The Threat of Love Page 3

  'This is rapidly turning into one of the worst days of my life,' he said aloud.

  'And it isn't over yet,' Caro said. 'May I use your phone? I want to ring my father.'

  She was still holding her documents and photographs in one hand; she laid them on the desk to pick up the telephone, but before she had begun to dial the number, Gil leaned right over to stare hard at one of the snapshots and she felt colour rise in her cheeks as she glanced at it, too, and saw that it was one taken on a beach in Florida last year, showing her in a brief bikini which left nothing to the imagination. Caro knew she didn't have to be ashamed of her figure—she might not have a pretty face, but the rest of her was OK—yet for some reason it made her edgy to have Gil Martell's cold eyes assessing her half-naked body, especially when he looked up from the photo to skim a glance from her head to her feet.

  'What a difference clothes make!' he drawled, his brows lifting in derision.

  She didn't bother to reply, just scooped up the photo, and all the other things, and put them away, her hands not quite steady and her face hot. Damn him! What was he thinking, giving her that mocking little smile? He had the eyes of a poker player, dark wells you could drown in without ever discovering what lay behind them. She stared into those eyes, then shook herself impatiently.

  'May I make my phone call now?' she asked with ice in her voice.

  'There's still something I'd like explained,' Gil said, quite unaffected by her coldness. 'What were you doing, loitering about in the store? They had monitored you for quite a while before you were detained, and you were acting suspiciously, there's no doubt about that. They didn't imagine it. You weren't shopping. You didn't buy anything. You hung about on various floors, watching the staff, watching customers. What were you up to? And don't tell me you weren't up to anything because I wouldn't believe it. You were in the store for a purpose— what was it?'

  'I was checking you out,' she coolly admitted.

  He stared. 'Doing what?'

  'Checking out the store.' Her tone was half defiant; she knew he was going to resent what she had been doing, but she wasn't lying about it.

  'What does that mean, exactly?' Gil Martell asked in a dangerously quiet voice.

  'I was trying to get an idea of your strengths and weaknesses on the sales floors, assess the flow of customers, the displays, the loss leaders, everything.'

  'You were spying on us!' His voice held distaste and her colour deepened. He made it sound like espionage, and it was nothing of the kind. Her eyes flashed resentment at him.

  'It isn't against the law to wander around a department store and assess it. Any customer could do it any time of day.'

  'An ordinary customer wouldn't be planning to buy us up!'

  'My reasons are irrelevant. The only question is: was I breaking the law? And the answer is no.'

  'And that's the only thing that matters, is it? Staying inside the law and not getting caught?'

  The words, the dry tone were meant to insult her, and

  she felt herself getting angrier. 'Of course not! I didn't

  say that, you're just twisting my words! My father has

  made an open bid for your store '

  'And been turned down!'

  'For the moment, maybe, but things change, people change their minds.'

  'We won't,' he tersely told her.

  She ignored that, carrying on in a flat, cool voice. 'And in the meantime we always like to keep an eye on the current situation so that, if a property comes on to the market suddenly, we have a pretty fair idea of the state of affairs inside the store, and what it is therefore worth. On paper, something can look terrific value, but when you take a closer look you find it isn't quite such a bargain, so...'

  'So your father sends you to snoop around?' he disdainfully murmured.

  Caro felt like hitting him. She stared at him with dislike, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of letting him know how angry she was getting.

  She wasn't sure why, but she did not want to betray herself to this man. She wanted to keep any emotion she felt—rage or humiliation, or pain—hidden from him, and that was puzzling in itself because she had never felt like that about any other man.

  'Look, Mr Martell,' she said in a leashed voice, holding on to her temper with difficulty, T was in your restaurant, having lunch with a friend, and afterwards I wandered around the store to see what sort of business you were doing. I fail to see what was wrong with that, and I'm sure as hell not going to apologise for it.'

  'Then you won't expect me to apologise because my security staff mistook your prowling about for the behaviour of a shoplifter!' he snapped.

  'I wouldn't be so foolish as to expect common courtesy from you, Mr Martell!' she snarled back, and then they were both silent, staring at each other because their raised voices reverberated in the office and startled them both.

  Caro had to do something to break that silence; she lifted her wrist and stared blankly at her watch. 'I have to go,' she said in a flat voice. 'I won't bother to make that call. I'm expected at an important meeting at three o'clock and it's half-past two now. I'll see my father there and fill him in on all this. You can expect to hear from our lawyers.'

  As she turned to go, Gil Martell caught hold of her arm and she jumped what felt like six feet into the air, her whole body tensing as if she had had an electric shock.

  She looked at the hand on her sleeve and then up into his frowning face. 'Will you take your hand off me?' she almost whispered. 'I've had enough of being manhandled this afternoon.'

  His hand fell; he pushed both hands into his pockets in a deliberate way, eyeing her with hostility. 'When you said you were Fred Ramsgate's daughter I couldn't believe it for a minute. I hadn't supposed Ramsgate had ever done anything so human as get himself a daughter. But I can see the resemblance now. Very much so.'

  'Good!' she snapped. 'I'm glad!' She knew he hadn't meant it as a compliment, but she insisted on taking it as one.

  Gil ignored the interruption. He talked on coldly, staring down at her out of those night-black eyes. 'Your father doesn't believe in ethics, any more than you do— he hasn't built his empire up, he's snatched it from other men, men who worked all their lives to build a strong business only to have your father come out of nowhere to grab it from them. He has clawed his way to the top using the tactics of the jungle, and clearly you're a credit to him.'

  Caro was hurt and bitterly angry at the same time. Hoarsely, she spat back, 'I hope I do take after my father, in every way, so you can take that look off your face. I love my father, he's a great man, and I'm proud of being his daughter.'

  She walked to the door, half expecting him to try to stop her leaving, and hoping he would so that she could have the satisfaction of slapping his face, but he just sat there on the edge of his desk, and did nothing at all but swing those long, athletic legs of his, watching her walk out of his office and slam the door behind her.

  Caro got a taxi back to the head office of Rams Stores Ltd and went straight up to her father's office, to catch him before he left for the finance committee meeting.

  He was going to be furious about what had happened, and she disliked making him angry; but she couldn't keep it a secret, because it might still have unpleasant repercussions. If the Press got hold of the story it would be embarrassing, for one thing; which was one very strong reason for taking legal action against Gil Martell. That way she would be covering herself. If she didn't sue it might look as if she could be guilty of shoplifting.

  Her father was at his desk running an eye over the various reports which were to be discussed that afternoon in the committee. He looked up with an abstracted smile, surprise in his eyes, as she walked in.

  'Hello, darling. Nice lunch with Amy?' he said, and then his gaze sharpened and he said anxiously, 'What's wrong, Caro?' getting to his feet at once.

  She hadn't meant to burst into tears; she had thought she was just angry, and she hadn't realised until that moment just ho
w upset she was, but as her father put an arm around her the tears sprang into her eyes.

  'Darling, whatever's happened?' Fred asked, hugging her.

  She dried her eyes with a stifled sob, took a deep breath and told him, and after a while he held her away from him, his big hands gripping her arms, staring down into her flushed face incredulously.

  'You were accused of being a shoplifter?'

  She wasn't surprised that he should be so staggered. At the time she had been too stunned and horrified to realise exactly what was happening to her, and later, in Gil Martell's office, she had been so angry that adrenalin had carried her along, but now that it was all over her legs had turned to jelly and at the same time she couldn't believe she had actually been treated like that.

  'They accused me of stealing,' she shakily repeated,

  nodding vehemently. 'Right in the store, with hundreds

  of people watching, and the detective wouldn't listen to

  a word I said—he made me go up to Gil Martell's office,

  and threw me across '

  'Threw you?' roared Fred Ramsgate, going purple around the neck.

  'Well, pushed me,' she said, reluctantly telling the truth. 'He pushed me into the office and I tripped and fell... face down on the carpet.'

  'Face down?' Fred seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

  'I was so humiliated!' Caro wailed, tears of rage in her eyes, although it was Gil Martell's comments on her father that were upsetting her, not the way she herself had been treated. Gil Martell had said such vicious things about her father. They were all lies, and she hated him.

  'I'll kill him,' Fred said. 'When I get hold of him, he'll wish he'd never been born.'

  'He dragged me up and shook me- '

  'This detective?'

  'Gil Martell.'

  'Martell himself? I'll kill him, I'll kill both of them,' her father repeated, breathing like a bellows.

  'And interrogated me, as if I were a criminal!' Caro said, remembering.

  'I'll interrogate him!' Fred snarled.

  'He bullied me! If you'd heard the way he talked to me!'

  'I'll bully him!' Fred promised, his face grim and tight.

  Caro was beginning to calm down and feel much better, now that she had been able to talk about the experience, let out some of the nervous tension that had built up inside her. Her father was always on her side, ready to spring to her defence, as he had throughout her life, and she loved him for it, but his rage worried her; she was always afraid he might have a heart attack in one of his tempers, and she gave him an uncertain look, biting her lip. Fred watched her, frowning.

  'What else? Are you keeping something back? Tell me, Caro, I want to know everything that happened. Why are you looking like that?'

  'Nothing else happened! But I don't want you to waste your time on Gilham Martell. Let our lawyers deal with him.'

  The intercom on his desk buzzed—he scowled, and jabbed a finger down on a button, barking, 'I'm busy.'

  His secretary's quiet voice said, 'Lady Westbrook on the line for you, sir.'

  Fred Ramsgate's face altered. 'Lady Westbrook?' He glanced at Caro, his mouth wry. 'She's heard, and she's ringing to apologise—what's the betting? What a family! They embarrass my daughter and knock her about, then think they can talk me out of suing, and Martell doesn't even ring me himself, he gets his grandmother to do it! I've a good mind not to talk to her. They needn't think they can sweet talk us out of suing them!'

  'I hate Gil Martell,' Caro said fiercely, saw her father's startled face and swallowed. She didn't want to arouse any curiosity about her feelings towards Gil Martell. Hurriedly, she added, 'But maybe you should talk to Lady Westbrook?' Why had Gil's grandmother rung, anyway? 'I'm curious about what she's going to say— aren't you?' she added lightly, smiling at her father.

  'I suppose so,' Fred admitted, grimacing. 'And it will be a pleasure to hear that old dragon-lady having to eat humble pie!' He brusquely told his secretary to put the call through.

  'Good afternoon, Mr Ramsgate,' a sharp, yet manifestly old voice said a few seconds later.

  'Afternoon, Lady Westbrook,' Fred grunted. 'How are you?'

  'Well enough; how are you?' Fred asked in that surly tone.

  'I am well, thank you.' Lady Westbrook paused and Caro waited tensely for whatever she was about to say, but instead of mentioning the incident at the department store that afternoon, the old lady said, 'Mr Ramsgate, I am ringing to invite you to dinner.'

  'Dinner?' Fred repeated, looking taken aback. 'You're inviting us to dinner?'

  'Us?' Lady Westbrook sounded puzzled. 'Oh, of course, you mean your wife.'

  'My wife's been dead for years,' Fred said flatly. 'I meant Caro—my daughter. You'll want her to be there. This concerns her, too, remember.'

  'Oh?' Lady Westbrook sounded unsure about that, and Fred's brows met.

  'Of course it does!' he said in a rough voice. 'Think of us as one person, Lady Westbrook. She isn't just my daughter, she's also my right hand. One day she'll take over from me, and we're very close, both as father and daughter, and as business partners. What matters to me, matters to her—and vice versa.'

  'Oh, I see,' said the old lady, her voice clearing. T understand.'

  Caro hoped she did; she hoped Lady Westbrook now realised just what her grandson had done when he'd insulted and humiliated Fred Ramsgate's daughter.

  'Then I shall be happy to see you both at dinner,' Lady Westbrook said. Caro wondered what she looked like— her autocratic, assured tone was very reminiscent of the way her grandson talked and looked. 'Now, how soon can you come? The sooner, the better, I think, don't you?'

  'I agree,' Fred muttered.

  'Have you your diary there? This is very short notice-but I suppose you aren't free tonight?'

  'Tonight?' Fred glanced down at his leatherbound diary, which lay open on the desk, then looked up at Caro, silently questioning her. She nodded agreement and her father said into the phone, 'No, we aren't doing anything tonight.'

  'Then will you both come to dinner? Seven-thirty for eight?'

  'Seven-thirty,' said Fred in a faintly breathless voice. 'Yes, we'll be there.' 'Do you know Regents Park?' T live there, so I ought to.'

  'Really? I didn't know that. I'm in Marlborough Crescent, number one. Are you familiar with the road?'

  'We're just around the corner from you.' Fred mentioned their address and Lady Westbrook laughed.

  'Oh, I know the house. You have a wonderful magnolia tree in the centre of your front lawns; I always admire it when I drive past.'

  Fred couldn't help smiling at that; his magnolia was his pride and joy.

  'Well, then, I will see you at seven-thirty.' The phone clicked and Lady Westbrook was gone.

  Fred slowly replaced his receiver, his expression almost incredulous. 'I don't believe she's invited us to dinner-she wouldn't even speak to me when I made the offer for the store. Her lawyers dealt with the whole thing. She refused to meet me, didn't acknowledge my letters.

  I gather she's an autocratic old lady, and probably a snob. I was given the impression she despised me as a self-made man, nouveau riche, vulgar. She has never worked in the store, of course; she didn't start at the bottom, like me, or have to learn the business. She's a lady, and she owns it without knowing anything about how it is run. She has always left that to the men—her husband, her son, and now her grandson. I didn't meet him; I didn't even meet her lawyers, come to that. They didn't discuss the matter so much as just say no, and then refused to talk any more. They made it clear that I was getting the brush-off. They couldn't even be bothered to meet me, I wasn't important enough, they practically laughed at me for daring to make an offer. And now she's asking me to dinner. I don't believe it.'

  'They must be very scared,' Caro said, thinking of Gil Martell with angry satisfaction. Would he be there tonight? Maybe his grandmother would make him apologise to her? He would hate it if she did! Caro hardly knew him, but alr
eady she realised that Gil Martell had more than his fair share of pride, not to mention an inflated idea of his own self-importance. Well, she wanted to see him climb down from that pinnacle he thought he lived on—climb down and go on his knees to her! Nothing less would salve her own humiliation over being thrown at his feet like a slave-girl flung down in front of her new owner.

  'I wish I had time to buy a new dress!' she thought aloud and her father laughed.

  'As if you need one! You have wardrobes full of lovely things!' He got to his feet, looking at his watch in consternation. 'Time to go—it's just three o'clock and we're going to be late for the meeting. Now, where the devil are those reports?'

  Caro, for once, found it hard to concentrate on work that afternoon. Her mind was occupied elsewhere and she had to keep dragging her attention back to the matter in hand, aware of her father's concerned glances, the puzzled expressions of the other members of the committee.

  She was glad to get away from the office at six o'clock, and when she got home went straight upstairs. After all, she only had an hour in which to get ready to see Gil Martell again, and there was a lot to do!

  Fred was always punctual; he had learnt to live by the clock at a very early age and old habits died hard. Whatever the pressure of business, he made sure he was on time for appointments, and at seven-thirty precisely he and Caro were on the doorstep of Lady Westbrook's beautiful house, ringing the doorbell and, while they waited for the door to open, gazing with admiration at the elegant cream facade.

  'It's a huge place for one old woman to live in,' Fred murmured in a low voice.

  'Maybe her grandson lives here too?' Caro's nerves were jumping like grasshoppers and she was breathless. She didn't know if she was up to facing Gil Martell across a dinner table, and swapping polite small talk with him.

  She stiffened as the front door opened. A short, stout woman in a neat grey dress greeted them politely, took their coats and showed them into the drawing-room, where Lady Westbrook was waiting. Caro merely got a brief impression of a high-ceilinged hall, glossy with panelling and highly polished parquet, then she was watching the old woman rising from a straight-backed Victorian armchair.