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