brown eyes! The man was sick if he actually enjoyed abducting terrified women off the street and then watching them squirm. ‘I—Where are we going?’ she demanded weakly, her head starting to spin as the seriousness of what was happening to her washed over her. She was too young to die!
‘Not too far,’ he answered non-commitally.
They were driving towards the river! My God, Tom Beresford had been so incensed by her nerve in daring to question him the way that she had that he was getting rid of her right now!
‘Look,’ she moved closer to the glass, smiling at the eyes in the driving mirror, knowing he couldn’t see her smile but hoping he could tell what she was doing by the warm expression in her eyes. ‘I realise you’re probably paid very well for doing this sort of thing—’
‘Very well,’ he confirmed softly.
She swallowed hard. ‘I have some money of my own, enough to recompense you for letting me go, I’m sure. And look—’ She desperately held up her wristwatch for him to see. ‘This is worth a few thousand pounds.’ God, he was actually smiling now!
‘It’s very nice,’ he said disinterestedly, ignoring the watch after only a cursory glance.
Whitney breathed raggedly; how much was a life worth nowadays! ‘I have other jewellery I can give you. And money. I’m sure I—’
‘I’ve been paid to do a job, Miss Morgan,’ he cut in patiently. ‘And I always deliver.’
Oh my God! Whitney fell back against the black leather seat, random thoughts flitting through her brain in panicked succession. This couldn’t actually be happening to her, it was like something out of an old Edward G. Robinson movie! And she would bet he had lost count of how many of his enemies had met this fate during his film career.
But prevalent in her thoughts was the knowledge that she would never have the chance now to tell Hawk how much she loved him.
Her heart sank even further as she saw they were rapidly approaching the Thames, her thoughts becoming hysterical now. Where did the man keep his supply of concrete? Maybe he would just tie a rock to her body and hope for the best.
Body…!
She couldn’t just meekly sit back and meet her fate like this. This sort of thing just couldn’t happen in the capital of England in broad daylight!
She sat forward so that she could meet the man’s gaze again, her heart pounding rapidly. ‘Look, I think there’s been some sort of mistake,’ she began cajolingly. ‘I’m not—’
‘I’ve made no mistake.’ He shook his head. ‘I was told to bring Whitney Morgan here, and that’s what I’ve done.’ He had parked the car while they talked, climbing out now to open her door for her.
‘Here’ was a marina for luxury yachts. My God, they weren’t going to dump her body here at all but take her out to sea and throw her overboard! She was not a strong swimmer and she knew she wouldn’t stand a chance if thrown into the icy Channel. And the chances of her being picked up were about nil. Which was probably the idea.
Then she saw the name of the gleaming white yacht moored closest to her.
And the man watching her with narrowed eyes from the top of the gangway.
CHAPTER TWO
TWO things became apparent to her at the same time, firstly that she wasn’t about to be killed after all, and secondly that her driver hadn’t been employed by Tom Beresford at all. The latter won out, the relief of the first realisation overshadowed by the anger of the second.
‘You bastard!’ she burst out furiously, hurling herself up the gangway without a glance for the distance between that and the murky water below. ‘You unspeakable bastard!’ The second accusation was accompanied by a powerful slap to one lean cheek.
Long slender hands came up to grasp both her wrists to ward off more blows reaching their target. ‘Whitney—’
‘I thought I was going to die!’ she choked, her eyes misted with tears as she looked up at him. ‘And it was you all the time!’
‘Mr Hawkworth—’
Hawk glanced over her head at the driver as he stood hesitantly beside the car at the bottom of the gangway. ‘It’s all right, Peterson, I can handle Miss Morgan from here,’ he assured the other man confidently.
Maybe it was that arrogance, or maybe she just didn’t care what he thought of her behaviour after frightening her the way that he had, but suddenly she was kicking and scratching like a wild thing, Hawk unable to prevent all of the blows making contact, cursing under his breath as the pointed heel of her sandal caught him in the middle of the shin.
‘So I see, Mr Hawkworth,’ Peterson softly derided.
Tawny eyes, a clear golden colour, narrowed on him with displeasure. ‘Just send me your bill,’ he told the other man abruptly.
‘There’s nothing else I can do for you?’ The other man lingered, obviously enjoying the show.
‘Nothing,’ Hawk grated, his eyes flaring with anger as he glared down at the still struggling Whitney. ‘Stop it, you’re making a damned fool of yourself!’ he instructed through gritted teeth.
She stopped struggling only because she had run out of energy, knowing she wasn’t the one to look the fool, he was! And looking foolish didn’t sit well on the broad shoulders of James Charles Hawkworth. He towered over her now as he watched Peterson climb into the limousine and drive away, topping her five-feet-ten inches in the high-heeled sandals by at least four inches.
‘Martin must have called you as soon as I left his office,’ she muttered resentfully.
‘He had better have done,’ Hawk rasped with barely a movement of his lips.
Whitney glared up at him, resenting the fact that she had to do so. ‘You scared me half to death,’ she accused heatedly. ‘I thought I was on my way to be fitted for a pair of concrete shoes!’
‘That could still be arranged,’ he told her with icy control.
‘Don’t you threaten me,’ she snapped. ‘I could still have you arrested for kidnapping.’
Hawk eyed her mockingly with those curiously gold eyes fringed by thick dark lashes. ‘You’re a little old to be called a kid!’
‘Don’t prevaricate.’ She wrenched out of his hold on her arm, facing him now, wishing he didn’t look quite so handsome in the open-necked white shirt and tailored white trousers, the Gucci shoes also white. ‘You had me abducted in broad day—’
‘On whose evidence?’ He quirked brows the same dark colour as his lashes, his hair a dark blond with gold streaks among its thickness from the amount of time he spent aboard Freedom in warmer climates than the one in England; the name Hawk suited his colouring perfectly.
‘Mine!’ she claimed indignantly. ‘And Peterson—’
‘Oh, he wouldn’t back up the kidnapping story,’ Hawk denied with confidence.
Her eyes flashed. And to think that a short time ago she had been lamenting the fact that she hadn’t had the chance to tell this man she loved him; she didn’t love him at all, she hated him! ‘I think you’re overestimating your power of persuasion—’
‘It isn’t a question of persuasion, Whitney,’ he mocked. ‘I’m sure that where a man is concerned your accomplishments in that direction are much more s
uccessful than mine could ever be.’ He made it sound like an insult. ‘But Peterson believes your protests to have only been part of the game.’
Whitney’s eyes narrowed. ‘What game?’
‘Shall we go inside?’ he suggested with a pointed glance at the crew members standing about watching them curiously. ‘If you’re going to give another display like the one earlier I would rather it was a private showing.’ He indicated that they should go into the lounge.
Whitney preceded him with a disgruntled scowl. She had been on Freedom several times in the past, and its elegant beauty didn’t impress her at all at this moment, although she acknowledged that Hawk had refurbished the spacious lounge that was larger than a single floor of her house. She knew there was also a library and dining room on this upper deck, that below, the hundred-foot yacht also boasted six luxurious bedroom suites, as well as accommodation for half a dozen crew members. Hawk spent a lot of time on board, and as such the furnishing in leather, brass and glass was of a high standard; it was more than a home-away-from-home for him. Hawkworth House had never seemed as warm and welcoming.
‘What game?’ she demanded once more as he closed the door behind him, only the hum of the air-conditioning on this hot July day to disturb the silence; the crew were paid well to make themselves inconspicuous.
Hawk shrugged broad shoulders. ‘You don’t think Peterson—procures women for a living, do you?’
‘He did a good job of abducting me,’ Whitney maintained stubbornly.
Hawk limped over to the bar, drawing attention to the fact that she had bruised him earlier, taking a jug of the fresh orange juice he knew she liked from the fridge and pouring them both a glass. Whitney ignored hers once he had placed it on the glass-topped coffee-table, and with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders Hawk moved to sit down in one of the brown leather armchairs.
‘Hawk!’ she demanded impatiently as he sipped his drink, feeling suspiciously like stamping her foot at his infuriating behaviour, resisting the impulse with effort.
His expression softened, if a face carved out of granite could soften! He had the hard features that should only have appeared on a sculpture but were in fact flesh and blood, his cheekbones high, his cheeks fleshless, his mouth a hard, uncompromising slash. And those eyes could be just as hard and uncompromising, as they had been the day he walked out of her life.
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