Hawk’s Prey
Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

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.

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 enough, 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?

‘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, which 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 successful 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.

‘Peterson believes it’s a game we play,’ he drawled in a bored voice. ‘You’re the madly desirable woman and I’m the wicked abductor. Kinky, hm?’ he derided.

‘It’s sick!’ She dropped weakly into a chair, at last understanding the driver’s amusement at her predicament, heated colour flooding her cheeks at how well she had played the supposed game. The man must think she was a pervert!

‘Don’t look so worried, Whitney,’ Hawk mocked. ‘He assured me it wasn’t the most unusual request he’s received since he began his limousine service three years ago!’

‘Just one of them!’ she groaned her mortification.

‘Oh, I don’t know, the one about the sheikh who—–’

‘Hawk, I’m really not interested in the idiosyncrasies of an Arab too rich to have anything better to do than play ridiculous games!’

‘No, maybe not,’ he agreed slowly. ‘That one did go a bit far. I was only trying to show you that Peterson didn’t find anything unusual in our request—–’

‘Don’t try and drag me into taking part of the blame,’ she protested indignantly. ‘I’ll never be able to look the man in the face again!’

He quirked dark brows. ‘Were you thinking of engaging his services in the future?’

‘Hawk, all this is very amusing,’—her tone implied she thought it the opposite—‘but it doesn’t alter the fact that I almost had a heart attack when he made me get in the car. I felt so damned helpless, I didn’t know what to do!’

‘If Peterson had been a real kidnapper I would lay odds on you emerging the victor from the encounter!’

‘Even though I realise there was no real danger I still don’t feel very victorious,’ she said shakily. ‘I thought I was going to die,’ she repeated breathlessly.

‘And we both know why you thought that, don’t we?’ Hawk stood up in forceful movements, having all the grace of a natural athlete when he didn’t have a bruised and aching shin, and replaced the orange juice with a glass of whisky. ‘I would have had Martin’s job if he hadn’t called me when he did,’ he revealed grimly. ‘You are definitely fired!’

‘You can’t do that!’ She stood up protestingly.

He raised his brows in cold fury. ‘Forgive me, as the owner of the National I thought I could.’ His tone was thick with sarcasm.

‘That isn’t what I meant and you know it,’ she said exasperatedly. ‘You have no reason to sack me, none that would stand up to the union anyway.’

‘How about persistent absenteeism?’

‘I’m never off sick.’ She shook her head, her expression rebellious.

‘I don’t remember using the past tense,’ Hawk announced calmly.

Whitney blinked her surprise. ‘You have kidnapped me,’ she said incredulously.

‘Abducted,’ he corrected smoothly. ‘I don’t know of anyone who would pay a ransom for you!’

‘Beresford might,’ she pointed out tightly.

His eyes flashed deeply gold. ‘Maybe I should telephone and ask him!’

She knew she had gone too far, had always been able to tell that where this man was concerned. Hawk wasn’t a man to suffer fools gladly, and by meeting Tom Beresford in the way that she had Hawk considered her to be plain stupid rather than just foolish! But carrying her off the way that he had could have scared her to death, and she glared at him angrily. ‘You can’t keep me on board Freedom against my will—–’

‘Who says I can’t?’ he reasoned coldly. ‘You’ve been on board the Freedom plenty of times before; why should anyone assume this time is any different?’

‘Because I’m obviously a reluctant guest!’ Whitney pointed out exasperatedly.

He gave an unconcerned shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘I’ll just tell them that you’re loath to rest as the doctor has told you to.’

‘You have an answer for everything, don’t you?’ she snapped irritably. ‘And just what do you hope to achieve by this display of muscle?’ she scorned.

‘Achieve?’ Hawk repeated with cold thoughtfulness. ‘Maybe I’d just like to keep you alive for a few more years.’

‘After presenting me with a diamond watch and kicking me out of your life a year ago—–’

‘I didn’t kick you out!’ he grated protestingly, his body taut with anger.

‘Fulfilled your obligation, then,’ she amended heatedly. ‘It amounts to the same thing. After that I’m surprised you care one way or the other what happens to me.’

‘Of course I care, damn you!’ He glowered at her across the room.

Whitney gave a disbelieving snort. ‘That’s why you’ve been so solicitous of my welfare the last year, I suppose!’ she derided.

‘Martin would have let me know if anything were bothering you; he told me you were doing fine,’ Hawk dismissed with accusing impatience.

‘Of course I’m doing fine, I don’t need you to survive,’ she claimed perversely. Hawk had always had this effect on her; she had resented it when he demanded to know her every mood, and she resented it just as vehemently when he seemed disinterested.

Hawk’s mouth tightened. ‘This time you just may do!’ he rasped.

‘You’re as bad as Martin,’ she sighed. ‘I’m only following through a story, for goodness’ sake.’

‘On Tom Beresford.’

‘Why is everyone so scared of the man?’ Whitney scorned exasperatedly.

‘It isn’t a question of being scared of him, and if you weren’t such a baby I’d tell you exactly why you should steer clear of this one,’ he rasped.

‘I don’t think I was ever a baby,’ she dismissed. ‘Certainly not since I met you.’

A pulse jerked in his throat. ‘Was living with me so bad?’

‘Worse!’

‘Whitney—–’

‘You know Geraldine is married to Tom Beresford now?’ She inwardly cursed herself for asking the question as soon as it left her lips; of course Hawk would know who the woman he still loved was married to!

He gave a cool inclination of his head, a shaft of sunlight streaming through one of the windows picking out the gold highlights in his dark blond hair. ‘I received an invitation to the wedding.’ His bored drawl revealed none of his inner feelings.

‘The bitch!’ Whitney gasped incredulously, colour heating her cheeks as she realised she had just insulted the woman Hawk loved. ‘I’m sorry. I—–’

‘It’s all right, Whitney,’ he derided drily. ‘I was never blind to Geraldine’s faults.’

But he loved her in spite of that. It had never made any sense to Whitney, this unquestioning love Hawk had for the other woman. In business Hawk had no peer, the National only one of his successes, and at thirty-seven he was more handsome than any one man had the right to be, his very coolness exuding a power and cynicism that was a challenge to every woman he met. And yet he threw away all that he had to offer on a woman who wasn’t fit to be in the same room as him, let alone in his heart. It just didn’t make sense to Whitney.

Of course some of her dislike of Geraldine sprang from her own love for Hawk, but she had detested Geraldine even before she had made the mistake of falling in love with Hawk. Mistake, because Hawk was the type of man to inspire the sort of love that would last a lifetime, and his heart belonged to Geraldine.

‘Did you go to the wedding?’ She gave a pained frown.

‘Of course not.’ His tone implied it had never even been a possibility. ‘And watch some other poor devil go to his doom!’

Tom Beresford hadn’t given the impression of chafing against his love for his wife when they had spoken earlier. Like Hawk, he gave the impression of granting her every whim and fancy.

‘Tom Beresford isn’t like you.’ She spoke without thinking first, looking guiltily across at Hawk as she realised what she had said and how it must have sounded. ‘1 only meant—–’

‘I know what you meant, Whitney,’ Hawk grated harshly. ‘But you never understood my relationship with Geraldine. And I hope to God you never do!’

She wouldn’t wish the mindless love Hawk had for Geraldine on anyone, and on this proudly arrogant man it was particularly unpleasant to witness. She had tried for a while to make a place for herself in his heart, but even though she didn’t love or want him herself Geraldine had resented anyone else who did. For a long time she had managed to make Whitney’s life a misery.

‘Do you think Geraldine knows of Tom Beresford’s method of business?’ She watched Hawk closely for his reaction.

He shrugged. ‘Geraldine never cared where the money came from as long as there was always plenty of it.’

Maybe if Hawk’s love for Geraldine had been blind it would have given her hope in the past, but even knowing all the rotten things about Geraldine there were to know Hawk still love her. That sort of love could never be ignored or overcome, it just continued to consume, like a sickness.

‘You’ll never be free of her.’ Whitney spoke her thoughts aloud without realising it, blushing as she looked up awkwardly to meet his shuttered gaze.

‘Never,’ he sighed.

‘Hawk—–’

‘Whitney, let’s drop the subject, shall we,’ he cut in forcefully, obviously wearying of the subject. ‘I had the Freedom brought up to London with the intention of taking her out at the weekend for a week or so. This has changed my plans somewhat.’

‘I don’t see why,’ she protested. ‘If you’ll just let me go ashore—–’

‘No,’ he bit out before she could finish. ‘You’re staying right here until everyone forgets you were doing a story on Tom Beresford.’

She remembered the predatory look in the pale blue eyes of the other man and shook her head. ‘That could take weeks,’ she derided impatiently.

‘You have weeks,’ Hawk told her in a calm voice. ‘Months, if necessary. After all, you’re unemployed, and you don’t have a cat to feed!’

‘I—–’

‘And don’t even think about carrying out your threat to take this story to another newspaper,’ he added grimly, his eyes narrowed. ‘If you attempt to do that Martin will have to retaliate by quietly spreading the word that the absenteeism story was just that, that really you were sacked for embellishing the facts to get a better story.’

Whitney paled, knew her career would be at an end if such a rumour were ever started, however untrue. ‘I don’t believe you would do that to me.’ She shook her head.

Hawk shrugged, his expression cold. ‘Try me,’ he invited softly.

He had to know that a rumour like that, started from such a reliable source as Martin Groves, would finish her as a reporter forever. Not even a provincial newspaper would employ her after that. And she was damned good at her job. ‘You aren’t doing this to protect me at all,’ she accused.

‘Who, then?’ he grated harshly.

‘Geraldine!’ Her eyes were bright with anger. ‘If her husband falls so will she! I don’t believe any woman could be that close to a man and not know exactly what lengths he goes to to earn his money!’

‘No,’ Hawk conceded. ‘I’m sure Geraldine is aware of every corruption her husband is involved in.’

‘Then—–’ She broke off as his expression changed, blinking her confusion as he strode purposefully across the room towards her.

‘For God’s sake, Whitney, I’m not going to hit you!’ he growled as she flinched, his fingers biting into the tops of her arms enough to hold her in front of him but not enough to actually hurt her.

‘What are you—–?’

‘Be quiet!’ he grated, his head bending as his mouth claimed hers.

All the breath left her body at the unexpected caress, her limbs trembling as he moulded her body to his, her senses quivering—–

‘I’m sorry, Hawk, I had no idea—–!’ The shocked voice of another man interrupted them.

Golden eyes gleamed their satisfaction before Hawk turned to look at the other man. ‘It’s all right, Stephen,’ he assured smoothly. ‘Whitney, you remember the captain of the Freedom?’ He quirked dark brows at her.

She had met the other man several times during previous visits to the yacht, and nodded her head in greeting to him, now knowing the reason for Hawk’s sudden—and devastating—kiss. She daren’t even trust the steadiness of her voice to talk to the tall, distinguished captain!

Stephen Hollister still looked uncomfortable for having interrupted them at such an intimate moment. ‘I can come back later.’

Hawk gave Whitney a hard look before nodding to the other man. ‘Maybe that would be best,’ he acknowledged. ‘I was just about to escort Whitney down to her suite anyway.’

The innuendo in his tone was unmistakable, and with a rueful shrug of understanding the older man left them alone once more.

Whitney spun away from Hawk’s side as soon as the door closed. ‘And what if dear Geraldine got to hear about that?’ she challenged, hurt by the way he had used her. Her worst humiliation was that he had to know she had responded to him.

His body tensed, his eyes as hard as the metal they resembled. ‘My staff is paid very well not to gossip about me,’ he bit out. ‘Besides, none of them ever cared for Geraldine.’

She was so angry she just wanted to unnerve him the way he had disturbed her. ‘And what about Mr Peterson?’ she taunted. ‘Was he paid to forget, too?’

‘Yes,’ he answered with simple arrogance.

‘You didn’t have to kiss me just now to shut me up,’ she told him agitatedly, still able to feel the imprint of his lips on hers. ‘A simple “someone’s coming” would have sufficed! I know I lost my temper with you earlier but I’m not in the habit of causing a scene.’

‘I know that,’ he sighed wearily. ‘I just—I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.’ He shrugged awkwardly.

Embarrassed! She was a quivering mass of nerves, was still having trouble breathing, could barely resist the impulse to place her fingertips where his lips had touched hers; embarrassment was the last emotion she felt!

‘You were my guardian for six years, shouldn’t you be the one to feel embarrassed at being caught making love to me?’ she scorned, to hide her complete devastation.

He drew in a ragged breath. ‘Embarrassment doesn’t come into it. You’re right, I should never have kissed you. I’ll have a word with Stephen and tell him to forget what he saw.’

‘Don’t forget to explain to him that the kiss you gave me couldn’t possibly have meant anything when you still love your ex-wife!’ Whitney’s eyes were heavy with unshed tears.

‘Whitney—–’

‘Don’t bother to see me to my suite,’ she told him heatedly. ‘I’m sure it’s the same one that I usually occupy!’ She closed the door forcefully behind her, resisting the impulse to lean weakly back against it, her back straight and unyielding as she took the stairway down to the deck that housed the suites.

She didn’t relax that control until she had the door to the peach and pale cream suite firmly locked behind her; Hawk hated having people walking out on him in the middle of a conversation; she had learnt that at a very young age, having to spend every afternoon for a week of her holiday studying French the first time she had done it.

She had been fifteen when she had been put into Hawk’s guardianship, when she had met him for the first time at all. She knew he and her father were friends, her father often speaking of him, and she had seen articles about the Hawkworth heir in the same magazines that wrote about her father.

At that time the two men had dominated the motor-cycle circuits, one of them always taking first place, the friendly rivalry inducing a lasting friendship. Whitney had known what her father did for a living, had been proud of his achievements from the safety of the boarding school he had sent her to when she was eight, her mother having died while she was still a baby. The day James Hawkworth arrived at the school in her father’s place she had known Dan Morgan’s sparkling career had come to an end on the race circuit he had loved so much.

The teachers at the school had managed to keep the knowledge of the fatal bike accident from her until Hawk arrived to gently break the news of her father’s death, and because she had known of her father’s close friendship with the younger man she had moved instinctively into his arms to cry over her loss. He had held her until the tears stopped, not speaking, just holding her, and then he had quietly explained to her that her father had left her care to him.

And so as well as her father’s death she also had to contend with the fact that she had been left in the hands of a complete stranger. At first nothing had changed, Hawk leaving her at the school to finish her last year, the only difference there was being that instead of going home to her fun-loving father during the holidays she now went to the large imposing Hawkworth House in the exclusive part of London where Hawk and his wife lived.

Never having really known her mother, except from the photographs her father kept, Whitney had envisaged becoming friends with Geraldine Hawkworth. But the first time she met the other woman she had told her what a nuisance she was, and how her guardianship had disrupted her life. Whitney had always known that Hawk came from a very wealthy family, that he had become something of the black sheep when he had chosen to take up racing motor cycles instead of going into the family-run businesses that had made them all so wealthy. Being given the guardianship of a fifteen-year-old girl had necessitated Hawk donning the respectability of the family business rather than the excitement of travelling around the world racing, Geraldine had tartly informed her. And the other woman obviously resented the loss of that exciting life.

Not that Hawk had ever seemed to blame her in any way, not even when the change in career had such an adverse affect on his marriage. But for years the confinement of business had sat awkwardly on his shoulders, and Geraldine had never made any secret of her dissatisfaction with the new, staid, if equally rich, life she now led. The arguments between the couple had often been horrific those first two years after Whitney left school, Geraldine having a wicked temper.

When Whitney reached eighteen she had suggested to Hawk that now that his guardianship was over she should move out and give the married couple some privacy. It was then that she had discovered that, although she had now reached the age of consent, Hawk was to remain her guardian until she was twenty-one. Her father, perhaps because of his long absences, had always been protective of her, but nevertheless the thought of spending another three years with the bitter Geraldine and the determined Hawk had filled her with dismay.

But the situation between the married couple had suddenly changed. Geraldine began to go out alone, sometimes all night, and it was obvious when she returned the next morning in the same evening gown she had gone out in that she hadn’t just arranged to stay overnight with friends.

Hawk became more withdrawn than ever, concentrating all his energies on his business empire, at last seeming to fit smoothly into this new career he had adopted for her sake, often working late into the evenings. Although the latter, Whitney had been sure, was so that he didn’t have to be at home to witness Geraldine going out to meet what had to be her latest lover. Somehow the role of cuckolded husband didn’t sit well on the shoulders of the man Whitney had come to know—and love. But, as Hawk raised no objection to the situation between himself and Geraldine, Whitney had had to accept that he loved the other woman, no matter what she did, or who she did it with.

Geraldine had finally tired of the life she was living just before Whitney’s twenty-first birthday, asking Hawk for a divorce, which he agreed to give her without argument; how could he hold on to the woman when she obviously wanted to leave!

With Geraldine out of the house while they waited for their divorce, Whitney had tried to get closer to Hawk, to show him that she loved him even if Geraldine had been too stupid to. He had rejected her love by arranging for her to move into her own house, and handing over the diamond-studded watch on the eve of her birthday, the last time they had met before today.

She had been working for the Hawkworth-owned newspaper since she was twenty, and as she knew she was good at the job she had seen no reason to change that; she occasionally saw Hawk striding about the building. He looked older after his divorce from Geraldine became final and she remarried, more cynical than ever, and despite the fact that he had always appeared to be a highly sensual man there had been no women reputed to be in his life, not even casually. Even though she no longer wanted him Geraldine still owned him body and soul. It didn’t matter to Hawk that she had made a fool of him with other men during their marriage, that she ridiculed his love during that stormy time, or that she had become involved with and finally married one of the most powerfully corrupt men in England.

Knowing Geraldine as Whitney did, only too well, and the other woman’s craving for excitement in any shape or form—the more dangerous, the better she liked it—she had a feeling that Geraldine was involved in Tom Beresford’s corruption right up to her beautiful neck.

She also had a feeling that, despite what the other woman had done to him, Hawk was going to protect Geraldine and the happiness she had found with the other man with the last breath in his body if necessary.

God, how she hoped she was wrong!

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