Taken By The Maverick Millionaire

Everything—the day, the sunshine streaming in through the window, the newsroom—felt suddenly fantastic, as if it was her day. She grabbed some notebooks, pencils and her miniature tape recorder and stuffed them into her handbag. Then she paused a moment to glance down at her dress, beginning to show signs of washing stress. Not quite the thing for a society memorial.

Black. She needed something black.

A vintage suit she’d bought from Rhapsodie, the boutique down the road from her Kirribilli boarding house, was itching for a new outing. She glanced at her watch. Nearly eight thirty. The service was slated for noon and she and Mike, her photographer, would need to set up at least two hours earlier. Time enough to catch the train home.

She found Mike in the canteen, poring over the racing page. She had a hurried conference with him, and a bare thirty minutes later was running up the stairs of the Lady Musgrave.

Her eighties suit was a stunning fit. The slim skirt fell to just above her knees, while the jacket had big, sewn-in shoulder pads and a severely shaped bodice with a modest, though deep-cut neckline. Extremely flattering to her breasts, although hanging the press pass around her neck rather ruined the effect. She tried clamping the pass to her jacket hem, considered it with a frown, then took it off to worry about later.

The other nineteen occupants she shared the boarding house with had left for work, so she had the bathroom to herself. In the presence of black, her blonde hair had turned to a pleasing silvery ash. With no time to waste, she subdued the mass by tying it in her nape with a black velvet ribbon. Black heels and pearl earrings completed the effect.

Not too much later, dressed to kill in vintage Carla Zampatti, she found Mike at the rear of the cathedral with his camera, leaning his long, lanky bones against a brick wall.

Streets had been cordoned off to control traffic, and the cathedral precinct was quiet, apart from a battalion of security guards prowling the boundaries, mobiles to their ears, and an occasional black-clad cleric hurrying across the grounds. There were a couple of big, expensive cars in the visitors’ car park, but no other sign yet of the rich and famous.

A team of television journalists arrived to set up in the front. Cate exchanged mobile codes with Mike, and went to reconnoitre the cathedral.

A security guard with a shaven head was stationed in the porch. She showed him her press ID, and after a growled warning not to even dream of trying to use her mobile inside if she didn’t want it confiscated, he consulted a list before allowing her to pass. She grinned to herself. Fat chance they had of enforcing that rule.

A reception table had been set inside the door, and she helped herself to a programme, which included a sketchy seating plan. As she’d expected, the pews allocated to the press were at the rear.

The cathedral’s soaring interior was cool and dim. At once the deep hush washed over her, reminding her it was some time since she’d been in a church. Awed by the graceful lines of the architecture, she strolled about, examining the stained glass and reading wall inscriptions.

Two women carrying magnificent flower arrangements bustled in from the transept aisle. Cate paused, drinking in the atmosphere. Even the presence of a couple of security guards lurking behind pillars, keeping a watchful eye on her in case she broke into some anti-Russell guerilla activity, couldn’t dilute the spiritual repose of the place.

A priest attending to something in the chancel looked hard at her as if he knew a red-hot sinner when he saw one, and, shamed, she slipped into a pew. She sent up a small prayer for her grandmother. Perhaps heaven wanted vengeance for the damage she’d caused Gran, because a small nagging need she’d been vaguely conscious of for some time suddenly became compelling.

The priest finished his preparations and hurried away. Cate gazed after him. Down that aisle, she knew, were the vestry and church offices. There had to be a ladies’room. Should she risk it, though? She wasn’t sure the general public were allowed into the inner reaches of the cathedral.

The sound of voices alerted her to the arrival of more guests. She noticed that the security men were both scanning the people crowding the entrance. Taking advantage of the distraction, she rose to her feet. It was now or never.

Hoping she looked like a woman with nothing to hide, she walked coolly down towards the altar, asserting her feminine right to visit the ladies in her dignified gait. No one intercepted her, and when she made a quick turn into the transept aisle, and saw a long, wide hallway stretching ahead, she was grateful to see it devoid of either security or clergy. With her heart hammering at the strange guilt attached to stealing around a church like a thief, she hastened past a couple of unmarked doors, not daring to open them for fear of surprising someone, and turned into the vestry.

A maze of rooms opened from it. There was one with a piano, a robing room lined with alcoves hung with priestly vestments, and a business office adjacent to a small meeting room. In the office the computer was running, as though someone had recently stood up from it and taken a temporary break.

She hesitated, feeling more like a trespasser with every step, then spotted a promising door on the other side of the meeting room. To her relief, it belonged to a tiny washroom, with a small washbasin below a rust-flecked mirror, and a toilet cubicle redolent of disinfectant. To her grateful eyesit looked like heaven.

Afterwards, when she’d washed her hands and tidied some wisps straying from her silvery mane, she opened the door, prepared to exit, then froze. There was movement in the meeting room.

Instinctively she pushed the toilet door to, not quite closing it for fear of alerting the security guard, priest, or whoever, of her presence, while she summoned enough nerve to sashay forth with careless aplomb.

She strained her ears. Had she imagined the sound? Almost at once then the clack of a woman’s heels approached and came to a halt somewhere alarmingly close by.

She nearly dropped dead with fright when a rather throaty, feminine, cigarette-husky voice said, ‘Oh, Tom. Commiserations about your dad. I’m so terribly sorry. I know exactly what you’re going through.’

There was a curt, masculine murmur of response.

Cate closed her eyes and prayed that Tom Russell was not the man outside the door about to discover her breaching his costly security arrangements.

‘And as if it wasn’t enough losing your father, without some of the rubbish being printed about him. Did you see that disgusting obituary in the Clarion?’

Cate stopped breathing.

‘I saw it.’

Though the tone was grim, the deep voice had a dark, liquid quality. Like liquid velvet. Dark, dark brown velvet. Black, even.

‘Where do those jackals get the nerve?’ the female voice went on. ‘All that hogwash about editorial independence. Will you sue?’

Cate’s heart jumped into her throat, then Tom Russell said, ‘Wouldn’t they love that? I hope I have more subtlety. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with Miss What’s-her-name. In my way.’

A chill shivered down Cate’s spine. In his way. What was his way?

He spoke again. ‘Eventually they’ll all work for me. For us. Won’t they, Livvie?’ Cate pricked up her ears, then felt ashamed. She was acting like a voyeur. What she should do now was to walk out there, excuse herself, and make a swift, dignified exit. And she would. Just as soon as she screwed up the courage.

Her heart thundered so loudly she felt sure they must hear it, for the woman’s voice issued through with perfect clarity.

‘That’s why I need to talk to you. It’s about our deal.’

There was urgency in the woman’s tone.

‘This isn’t a good moment, Liv. As you might be able to imagine, I have things on my mind today.’ The response was polite, but Cate detected a sardonic tinge to it.

‘Well, how about this afternoon? After the lunch?’

‘Impossible. I have urgent meetings scheduled that can’t be postponed.’

‘Nothing is more urgent than this,’ the woman hissed. ‘Listen to me, Tom. Everything’s at risk. Malcolm has heard something. He’s playing every card he can to hold up the divorce. Somehow he’s got wind of the merger, so he’s asking for a much bigger slice of the company.’ She paused, then added, ‘My grandfather didn’t build an empire for it to end up being controlled by the likes of him.’ There was a hoarse vehemence to the contralto voice.

Cate’s ears rang with the possibilities. She had a sudden inkling into the woman’s identity. Surely that voice was familiar. With her heart thumping, and careful to make no sound, she moved to the door and risked putting her eye to the crack.

Her gaze lighted on a portion of long leg encased in some dark, expensive fabric, brushing a highly polished black masculine shoe. Next to the shoe rested an elegant black briefcase. Then the man moved further into her view, and her heart lurched in her chest.

It was Tom Russell all right, in the living flesh, negligently leaning his tall frame against an ornately carved piece of church furniture. Though his hands were shoved carelessly into his trouser pockets, there was a coiled tension about him. His black eyebrows were lowered over his cool grey eyes as he scoured his female companion with an alert, intelligent gaze.

Forget what Marge had said about him being attractive. He was so hot he sizzled.

Cate moved her head, trying to see the woman, but she only caught a rear-view glimpse of gleaming copper hair confined at the nape in a sophisticated black snood. It was enough though, she thought with wild excitement. The next words, as abrasive as sandpaper in Tom Russell’s stern, accusing voice, confirmed her suspicion.

‘I thought you understood how crucial secrecy is at this stage, Olivia. Bloody hell, what sort of a businesswoman are you?’

Olivia. The woman was Olivia West.

Cate’s brain buzzed into overdrive. She was onto the scoop of the century. What her editor would give to know this. Russell’s joining with the West Corporation. It would be the merger of the tabloid Titans. This was more than mere front page stuff. This meant headlines.

She had to get out of there and write it. In a sudden brilliant inspiration, she shoved her hand into her bag and connected with the minuscule cassette recorder Gran had given her. Her heart skipped an excited beat. Here was a golden opportunity. She’d be the toast of the newsroom. What reporter could resist? Although—Harry was pretty firm on the ethics of recording people without their knowledge. Her fingers hovered over the button while she waged a war with her conscience. Regretfully, the thought of Harry’s flinty gaze, and his strictures about the journalism code won.

At the same time as the powerful redhead’s response floated through to her she realised, with a sinking feeling, it was too late to announce her presence. Already, she knew too much.