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After all, what was she waiting for? she’d asked herself with faint cynicism. Prince Charming to gallop up on a white horse, like Evie, who’d been sending her letter after letter rhapsodising over the manifold perfections of Caz Brandon, the man she was going to marry?
But now it seemed that her own warier approach was the right one because Evie’s idol had proved to have feet of clay.
She shook her head in angry bewilderment. How could it all have gone so wrong? And, apparently, so fast? Evie’s last screed, cataloguing in some detail her future husband’s numerous acts of generosity and tenderness had arrived just over a week ago, indicating that her path in life would be strewn with roses. Tarn would have sworn there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind.
Yet there must have been something, she thought. Some small clue, some hint she could trace that would signal all wasn’t well. And if there was, then she would find it.
She booked her flight, left a message on Howard’s voicemail, suggesting they meet for a drink in their favourite bar as soon as he finished work, then went across to her desk.
She opened a drawer and extracted Evie’s letters, collected into a bundle, and secured by a rubber band.
There were a lot of them, each envelope containing page after page of ecstatic outpourings from Evie’s first meeting with Caz Brandon in a classic secretary/boss situation down to what had probably been the last, she thought biting her lip, and she wasn’t altogether sure why she’d kept them.
Unless she’d believed they were some kind of proof that fairy tales can come true. If so, how wrong was it possible to be?
Evie, she thought, had always been a great one for writing things down. As well as the mass bombardment of letters, she’d kept a diary since she was a small child, and later produced reams of poetry to celebrate the girlhood crush of the moment.
She made herself a beaker of tea, settled into her favourite cream leather recliner and began to read.
‘I’ve got the most fantastic job working for the most fantastic man,’ Evie had written in her swift, untidy scrawl, the words leaping off the page. ‘His regular secretary is away on maternity leave, so, hopefully, I’m in for the duration. And after that—who knows?’
Ironically, Tarn could remember feeling relieved that Evie had finally found work that suited her, and also thinking with amusement that all it had taken was a good-looking boss.
Evie’s next letter was a fairly bread and butter affair, but the one after that bubbled with excitement. The boss from heaven had asked her to work through her lunch hour, and had ordered a platter of sandwiches which he’d shared with her.
Well, what was he supposed to do—eat them in front of her? Tarn muttered under her breath.
‘He was asking me all sorts of questions about myself—my interests—my ambitions.’ Evie had gone on. ‘He’s just so easy to talk to. And he smiles with his eyes.’
I just bet he does, thought Tarn. She recalled smiling herself over Evie’s raptures the first time around. But how could she ever have found them amusing?
Curiosity had led her to look at Caz Brandon on the Internet, and she had to admit he was everything Evie had said and possibly more. But why couldn’t I see what he really was? she asked herself as she read on. A cynical womaniser playing with a vulnerable girl’s emotions.
Over the next week, Evie’s hero stopped being Mr Brandon and became Caz instead.
‘Caz took me for a drink after work at this fabulous wine bar,’ Evie confided in her next effusion. ‘It was simply heaving with celebrities and media people and I was introduced to them all. I didn’t know whether I was on my head or my heels.’
After that, the invitation to dinner seemed almost inevitable. Evie gave a description of the restaurant in total detail—the décor, the service, every course they’d eaten and the wine he’d chosen.
Like a child in a toyshop, Tarn thought, sighing.
And the toys kept on coming. There were more dinners for two, plus theatre visits, concerts and even film premieres.
Then, eventually, there was the weekend at a romantic inn in the depths of the countryside.
‘Of course I can’t go on working for him,’ Evie had written. ‘Caz has this strict rule about not mixing business with pleasure, and he says I’m all pleasure. So I’m being transferred to another department.
‘He’s also arranging for me to move into my own flat so that we can be together whenever we wish, but I’ll be protected from people gossiping and drawing the wrong conclusions.
‘I know now what the marriage service means by “to love and to cherish”, because that’s how Caz is with me.’
A gap of a few weeks followed, while the loving and cherishing presumably continued apace, then Evie wrote again.
‘Tarn, we’re engaged. He’s bought me the most beautiful ring—a huge diamond cluster. It must have cost an absolute fortune, and shows how much he must love me. I’m only sorry I can’t wear it to work, but I realise that would hardly be discreet.
‘I can hardly believe he’s chosen me. All his other girlfriends have been so glamorous and famous. But, by some miracle, I’m the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with.’
Well, it was feasible, Tarn had told herself, dismissing her instinctive uneasiness about this whirlwind courtship. Evie was pretty enough to catch anyone’s eye, and her lack of sophistication might come as a welcome relief to a man accustomed to high-powered women.
‘His flat is wonderful,’ the letter had continued. ‘A big penthouse with views all over London, and an amazing collection of modern art. I don’t pretend to understand all of it, but he says he’ll teach me when we’re married.
‘And he has the most incredible bed I’ve ever seen—Emperor sized at the very least. I tease him that he may lose me in it, but he says there’s no danger of that. That however far away I went, he’d find me. Isn’t that wonderful?’
Not the word I’d have chosen, thought Tarn, dropping the closely written sheet as if it had burned her fingers. Or not any more. ‘Hooked and reeled in’ now seemed far more apposite.
The letters that followed were full of wedding plans, the chosen dress, flowers and possible honeymoon destinations, which Tarn had glossed over at the first reading. Now they assumed an almost unbearable poignancy.
And finally, ‘Being with Caz is like having all my sweetest dreams come true. How can I be so lucky?’
Only Evie’s luck had changed, and she’d suddenly discovered what a short step it was from dream to nightmare. So much so, that the thought of life without him had become impossible, and she’d tried to end it.
Tarn sat staring down at the mass of paper in her lap. She thought of Evie, wisp-slender, with her unruly mass of blonde hair and huge blue eyes, the unexpected late-born child, her flaws excused, her foibles indulged. Adored and cosseted for the whole of her life. Expecting no less from the man who, for reasons of his own, had professed to love her.
How blatantly, unthinkingly cruel was that?
Her throat was tight and she wanted very much to cry, but that would not help Evie. Instead she needed to stay strong and feed the smouldering knot of anger deep within her, bringing it to full flame.
She said aloud, her voice cold and clear, ‘You’ve destroyed her, you bastard. But you’re not going to get away with it. Because, somehow, I’m going to do exactly the same to you.’
Several weeks on, the words still echoed in her head. And tonight, thought Tarn as she punched her pillow into shape and curled into the mattress. Tonight she’d taken the first real step on the path to Caz Brandon’s ultimate downfall.
CHAPTER TWO
THE REFUGE was a large redbrick house in Georgian style, standing in several acres of landscaped grounds.
As she’d approached it on her first visit, Tarn, seeing the people sitting around the lawns in the sunshine, had thought it resembled an exclusive country house hotel, until she realised just how many of those present were wearing the white tunics and trousers of medical staff.
And, as she got inside, the illusion of peace and comfort was completely destroyed. She’d known that permission for her to see Evie had been given reluctantly, but she’d not expected to be taken into a small room leading off the imposing tiled hall, obliged to hand over her shoulder bag and informed tersely it would be returned to her when she left, or have to submit to a swift search before being taken upstairs to be interviewed by Professor Wainwright, the clinical director.
And her protest about the way she’d been treated cut no ice with the grey-haired bearded man facing her across a large desk.
‘Our concern is with the well-being and safety of the men and women in our care, Miss Griffiths, and not your sensitivities,’ he told her tersely.
Tarn decided not to argue over her surname and looked him coldly in the eye. ‘You cannot imagine for one moment that I would wish to harm my sister.’
He opened the file lying in front of him. ‘Your foster sister, I believe.’
‘Does it make a difference?’
‘It’s one of the aspects of her case that have to be considered,’ he returned, and paused. ‘You understand the conditions of your visit, I trust.’
Tarn bit her lip. ‘I am not to question her about what happened or the events leading up to it,’ she responded neutrally. Not that I have to as her own letters have told me all I need to know. But I don’t have to tell you that.
She added quietly, ‘Nor am I to apply any pressure on her to confide in me about her treatment here.’
‘Correct.’ He looked at her over the top of his rimless glasses. ‘It is unfortunate that we have had to temporarily exclude her mother from visiting Miss Griffiths, but it was felt that she is an excitable and over-emotional woman and her presence could be less than helpful.’
‘Is anyone else allowed to see her?’
‘No-one.’ He closed the file. ‘This may be reviewed if and when she begins to make progress.’ He pressed a buzzer. ‘Nurse Farlow will take you to her.’
At the door, she paused. ‘I brought my sister some of her favourite chocolate truffles. They were in the bag that was taken from me. I’d still like her to have them.’
‘I’m afraid she is not allowed presents of food at the moment. In future you should check whether any proposed gifts are permitted.’
It was more like a prison than a clinic, Tarn thought, as a sturdy blonde woman escorted her silently through a maze of corridors. And they seemed to be treating Evie more as a criminal than a patient.
Didn’t they understand what had happened here? How Evie had been used by this rich bastard then callously dumped when he’d got all he wanted and become bored? How her attempted suicide was an act of total desperation?
When they eventually halted at a door, the nurse gave Tarn a warning glance. ‘This first visit is for fifteen minutes only,’ she informed her brusquely. ‘At the end of this time, I’ll be back to collect you.’
She opened the door, said, ‘Someone to see you, dear,’ and urged Tarn forward.
Tarn had almost expected a cell with bars on the window. Instead she found herself in a pleasant bedroom with modern furnishings, seascape prints on the neutral walls, and soft blue curtains. Evie was in bed, propped against a pile of pillows with her eyes closed, and Tarn almost recoiled in shock at the sight of her.
Her fair hair was lank, her face was haggard and her body looked almost shrunken under the blue bedspread.
Thank God they’ve kept Aunt Hazel away, Tarn thought, swallowing, or she’d be having permanent hysterics. I feel like bursting into tears myself.
There were a pair of small armchairs flanking the window and Tarn moved one of them nearer the bed, and sat down.
For several minutes there was silence, then Evie said hoarsely, ‘Caz? Oh, Caz, is it you? Are you here at last?’
For a moment, Tarn was unable to speak, shaken by a wave of anger mixed with pity. Then she reached out and took the thin hand, saying quietly, ‘No, love. It’s only me.’
Evie’s eyelids lifted slowly. Her eyes looked strangely pale, as if incessant crying had somehow washed away their normal colour.
She gave a little sigh. ‘Tarn—I knew you’d come. You’ve got to get me out of here. They won’t let me leave, even though I keep asking. They say if I want to get better, I have to forget Caz. Forget how much I loved him. Accept that it’s all over between us. But I can’t—I can’t.
‘They give me things—to help me relax, they say. To make me sleep, but I dream about him, Tarn. Dream that he’s still mine.’
Her fingers closed fiercely round Tarn’s. ‘I didn’t want to go on living without him. Couldn’t face another day with nothing left to hope for. You understand that, don’t you? You must, because you knew what he meant to me. How I built my future around him.’
Tarn said steadily, ‘I suppose so, but ending it all was never the answer, believe me.’ She paused. ‘Evie, you’re a very beautiful girl, and one day you’ll meet another man—someone good and decent who’ll appreciate you and genuinely want to spend his life with you.’
‘But I wanted Caz.’ Her grip on Tarn’s hand tightened almost unbearably. ‘I gave him everything. So how could he reject me like that? Not want me to love him any more?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tarn freed herself gently. ‘But we mustn’t talk about that now or you’ll get agitated and they’ll know. Which means I won’t be allowed to see you again.’
‘And you’re all I’ve got.’ Evie sank back against her pillows, her face white and pinched. ‘Because Caz is never going to come here, is he? I’ve been hoping and hoping, but it isn’t going to happen. I know that now.’
A slow tear ran down her cheek. ‘How could he do this to me? How can he just—walk away as if I didn’t matter?’
Tarn felt the anger rising inside her again, and curled her nails into the palms of her hands to regain her control.
‘But you do matter,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘And one day soon he’s going to find out just how much, and be sorrier than he’s ever imagined.’
She handed Evie a tissue from the box on the bedside table. ‘Now dry your eyes, and try to look as if my visit has done you some good. And next time I come we’ll talk seriously about how to deal with Mr Caz Brandon.’
That night over supper, she said, ‘So what did you think of Evie’s fiancé, Aunt Hazel? Did you ever feel that things weren’t quite right between them?’
Her foster mother put down her knife and fork and stared at her. ‘But I never met him,’ she said. ‘I knew only what Evie told me, and, of course, she absolutely worshipped him.’
‘Never met him?’ Tarn repeated slowly. ‘But how can that be? You mean she never brought him home?’
‘Well, she’d hardly be likely to,’ Mrs Griffiths said with a touch of defensiveness. ‘I mean—he lives in the lap of luxury, and this is such an ordinary little house. But they were planning to give an enormous party when their engagement was announced, and I was going to meet him then.’
‘I see,’ said Tarn, without any truth whatsoever. She hesitated. ‘And you were all right with this?’
‘As long as my girl was happy, I was too,’ said Mrs Griffiths with finality, and the subject was ostensibly dropped.
But it provided Tarn with food for thought during the remainder of the evening.
When Tarn returned to The Refuge a few days later, she was surprised to be accorded a wintry smile by the Professor.
‘I think you will find your sister has improved slightly. She is looking forward to seeing you again.’ He paused. ‘But you will have to remain her only visitor in the immediate future. Have you brought her any messages from anyone else? If so, may I know what they are?’
‘Her mother sends her love.’ Tarn lifted her chin. ‘I hope that’s acceptable.’
There was another slight hesitation before he said, ‘Perfectly,’ and buzzed for Nurse Farlow.
Evie, in a dressing gown, was sitting in the armchair by the window. Her newly washed hair was waving softly round her face, and her face had regained some colour.
‘Wow.’ Tarn bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’ll be out of here in no time at this rate.’
‘I wish,’ Evie said with a sigh. ‘But there’s no chance. That’s been made perfectly clear to me. It’s what happens when you do crazy things. And all because of him.’ She punched her fist into the palm of her other hand. ‘That was the real madness—to believe even one word that he said. To trust him. I ought to have realised he was just using me.’
Her voice cracked. ‘Oh, God, he’s the one I should have tried to kill for what he’s done—not myself. You talked about making him sorry. That’s not enough. I want to make him wish he was dead.’
‘Well, maybe we can.’ Tarn took the chair opposite. ‘But stay calm, honey, because there are some things I need to know from you.’
Evie stared at her, biting her lip. ‘What kind of things?’
‘Stuff you might have told him. About your mother. About me.’
There was a silence, then Evie said, ‘I didn’t tell him anything. He never wanted to talk about family things.’
‘You didn’t find that—odd?’ Tarn spoke carefully.
‘It was the way he was.’ Evie shrugged. ‘I accepted it. Why do you ask?’
‘Because it helps if he doesn’t know I exist. When I meet him, he won’t be on his guard.’
‘You’re going to meet him?’ Evie was suddenly rigid, her colour fading. ‘No, you can’t. You mustn’t. You—you don’t know what he’s like.’
‘But that’s exactly what I’m going to find out,’ Tarn told her. ‘I need to know everything about him, because, in order to damage him, I have to discover his Achilles’ heel—and he will have one. Everyone does.’
She paused. ‘You’re sure you never mentioned me? Told him my name?’
‘No, never.’ Evie shook her head slowly. ‘Why would I?’ She gave a quick shiver. ‘All the same, keep away from him, Tarn. It—it’s not safe. He has powerful friends.’
‘I won’t take any unnecessary risks. The fact that he has no idea who I am gives me a head start.’ Tarn tried to sound reassuring, even if she was bewildered by Evie’s warning. Surely Caz Brandon was powerful enough on his own. ‘But if I’m to cause him the kind of pain he’s inflicted on you, I have to get close to him in some way. Find where the wound will be deepest.’
‘You imagine you can do that?’ Evie whispered. ‘Then perhaps you’re the crazy one. Not me.’
‘I can at least try,’ Tarn returned. She hesitated. ‘I’m not going to mention any of this to your mother. And you shouldn’t talk about it either, to anyone. It has to be our secret.
‘Also, I shall move out of Wilmont Road,’ she added. ‘Go to stay with a friend.’
‘You mean it, don’t you? You’re really going to do this.’ Evie shifted restively in her chair, her face taut, almost frightened. ‘Oh, I wish I’d never mentioned him.’ She added pettishly, ‘Now, I’m starting to get a headache. Perhaps it would be better if you left.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Tarn got to her feet, eying her with concern. She said gently, ‘Evie—this man has to be taught he can’t go through life trampling on people. What he did to you had almost fatal results, and I cannot forget that. You’re in no position to fight back, but I am.’
She tried a coaxing smile. ‘And you really don’t have to worry.’
‘You don’t think so?’ Evie hunched a shoulder and turned to stare blankly at the window. ‘That’s because you don’t know him.’ And she shivered again.
It was her hair that Caz recognised. Even though it was no longer cascading to her shoulders, but decorously confined in a neat braid, and tied with a navy bow which matched her neat pantsuit, there was no mistaking that glorious rich auburn.
He had never really expected to see her again, yet here she was just the same, entering the lift at the fifth floor, glancing at her Blackberry with a preoccupied frown, and apparently quite oblivious to everything else.
He said, ‘It’s Miss Desmond, isn’t it?’
She looked up with a start. ‘Oh,’ she said, and bit her lip. ‘It’s you.’ She paused. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t realise who you were the other evening, Mr Brandon. I feel seriously embarrassed.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Caz paused, his mouth relaxing into amusement. ‘But while I have no wish to add to your discomfort, I should perhaps point out this is the directors’ private lift, and, if spotted, you could get told off for using it.’
‘Oh, Lord.’ She pulled a face. ‘I think that was mentioned, but I forgot and just took the first one to arrive. I apologise again.’
‘Do I take it you’re working here now?’
She nodded. ‘Since Monday.’ Her sidelong glance was part shy, part mischievous. ‘I actually took your advice and applied through the proper channels. Mr Wellington was good enough to hire me—temporarily anyway.’
She paused. ‘Should I get out at the first floor, or travel to ground level and risk a reprimand?’
‘Stay on board,’ he said. ‘If anyone notices, refer them to me, and I’ll tell them we were renewing an old acquaintance.’
‘Ah,’ she said and pressed a button on the display. ‘I think the stairs might be more discreet.’ She added, ‘Sir.’
As the doors opened, she gave him a last brief smile and vanished.
There should be a law, Caz mused, banning girls with legs as good as hers from wearing trousers in the office. Just as there was almost certainly a law condemning his thoughts as a kind of passive sexual harassment, he thought, his mouth curling in self-derision.
Easy, boy, he told himself. Or you’ll break your own golden rule about non-fraternisation. And we can’t have that.
If you need female distraction, ring Ginny Fraser, and see if she’s free for dinner.
He did, and she was, and that should have been the end of it.
Yet, later over lunch in the executive dining room, he heard himself saying, his tone deliberately casual, ‘I bumped into your newest recruit today, Rob.’
‘I hardly deserve the credit for that,’ his Personnel Chief said drily. ‘You did tell me we might receive an application from her. I simply—took the hint.’
Caz stared at him, appalled. ‘Oh, God, surely not.’
Rob Wellington grinned. ‘No, don’t worry. Absolutely not. Laurie interviewed her first, then sent me a note saying she was frantically over-qualified for any of our vacancies, but we’d be mad to pass her up on that account. I had a chat with the lady and agreed. So at the moment, she’s working as editorial assistant in features and fiction on All Your Own covering Susan Ellis’s maternity leave.’
He poured himself some more coffee. ‘Anyway, judging by the reference we got from Hannah Strauss at Uptown Today in New York, Ms Desmond could easily be running the entire magazine single-handed.’
Caz’s brows lifted. ‘If she was such a success in Manhattan, how come she’s back in London, at the bottom of the ladder again and working for comparative peanuts?’ he asked sceptically. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘I asked her about that,’ said Rob. ‘She said she’d come home because of illness in the family, and decided to stay for a while.’ He paused. ‘I have to say she seemed extremely eager to work for us. Should we suspect her motives for any reason?’
‘Maybe we should simply be flattered.’ Caz thought for a moment. ‘Do you know anything about a Philip Hanson? Have we ever employed anyone of that name in any capacity, however briefly?’
Rob frowned. ‘Off-hand, I’d say no. But I can check our records.’
Caz pushed back his chair and rose. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘It’s not that important, and you have enough to do.’
And I, he told himself, will also dismiss the whole business from my mind.
And as a positive move in this direction, when he got back to his office, he asked Robyn, his PA, to send Ginny Fraser some flowers.
Tarn switched off her computer and leaned back in her chair, flexing her shoulders wearily. It had been a fraught few hours, but she knew the task she’d been set was a job well done, and would be recognised as such.