His Personal Agenda Page 7

  Matt swallowed the obvious retort and said, ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Is it?’

  No, it wasn’t. Not really. Except he didn’t think that Nyssa would stoop to such deceit…which just went to prove how badly she had affected his judgement. His own situation provided ample evidence of precisely how low people would stoop…

  ‘If you’re so sure about that, Mr Crosby, why don’t you come down off that high horse of yours long enough to convince me?’ He pushed the cheque towards him.

  Tempting as it was to snatch it back, Matt kept his distance. He’d do the job, but not for Parker. This was personal. ‘Keep your money, Parker. I’m working for myself on this one.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’ He glanced at the cheque in his hand before folding it and placing it in his jacket pocket. ‘In the meantime, if you find out anything, let me know.’ He patted his jacket. ‘I’ll be happy to let you have this back any time.’

  ‘Did anyone ring for me?’

  Nyssa had been persuaded to go shopping for a dress for the party with her mother, but the moment she returned she’d sought out James.

  ‘There’s a list by the phone,’ he told her. She grabbed it. There were a dozen names but Matt Crosby’s name wasn’t among them. James, watching her, clearly picked up her disappointment. ‘Why don’t you call him?’ he suggested, kindly. ‘Invite him to the party.’

  ‘No. It doesn’t matter.’ It wasn’t true. It mattered like hell. It shouldn’t, but it did. ‘But I would like to use the telephone. ‘

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said, making a move to rise as she punched in a number.

  ‘Don’t go, James. It isn’t anything private. Sky? Can you do something for me?’ She hadn’t told Sky about the attempted kidnapping. She wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened just yet and certainly not on a cellphone, where any interested snoop with a radio receiver could be listening in. ‘Have you got a number for Matt Crosby?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Give him a call, will you? Tell him that his car will be in the car park at the Delvering Arms on Monday morning.’

  ‘His car?’ She could almost hear Sky straining not to ask the obvious question. ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all,’ she confirmed. ‘No, wait. Did you happen to find my handbag when you were clearing up at the Assembly Rooms?’

  ‘Sorry. Was there anything important in it?’

  ‘Nothing much. Just my car keys.’ Aaah. ‘Tell me, Sky, did Mr Crosby go into the main hall at the Assembly Rooms when he called round the morning after the meeting?’

  ‘Just to look for his notebook. Is it important?’

  ‘Everything is important, Sky. Ask around, will you? See if anyone knows him. In fact you’d better run a check on everyone who came to the meeting.’

  While she tried to remember exactly what was in her bag.

  Matt sat with the little bag on his desk. From his earliest days he’d known that a woman’s handbag was sacrosanct, private, not to be touched.

  Okay, so he’d taken her car keys, but this was different. He’d search computer records, files, even desk drawers when the opportunity arose without turning a hair, but handbags always made him feel just a bit queasy.

  But she’d challenged him to find her. He had her London address and telephone number; they were in the file that Parker had given him. He’d gone there after his confrontation with the man, but there had been no one home.

  He’d tried the phone later and continued to call at regular intervals until midnight. It had rung unanswered. There wasn’t even a machine to take a message. London was not point B. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to find point B. Not until he’d taken a little time to decide exactly what he was going to do when he got there.

  Of course, if he took the shower she’d promised him, that wouldn’t be a problem.

  In order to distract himself, he picked up her bag. It was small, made of soft, expensive black leather. It wouldn’t hold much. None of the clutter that everyday bags accumulated—the bills, till receipts from the supermarket, letters; the mundane items that gave away so much information. He just hoped there would be enough to make up for the nasty taste that going through it would leave in his mouth.

  He opened it and tipped out the contents. A comb, a lipstick, a white handkerchief edged with lace. A pen. A little appointment diary.

  He picked up the diary. Inside was her name, her smart London address and telephone number. It gave her mother’s name as the person to contact in case of emergency. A Sussex telephone number and address. Point B? One of the cellphones on the desk beside him rang. The one he’d bought for the Parker enquiry. He’d only given two people that number. Parker was one. He hoped it wasn’t him.

  ‘Matt Crosby,’ he said.

  ‘Hi, Matt. This is Sky.’

  ‘The lady I still owe a drink.’

  ‘The very same. Nyssa asked me to tell you that she’d leave your car on the forecourt of the Delvering Arms on Monday morning.’ She waited, hoping for some explanation. When it wasn’t forthcoming, she said, ‘You can pay your debts then, if you like?’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Monday? That suggested Nyssa was in no hurry to return his car. But the fact that she’d had Sky ring, remind him that he was supposed to be looking for her, hinted otherwise, and he smiled as he picked up the diary, dialled the Sussex number.

  ‘Broomhill six thousand.’

  Nyssa was a hundred miles away, but that low, husky voice still turned him inside out, made him feel that she was right there in the room, beside him. The sound evoked her hot eyes, the creamy skin of her neck, the smooth rise of her breasts as her dress had hit the floor.

  ‘And would that be Point B?’ he enquired, his own voice thick with desire.

  There was the tiniest hesitation before she replied. ‘You’ve taken your time, Mr Crosby, considering you stole my handbag.’

  ‘I rescued it, Nyssa. Kept it safe. Just like I rescued you.’

  ‘But you didn’t rush to return it. Instead you took my car keys, and, since you’ve found me, you must have read my diary, as well. Not the act of a gentleman.’

  ‘I thought we’d already decided that, since I’m a journalist, I couldn’t possibly be a gentleman.’ He thought he heard a muffled laugh, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling as he added, ‘Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me.’

  ‘What secrets?’ she came back sharply. ‘There wasn’t anything… Oh, sure, very funny.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Did Sky ring you? About exchanging cars?’

  He didn’t think she wanted to exchange cars in front of the Delvering Arms and then walk away. The words were right, but the voice she was saying them with was sending an entirely contrary message.

  ‘On Monday?’ she said, when he didn’t immediately answer.

  ‘I don’t think I can wait that long, Nyssa. Besides, it isn’t quite what we agreed.’

  ‘Agreed?’

  ‘If I found you.’

  Nyssa hung up, cutting him off. Her mother, arranging flowers on the kitchen table, turned and stared. ‘Is something the matter, darling?’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Nothing.’ She sank into the nearest chair, pulling at the neck of her T-shirt. Flapping the air with her hand. ‘Is it hot, or is it just me?’

  Sophia Lambert raised her brows slightly. ‘I’d say it was whoever was on the other end of the telephone just now. Try a cold shower.’

  Matt grinned. Hanging up on him was a good sign. It meant that she remembered promising to indulge in a little water conservation with him. For a moment he indulged himself in the fantasy of sharing a shower with Nyssa Blake.

  Then he dragged himself back to the task in hand, flicking through her appointments. It was crammed with the dates of council meetings, planning meetings. There was even an appointment with a senior official at the Department of the Environment. No wonder Parker was worried.

  There were also the everyday things, like fam
ily birthdays, appointments at the hairdressers and the dentist, beside which she’d drawn a little face with a turned down mouth. He found himself smiling sympathetically.

  Inside the back cover there was a small pocket, for stamps and suchlike. It contained a photograph of two men, their medal ribbons bright against their uniform jackets. One was recognisably Nyssa’s father. The other was younger, taller. A heroic figure, the kind of man to turn a young girl’s head. He turned it over, but there was nothing written on the back, nothing to say who he was.

  Nothing to account for the unexpected heat of jealousy that burned in the pit of his stomach.

  He replaced it and turned to the current week, reminding himself that he was doing this not for Parker, but for her. There were a number of appointments with journalists. One with Drew, Makepeace, a major firm of accountants. He made a note of that.

  The presentation at the Assembly Rooms was listed for yesterday. Nothing for today. Saturday—James’s birthday. James? That had to be James Lambert. Her stepfather. He picked up his phone and called the financial journalist, an old friend, who’d organised his press pass and invitation to Nyssa’s presentation.

  ‘Terry? Matt Crosby.’ They exchanged pleasantries, touching on the skirmish at Delvering before Matt got to the point. ‘Can you tell me what kind of party there’s going to be for James Lambert’s birthday this weekend?’

  He returned with the information that there was going to be a seriously large thrash at the man’s Sussex mansion. Family, friends, major players from the business world.

  ‘Black tie?’

  Terry groaned. ‘You’re not planning on gatecrashing, are you? I should warn you that the guest list includes some people who really, really don’t like you.’

  ‘That’s a long list. You’d be surprised how few people want to be seen with a man who goes from a triple A credit rating to the top of everyone’s black list overnight.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the credit rating. You just know too much. Spill the beans and I could make all your wildest dreams come true.’

  ‘I very much doubt that.’ His dreams had recently taken a diversion. They no longer concentrated on seeing the directors of a large merchant bank hounded from the City and instead involved a girl with red hair, blue eyes and legs that were pure sin. ‘Your legal people would never sanction it without cast-iron proof.’

  ‘When you’ve got it, call me.’

  ‘Sure.’ In the meantime it was time he found out exactly why Nyssa had been to see Drew, Makepeace. He opened his laptop and set to work.

  It was late before he finished. It hadn’t been easy, but it hadn’t been nearly difficult enough to find exactly the kind of information Charles Parker had been hoping he’d dig up. He’d wanted to know how Nyssa financed her activities and he’d pay well to discover that most of the money came through her mother, from shares invested by her father in one of the construction companies she’d campaigned against so vigorously.

  That was information to tarnish her bright image.

  He wondered if she knew. Probably not. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Her enemies would have a field-day with such revelations, conveniently ignoring the charity she’d just registered to raise funds to restore the Gaumont to its former glory. Heroes—and heroines—were raised up only to be knocked down. They’d make a laughing stock of her.

  Not if he could help it. Which was why he rang Parker at home to let him know that he’d thought it over, and was back on the job, hot on the trail, buying himself a little time to figure out what to do.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘WOW! That dress is sensational,’ Kitty greeted her warmly. ‘Give me a twirl.’

  Nyssa obliged and the dress, a delicate spiral of midnight-blue silk chiffon edged with silver thread, wound from one shoulder to a point some way short of her knees, floated lightly around her as she spun on a pair of high-heeled strappy sandals.

  ‘It’s absolutely perfect.’ And she patted her bump, very noticeable despite the softly muted shades of the crushed silk gown that flowed loosely from her shoulders to the floor. ‘Believe it or not I once used to wear dresses that short.’

  ‘Gil told me about the baby. Congratulations.’

  ‘Poor Gil, he’s blaming himself for not staying with you.’

  ‘I don’t need a bodyguard,’ Nyssa replied quickly. ‘It was nothing.’ Of course if Matt hadn’t been there it might have been very different. ‘Gil clearly has other things to keep him busy.’ And she waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

  Her stepsister grinned. ‘I promise you it beats the hell out of living in a tree on long winter nights.’

  Once, just once, Nyssa had been on a demonstration that involved spending a night in a tree and she’d never been allowed to forget it. Usually she jumped on to the defensive, but this time she just grinned and rather enjoyed the look of surprise that flashed across Kitty’s face as she said, ‘That rather depends on who’s sharing your tree.’

  ‘What an interesting life you do lead, Nyssa.’

  ‘I certainly try.’ Then, ‘I’d better circulate for a while.’ Nyssa moved away, stopping to chat to family friends and people who had seen the news and wanted to know what had happened at Delvering. She played down the disruption, assuring everyone that such an early attack was a good sign, demonstrating that the opposition was severely rattled. The attempted kidnap she kept to herself.

  But the fact that Matt hadn’t turned up on her doorstep, or at least telephoned, still niggled at her. Maybe she should be relieved. At a distance she didn’t have to worry whether he was using her, or she was using him. Whether he was her friend or her enemy.

  So why was she hanging around the front door? And why, each time she caught sight of a dark head, a tall, broad-shouldered figure approaching the entrance, did her nerves flutter treacherously, her skin tingle with anticipation? What caused that ridiculous dip of disappointment when she saw that it wasn’t him?

  She was beginning to wish she had taken Gil’s advice and invited someone—anyone. Pete even.

  Then she caught her mother watching her and, cross with herself for being so obvious, she took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and headed out through the open drawing room windows and along the canopied walk to a marquee where there was a small band playing.

  Already the dance floor was crowded and she saw Gil and Kitty wrapped in each other’s arms, moving slowly in time to something smoochy being belted out on a saxophone. Gil could find out all about Matt, she thought. More than she wanted to know, in all probability.

  There had been a time when she’d have used any excuse to speak to Gil. But this was a party. Not the moment. Or maybe she wasn’t in a big hurry to get bad news.

  She turned away, restless and edgy, taking a sip of champagne in the hopes that it might lend her just a hint of its sparkle. But it was going to take more than champagne, she realised, and abandoned the glass, and the loud marquee, and took herself into the scented darkness of the garden.

  As Matt Crosby drove through James Lambert’s tall wrought-iron gates he wondered if he had made a mistake. Maybe he should have phoned Nyssa first after all. She was probably deeply embarrassed at the way she’d sobbed herself to sleep in his arms. At waking up in bed with him hours later.

  Maybe he should drive her car around to the rear of the house and leave it, with the keys in the glove compartment, and save them both an awkward few minutes. With any luck he’d find his own car; he’d brought a spare set of keys with him so he could simply drive it away.

  She would know that he had found her. The ball would be firmly in her court. But suppose she didn’t lob it back, refused even to give him an interview? Always supposing she had ever believed that he was a journalist.

  He couldn’t risk that. He had to find out who had ordered that near-riot to cover an attempt at kidnapping. Disturbingly he had a feeling that it might be a whole lot easier to answer that one than work out why he cared. Or why Nyssa had taken off like
a scared rabbit at the crack of dawn.

  If she’d wanted to leave he wouldn’t have stopped her; she hadn’t had to creep out like that. Then a cold finger traced his spine. Was that it? Did she think he would have stopped her? Did she think, after all, that he might be part of what had happened? A new take on the bad guy/good guy routine.

  An expletive hissed through his teeth and he swung out of the car and strode down the drive. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, and he was determined to put her straight about that before he went anywhere.

  Except, of course, that was why he had been in Delvering. Not to cause her physical pain. But to uncover her secrets. Find some way to blacken her name.

  He came to an abrupt halt in the open doorway. Too late. He’d already been spotted by a silver-blonde. She immediately excused herself from the group she was with and headed towards him. He’d have known she was Nyssa’s mother even if he hadn’t seen her photograph in Parker’s file.

  ‘Matt Crosby,’ he said, immediately introducing himself. ‘I’m afraid I’m gatecrashing your party, Mrs Lambert.’

  ‘Are you? Shall I fetch someone to throw you out?’ she enquired, but since she was smiling he assumed she wasn’t serious.

  ‘I’ll go quietly, I promise. I just wanted a word with Nyssa. I’ve brought her car back.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Crosby,’ she said, after a moment, ‘just what linen cupboard did my daughter find you in? And are there any more at home like you?’

  Matt knew that if he had been capable of blushing he would have done exactly that. Instead he just about managed a smile. ‘Matt,’ he said, rather stupidly. ‘And, no, Mrs Lambert. There’s just me. My mother said I was more than enough.’

  ‘She’s wrong. The world can never have too many reckless men.’

  He thought it wiser to decline the obvious invitation to explore that remark, and glanced around. ‘Is Nyssa here? I don’t want to be a nuisance, but I was hoping to retrieve my car—’