Sam gave a nervous laugh. “Do you think he’ll tell us?”
Tony’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “We’ll see.”
* * * *
“This really is a bore,” Samantha muttered late Sunday afternoon after hours of checking lists of hotel and catering staff against references and security clearance files.
“I know,” said Marcia, Tony’s secretary, as she brought in another armful of files and dumped them on the desk.
Sam buried her face in her hands and groaned. She’d be there until midnight.
“Chin up,” Marcia said with a smile. “We’re all in the same boat, working on Sunday.”
“Tony’s still in his meeting, is he?”
“Yes, and it looks as though it’s going to be a while yet. I heard they’d sent out for sandwiches.”
Sam stood up and reached for her handbag. “I think I’ll take a break and go down for some coffee. Coming?”
“No, but thanks. I’d better crack on here.”
Downstairs, the lobby was quiet. The desk clerk looked up as Sam passed by on her way to the coffee shop. “Oh, Miss Smith, there was a package for you. If you want to pick it up, security should be finished with it by now. It’s in the manager’s office.”
A package? Samantha frowned. Who would be sending her a package? Who would know she was working here today?
As soon as she pushed open the door of the manager’s office she knew something was wrong. Half a dozen men, Tony among them, turned to looked at her, their faces set in grave lines. On the desk before them lay a brown paper package about the size of a shoe box.
Tony immediately walked over to her and took her in his arms. “Samantha, we’re waiting for the bomb squad. It looks as though somebody sent you a gift.”
Maurice St. Clair and another stern-faced man who was introduced as Bob Green, chief of security, began firing questions at her. “Miss Smith—” no more friendly “Samantha” obviously “—Miss Smith, who would want to harm you?”
Sam shivered violently. “I don’t know,” she cried, tears pressing against her closed eyelids. “It could be my ex-fiancé, but I have no proof except that he tried to kidnap me in Paris.”
The men looked at one another. “Do you know where he’s staying?”
“No, I don’t.”
Tony stroked his hands rhythmically over her back, alarmed at the tremors running through her body. “I checked with the major hotels in the city. He’s not at any of them. He may well have a flat of his own.”
“Get somebody to check on it,” Green barked to one of the other men.
“And I’m taking you home, Samantha. You’ll be safe there, especially with the cop who’s going to be guarding the gate.”
* * * *
Exhausted and overwrought, Samantha slept nearly around the clock. But in the morning, she walked into Tony’s kitchen with a stiff spine and a grim look of determination on her face.
He looked up from the toast he was buttering, his concern turning into a broad smile when he saw her expression. “I see you’re ready to fight back.”
“You bet,” she declared, pouring herself a mug of coffee. “Did they find out what was in the package? Was it a bomb?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t much of a bomb. It was designed to make a lot of noise but not create much damage.”
Sam scowled blackly as she bit into the slice of toast Tony set before her. “Bennett’s behind this.”
“You don’t know that, Sam.”
“Don’t you see, Tony? Everything that’s happened has been scary, but none of it really dangerous. He wants something, but he doesn’t want to hurt me.”
“Not yet,” said Tony soberly. “I’ve been thinking about those prenuptial arrangements you told me about.”
“So have I. If he could validate our marriage, that would give him a certain legal interest in my business affairs. Then, if I looked to be incompetent in handling them, he could gain control of my family assets.”
Tony nodded slowly. “Possibly even to the point of taking over Smith Industries.” Walking around the table, he tilted her face up to his and kissed her. His mouth tasted of coffee and sweetness and incipient desire. “Sam, I think it’s better if you don’t come to the hotel today.”
“Why ever not, Tony? You said yourself you needed the extra help.”
“I don’t know safe it is. Sam—”
She stood up, the abrupt movement nearly upsetting her coffee mug. “Are you ordering me, Tony?”
Bewildered by the sudden chill that stabbed him, he stared at her. Hoping to defuse the storm he saw gathering in her eyes, he raised his hands. “I hope I won’t have to, Sam.”
“Then don’t,” she snapped, hating herself but unable to stop. The tension of the past days had taken its toll. Her reactions were hair-trigger, founded in stress rather than logic. “Tony, I don’t take orders from anyone. Is that perfectly clear?”
Tony looked taken aback, his face registering a mixture of embarrassment and perplexity. “Sam, I didn’t…”
“Men never do,” she informed him succinctly.
She whirled around, but before she could take a step, he grabbed her by the shoulders. “Let me go.” She struggled free of his grip. “Tony—”
“Listen to me, Sam.” The look in his eyes warned her not to argue, yet she could see fire beneath the anger. And traces of the tenderness he’d always shown her. Her indignation died. This was Tony. His hands had never given her pain. His gentleness might mend her dreams.
She might even love him. The emotion that flooded her was too new, too powerful to move past the sudden lump in her throat. “I’m coming with you, Tony.”
He conceded with ill grace, throwing up his hands. “Okay, but don’t be long.”
* * * *
To Samantha’s surprise Aunt Olivia phoned shortly after lunch. She sounded her usual irrepressible self. “When I didn’t get an answer at your flat, I thought you might be with Tony. Samantha, I’d like to say I’m sorry the weekend was spoiled. I wouldn’t want there to be hard feelings between us.”
The special love she’d always felt for her aunt spread warmly through Samantha. “Neither would I, Aunt Olivia.”
“I only did what seemed best, Samantha. I thought you’d be happy to see Bennett again. After all, you were friends before your engagement.”
A slight stretching of the truth, Sam thought, but let it pass. “It’s over now,” she said, knowing it wasn’t. But she doubted that Aunt Olivia was involved with any of Bennett’s skullduggery.
“I found the quaintest little pub,” Olivia went on to say. “Since I’m leaving soon, I thought we could meet for a drink. I’ve got something to give you.”
Sam repressed a shiver. She’d had enough of surprises. “Not Bennett again, I trust.”
“Samantha, I said I was sorry. But it does involve Bennett indirectly. He gave me a bank draft for the money he owes you.”
“The money?” Sam repeated, stunned. “He’s paying back the money?” She’d been prepared to kiss the money goodbye and consider it a cheap way to rid herself of Bennett.
“Yes. He said something about balancing the books.”
“You’re sure he wants me to have the money?” Sam asked, dumbfounded.
“Of course I’m sure,” Olivia said impatiently. “He was very insistent. Can you make it, Samantha?”
“Yes, I’ll come,” Sam said, quelling her misgivings. “Where is this pub?”
“The Red Lion, near Tower Bridge. It’s simple, only one Underground line.”
“But why don’t we meet at the Grosvenor and go together?” Sam asked.
“Because I’ve another appointment first. Can you make it, Samantha, say sixish?”
Sam nodded. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. Oh, and Samantha, I may be a little late. Wait for me, won’t you?”
“I will.”
Samantha immediately dialed the meeting room where Tony had set up operations with the security personnel.
Tony, as expected, gave her an argument. “I’ll come with you.” She heard voices in the background. “Damn it, I can’t. Can you phone her back and make it a bit later?”
“I can’t. She’s not at her hotel. Don’t worry, Tony. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” He sighed gustily. “What’s the name of that pub again, in case I have to send out a search party?”
She told him and waited while he wrote it down.
“By the way, Sam,” he added in an almost absentminded tone, “Dubray has checked out of the hotel. Left this morning. Even came and thanked me personally for his pleasant stay.” Tony uttered the last phrase in a tone of marked irony. “And the special RCMP officers have arrived, as well as a contingent of plainclothes London police. A mosquito couldn’t sneeze without someone knowing about it and recording it in a log.”
* * * *
Olivia was late. When Sam reached the pub at quarter past six, her aunt hadn’t arrived yet. Sam found a table, not an easy task in the busy, noisy bar, and waited. After a time, feeling conspicuous, Sam went up to the bar and ordered a lemonade and a sandwich.
She ate slowly, keeping her eye on the street door. After half an hour, wishing she’d asked Tony to meet her, she bought another drink. She managed to stretch that out, but finally deciding Olivia must have changed her mind, she pushed aside her glass and plate.
The chair scraped on the oak floor as Sam got up. The room seemed to tip for a moment, and she clutched the back of the chair, shaking her head to clear it.
The barmaid walked up to the table, concern on her face. “You all right there, miss?”
Sam pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose. The dizziness was passing, although her stomach felt distinctly queasy. “I think so.” She forced a smile. “Must have gotten up too fast.”
“You’re Miss Smith, aren’t you?” the young woman asked. “The caller described you well. We can’t let customers receive calls here, but I took a message. It sounded urgent. Your aunt had to change her plans, something about an interested party too close for comfort. Does that make any sense?”
Bennett, Sam thought, her stomach executing a slow, sickening roll. “Yes, I understand.”
The woman looked relieved. “She says she’ll wait for you in Pickle Herring Street. It’s not far. She said to look for a gray Mercedes.”
Sam flexed her neck, a curious numbness making her thoughts sluggish. Meeting her aunt was risky, especially if Bennett had followed her. On the other hand, that was probably why Olivia had changed the meeting place, to throw Bennett off. If only she could think clearly.
Her stomach made another slow turn and she pressed her hand to her waist, fighting a faint nausea. She felt as if she were coming down with flu.
She made a decision. If she saw anything suspicious, she could always get Olivia’s chauffeur to drive off. “Okay,” she said, shivering as a chill ran over her skin. “Could you tell me how to get there?”
Chapter Fourteen
Pickle Herring Street was lined with warehouses that in daytime must have shown various shades of rust and brown bricks. The creeping twilight of the cloudy evening leached out the color, fading the soot-darkened masonry to a uniform gray. On the river a ship’s horn hooted a lonely note.
Sam passed a vacant lot covered with weeds growing between the ruins of brick walls. Her heels clicked on the concrete sidewalk, echoing behind her like a ghost’s footsteps. The wind, finding a path across the open ground, lashed at her. She shuddered as the cold cut into her bones.
Where was Aunt Olivia? Sam glanced at her watch. More than half an hour had passed since she’d left the pub. She scanned the rows of parked cars, her hand again going to her stomach. A cramp grabbed at her, and she gasped. It subsided, leaving a deep ache in her midsection.
The street wasn’t long. She could see the end of it, a loading dock that still had a truck parked before it. The street lamps winked on, sparse and dim. Silence lay heavily around her, disturbed only by the distant hum of traffic on Tower Bridge.
She resumed walking, stumbling a little as another cramp, sharper than the first, nearly doubled her over. She had to find Aunt Olivia. Or a taxi—not likely to be just passing by here.
There it was, a pale gray Mercedes, parked near the last loading dock. Stepping up her pace, Sam hurried toward it.
There was no one inside. Was it even her aunt’s car? She didn’t know the number plate, although a car hire sticker was displayed discreetly on the rear bumper.
Cold, so cold. Her knees trembled and she steadied herself against the side of the car, noting that the hood was still warm, although mist had condensed on the roof.
Her breath caught by the chilling wind, she coughed. Her stomach rolled and she staggered toward the loading dock. If only she could sit for a moment, gather strength to go back to the main street and hail a taxi.
The platform appeared deserted, but the double wooden doors stood open, revealing the gloomy interior of the warehouse. In the distance a light burned.
Sam moaned as another cramp seized her. Her fingers and toes felt numb, her limbs as torpid as a half-frozen river. Unable to take another step, she sank down on the soot-blackened platform, too weak to call out.
A heavy thump somewhere inside brought her out of a near stupor. Then the welcome sound of voices carried to her, almost bizarre in their normalcy.
A grating creak followed by a thud brought her swimming senses into focus. Looking up, Sam saw that the double doors had closed. Only a narrow door next to them still stood open.
“No, don’t leave me.” She thought she shouted, but what came out was softer than a whisper.
Clumsily she got to her feet. Pulling in a ragged breath she staggered through the door, placing one foot ahead of the other by sheer force of will. The light. Her sight was blurring, but she could still make out the light. She had to reach it.
She felt as if she walked through quicksand, invisible mud sucking at her ankles. A dark shadow lay in her path and she wondered if she had the strength to go around it.
She stumbled, tripping over a shoe. A man’s shoe, shiny with polish. For a moment she was distracted from the almost constant agony that clawed in her stomach. Where had a man’s shoe come from? Where was the man?
She saw him. The dark shadow she’d skirted with such difficulty was a body. Sam fell to her knees, swallowing valiantly against the bile that rose in her throat. His face lay toward the light, still and pale, the eyes staring at nothing.