CHAPTER ONE

by The Devil's Kiss (html)

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT was nearly three-thirty before Miranda's business lunch finally broke up. She glanced at her watch with a small frown, having been hoping to have finished before this. But the meeting had been successful, and it didn't pay to hurry; when you were headhunting a man in the hope of persuading him to change jobs you had to let him take his time and patiently answer all his questions, relevant or otherwise. And in this case relocation was in¬volved, so that the man had a whole list of queries that his wife had sent along, too.

  As soon as she'd said goodbye to her guest, Miranda hurried across to the telephone booths in the foyer of the restaurant and called up her own answering machine at the flat. That abrupt call from Rosalind just as she had been on the point of leaving the office this morning still troubled her. But it was probably nothing important. Her sister, after not bothering to get in touch for weeks, would often make panic calls, usually because she needed to borrow something, money or clothes mostly. And she always made it sound as if it would be the end of the world unless she got what she wanted immediately. But there had been something in Rosalind's voice this morning that had seemed to go deeper than the usual panic, a note of urgency when she'd said, 'I can't talk to you at work. I'll phone you at the flat. Please be there as soon as you can. I have to talk to you, Miranda.'

  The number connected and the answerphone switched itself on. Miranda pressed the button on her remote control handset and the answerphone began to play back the messages. There were two business calls from people she was headhunting, agreeing to meet her for further discussions, and she made a note to ring them back. Then Rosalind's voice came on the line. 'I'm in London. I wasn't going to tell you; I was going to manage it alone. But then I—I needed someone to go with me.' A sob broke from her. 'Oh, Miranda, I'm pregnant. I—I've come down to London to have an abortion. I can't keep it, you see. The—the baby. He—he wouldn't stand by me.' Fresh sounds of weeping came as Miranda listened in horrified dismay to her sister's disjointed voice over the line. 'I'm going to the clinic now. Please come if you can. Oh, Miranda, I'm scared.'

  She gave the address of the clinic, the words so broken by crying that Miranda could hardly hear. That was the trouble with an answerphone; you couldn't ask it to speak more clearly. But she noted the address down as best she could, and, frantic with worry, ran out of the restaurant, pushing in front of the startled doorman to grab a taxi he'd just found for a customer. 'Sorry, but it's an emergency.'

  The cabby gave her an annoyed frown; evidently she didn't look as affluent as his lost fare. 'All right, where to?' he demanded as he pulled out into the Strand. Miranda gave him the name of the clinic. 'Never heard of it,' he said with unhelpful satisfaction.

  'I think it's in Portman or Portland Road.'

  'Well, make up your mind; there's a couple of dozen roads by that name in London.'

  Miranda glared at the back of his head. 'Well, if you don't know then radio in and ask. And quickly, please; I'm in a hurry.'

  But it was a good half-hour before the taxi eventually pulled up outside the clinic. Miranda paid off the driver and ran inside. A girl looked up from her desk as she pushed the door open and hurried in, her high heels echoing on the marble floor of the reception area. 'Good afternoon. Are you late for an appointment?'

  'No. I believe my sister is here. Rosalind Leigh.' 'Oh, yes. She came in this morning.'

  'Where is she? Has she—has she had the operation yet?'

  'I imagine so. Just a minute, I'll check.' The girl picked up the internal phone while Miranda waited in an agony of impatience. 'Yes, she has.' The girl smiled at her as if she ought to be pleased. 'She's fine. She's back in her room now.'

  'I want to see her.'

  'Well, she's probably still a bit woozy, so—' 'I want to see her now,' Miranda said on a fierce note of command.

  The girl gave her a surprised look, not used to that much self-assertion from a contemporary. 'All right. She's in room 206 on the second floor. The lift's over in the corner to your right.'

  Miranda didn't bother to wait for the lift but ran up the stairs as fast as her figure-hugging skirt would allow her, and walked straight into room 206, too worried to knock.

  Rosalind was lying on her side in the bed, like the foetus she'd just deliberately had taken away. Pushing that thought aside, Miranda went up to her. 'Hi. Are you awake?'

  'Miranda?'

  'Mm. How are you feeling?'

  'OK, I suppose.' The younger girl gave a great unhappy sigh, then said wretchedly, 'I had to do it. There was just no other way.' And added bel-ligerently, 'I hate being a woman. I just hate it, hate it, hate it!'

  Taking hold of her hand, Miranda gently stroked the hair from her sister's pale face. 'You'll feel dif¬ferently when this is all over,' she said comfort¬ingly. There were a load of questions she wanted to ask but this wasn't the time. Rosalind began to cry in deep, heartbroken distress, so Miranda took her in her arms, holding her, murmuring words of encouragement, but her heart seethed with anger at the man who'd done this to her young sister.

  Eventually Rosalind fell asleep. Miranda laid her back on the pillow and looked round the room. It was small and contained only the basic bed, small wardrobe and bedside cabinet, but there was a tiny bathroom opening off it and everything was new and clean. On the whole, for this sort of place, it was quite luxurious, and Miranda guessed that it must be a private clinic. Which made her wonder how much it had cost Rosalind to come here and where she'd got the money.

  She stayed by her sister's bedside, sitting quietly in outward patience, but inwardly Miranda was full of anger and distress. Anger that this should have happened at all and distress that Rosalind hadn't confided in her earlier. Although there was a six-year age-gap and they hadn't seen very much of each other since Rosalind had been at university, Miranda had still thought they were quite close, and it grieved her to think that Rosalind had even con-templated going through such a traumatic experi¬ence without telling her, let alone asking her help and advice.

  After half an hour or so a nurse came in to take Rosalind's pulse and blood-pressure, waking her up. When she'd gone the younger girl lay back against the pillows, looking pale and drawn.

  'Would you like a drink?' Miranda asked anxiously.

  'Please.' Rosalind nodded.

  She heaved herself into a sitting position but her hands were unsteady and Miranda had to help her to hold the glass. Afterwards Miranda took her hand and said, 'Want to tell me about it?'

  'What is there to tell?' Rosalind answered on a bitter note. 'It's the age-old story: boy meets girl, gets girl pregnant, then clears out—fast!'

  'Were you in love with him?'

  Dark shadows filled Rosalind's eyes at the question. 'I thought I was. And if the next question is "Did I think he was in love with me?", then, yes, I really thought he was.'

  Taking her hand, Miranda looked earnestly into her sister's face. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

  A flush came into her pale cheeks and Rosalind lowered her head, picking at the bed-cover with her free hand. 'You're always so in control of your life,' she said in a slow, wretched tone. 'You'd never let a thing like this happen to you. I—I tried to think of it as no big deal. I told myself I could cope alone. That I'd got myself into this mess so I must get myself out of it, but—but...' Her voice broke and Rosalind burst into tears again.

  Putting her arms round her, Miranda said, 'You crazy little chump. What are big sisters for if not to go to when you're in trouble? You must have known I'd help you in whatever you decided to do.'

  'I—I suppose so, but you're always so busy. You're never at home when I call.'

  For a brief moment Miranda felt a stab of guilt, but almost immediately suppressed it. It was true that sh
e had a full and busy lifestyle, but she always felt that she had her priorities right, and family always came first, so she said firmly, 'But you know that I always have time for you. If I'd known there was anything wrong I would have dropped every¬thing and gone up to York immediately. You do know that, don't you, Roz, darling?'

  After a moment, Rosalind nodded, then sighed, and said, 'I wanted to be as strong as you over this. But I'm not, I'm so weak compared to you.'

  'No, you're not,' her sister said firmly. 'You're just a lot younger, that's all. And who could be unemotional about something like this, for heaven's sake?' They were silent for a few moments, each thinking their own unhappy thoughts, until Miranda said, 'I take it you haven't told the parents?' And when Rosalind shook her head, 'Well, I can't say I blame you; they'd only worry themselves sick about whether you were doing the right thing.'

  As she spoke Miranda looked at the younger girl closely, wondering whether Rosalind had any reservations herself, and saw a sad look come into her eyes.

  'You—you didn't consider keeping the baby?' she asked hesitantly.

  'Yes, of course I did,' Rosalind answered shortly. 'But—but he was completely against it. He said it was a stupid idea to saddle myself with a baby when I was still at university. He said it would ruin my whole life.'

  On a practical level Miranda had to agree with that, but it would take a very hard-hearted woman to see the position so clear-mindedly at such an emotional time. And it would certainly take someone far more worldly than her young and gentle sister.

  'He didn't offer to marry you, or take on the responsibility of the baby, then?'

  'No. He made that quite clear,' Rosalind answered in bitter, raw pain. 'He said that if I decided to keep it he would have nothing to do with it, ever.'

  Miranda felt another flash of hatred for the man who had treated Rosalind with such cold ruthlessness, and said, 'This man—your boyfriend, is he another student?'

  Rosalind was silent for a moment, then shook her head. 'No. I—I met him here, in London, when I was staying with you in the summer vacation.'

  Her eyes widening in surprise, Miranda said in a shocked voice, 'You're not saying he's one of my friends?'

  'No, of course not.' Rosalind was quick to deny it. 'I met .him by chance.'

  'Who is he?'

  Rosalind hesitated, then shook her head. 'It doesn't matter who he is. I just want to forget him. I just—just want to forget that this whole thing ever happened.'

  Tears came into her eyes again and Miranda squeezed her hand comfortingly. 'Of course you do, darling. Don't worry about it. Everything's going to be fine. As soon as they let you out of here we'll go back to my place and you can stay until you feel well enough to go back to college.'

  But although she spoke so soothingly, Miranda felt venomous towards the unknown man. He must be quite a bit older than her sister, she surmised—and quite used to dealing with a situation like this, from the sound of it. Miranda would have liked to ask more questions but Rosalind had closed her eyes and she knew this was the wrong time. She would have to wait until she'd taken Rosalind home to the flat and she'd had a chance to recover before she could ask anything more. And even then Rosalind might not tell her the man's name; her sister had an obstinate streak in her at times. Which was probably one of the reasons why she hadn't come to Miranda for help sooner. Glancing at her watch, Miranda wondered how long it would be before the clinic would want them to leave.

  This thought sent her in search of one of the staff. She found a woman in nurse's uniform in an office down the corridor, sitting at a desk and busily writing up a report. The woman looked at her with world-weary eyes as Miranda walked in. 'Yes?'

  'I'm Rosalind Leigh's sister. When will she be well enough to leave?'

  The nurse consulted an open diary on her desk. 'Let's see; she had the operation at midday so she could leave later tonight, but she's booked in to stay overnight.'

  'Really?' Miranda frowned, thinking that Rosalind only had her student grant and the money she earned from a part-time job, which would hardly be enough for a place like this. Unless the man had paid. Hoping to find out his name, she said casually, 'Who booked her in?'

  'I'm afraid we're not allowed to give that information,' the nurse said primly.

  Miranda gave her a calculating look; the woman might well only be working in a place like this be-cause she needed the money. Taking a twenty-pound note from her bag, she said, 'Perhaps you have a favourite charity you would care to give this to?' And she laid the note on the desk.

  'Yes, I suppose I could find one, thank you.' The woman took a file from a cabinet behind her and took out a printed form, putting it down on the desk. 'If you'll excuse me for a moment; I've just remembered I have to check on a patient.' She went out, picking up the money on the way and slipping it into her pocket.

  The form was obviously a standard one and contained Rosalind's name, age et cetera. Her address was just given as York University. But it was the method of payment that drew Miranda's eyes. The account was to be charged to someone named Warren Hunter, who had elected to pay by credit card, but there was no address. So at least Rosalind's boyfriend had had the decency to pay for the abortion. The knowledge should have given her some satisfaction, but strangely it only made her more angry. Dropping the form back on the desk, Miranda turned away, but paused in the doorway. Warren Hunter: she was sure she'd heard that name somewhere before. She sifted through her mental files, again afraid that Rosalind might have met the man through her, but, although she usually had an extremely good memory, she couldn't come up with anything.

  Going back into Rosalind's room, she found her awake and said gently, 'You're booked in to stay overnight. Did you know that?' And when Rosalind nodded, 'I'm sure that's best. Look, you're tired, so I'm going to leave you now to get some sleep. I'll go home and get a bedroom all ready for you, then I'll come back and visit you again this evening. And tomorrow I'll come and collect you as soon as they say you can go. Is that OK? If.-you'd rather I stayed with you, then I will. You only have to say.'

  'No.' Rosalind sighed, then managed a smile. 'I'll be OK.' Wistfully, she said, 'I wish I were more like you.'

  'Well, that's a crazy thing to wish for. You're you; I'm me. And I happen to like my kid sister the way she is, so just stay that way, will you?' She bent to kiss the younger girl's forehead. 'Now, you go to sleep and I'll see you later.'

  'OK. Bye.'

  Miranda went to the door and opened it, but paused to look back. Rosalind's head was already drooping, her face almost as pale as the pillow and deep shadows of unhappiness around her eyes. It would take ages for her to get over this, Miranda thought angrily, if she ever did get over it. It wasn't the kind of thing a woman with any sensitivity could ever forget, or forgive herself for—not if you were by nature as warm-hearted and gentle as Rosalind. This hateful man had robbed her not only of her innocence but also of her self-respect and the trust she'd had in others. If Miranda had been able to at that moment, she would cheerfully have wrung this Warren Hunter's neck!

  Miranda did go back to her flat, but first she called in at the office and phoned her two contacts, arranging to meet them for lunch on successive days during the following week. Hopefully, by that time Rosalind would be well enough to be left for a few hours. She then rang one of the researchers who worked on a freelance basis for the company. 'Hello, there. I wonder if you'd take on a private job for me? I'm trying to track down a man named Warren Hunter. No, I don't know who he works for or even where he lives, but I think it's here in London. I think he's youngish, probably under thirty-five. And I'm sure I've heard the name before, but I can't think in what connection.' She laughed. 'Yes, I know it will be like looking for the proverbial needle, but if anyone can do it you can. OK, thanks a lot. Would you phone me at home if you find him?' She hesitated, then added, 'And I'd rather you didn't mention anything about this to Graham.'

  Graham Allen was her boss, a partner in the firm, and also her
steady boyfriend for almost a year. But this was Rosalind's secret and Miranda had no intention of betraying her confidence, even to someone as close as Graham.

  After dealing with the most imperative work on her desk, Miranda swept the rest into her briefcase to take home to work on. One of the big advan-tages of her job was that a great deal of it could be handled at home over the telephone. Switching off the lights in her office, she looked in on the secretary she shared with two colleagues. 'Give Graham a message for me when he comes in, will you, Megan? Tell him I'm sorry, but something's

  come up and I won't be able to meet him tonight.'

  'Do you want me to tell him what it is?'

  'No, just that I can't make it.'

  Hurrying out of the office, Miranda glanced at her watch. Just time to catch the florist before it shut. There she bought two huge bouquets of flowers for Rosalind, and handmade chocolates from a nearby shop, hoping that they would cheer the girl up. Carrying her purchases, she walked to the edge of the kerb to look for a taxi. It was dusk already, the autumn nights lengthening, but the street was well lit and she stood out against the crowd, tall and slim in her tailored business suit, her long fair hair falling in a glistening bell to her shoulders. A cab appeared out of nowhere and drove her the few miles to her flat in a newly con¬verted warehouse in Docklands.

  The flat was big, spacious, with a great deal of character, and Miranda was very proud of it. It had cost the earth, of course, but she was earning really good money now and felt that she could afford it. Working quickly, she made up the bed in the spare room, using her prettiest sheets, afterwards splitting one of the bouquets between several vases so that the room looked full of flowers. Her meal that evening was a freezer-to-microwave one; she was too anxious to get back to Rosalind to spare the time to cook, and by seven she was on her way back to the clinic, the second bouquet in her arms.

  This visit was better because Rosalind wasn't so tired and Miranda even managed to make her laugh a few times. But she was still low enough to be pathetically grateful to her for coming and for the presents.