stood up impatiently, her relaxation totally ruined for this morning. Damn the man! He had helped ruin her life once—she couldn’t allow him to do it again, not when she had worked so hard to make a life and career for Jane Smith.
Jane Smith.
Yes, that was who she was now.
She drew in a deeply controlling breath, forcing back the panic and anger, bringing back the calm that had become such a necessary part of her for the last few years, reaching out as she did so to close the newspaper, not taking so much as another glance at the photograph that had so disturbed her minutes ago.
She had a job to do, another dinner party to arrange for this evening, and the first thing on her list of things to do was to check with the garage she had called earlier, and see if they had had any luck in starting her van. If it wasn’t yet fixed she would have to hire alternative transport for the next few days.
Yes, she had a business to run, and she intended running it!
Despite Gabriel Vaughan.
Or in spite of him!
‘Hell, I hate these damned things! If you’re there, Jane Smith, pick up the damned receiver!’
Jane reached out with trembling fingers and switched off the recorded messages on her answer machine, quickly, as if the machine itself were capable of doing her harm. Which, of course, it wasn’t. But the recorded message of that impatient male voice—even though the man hadn’t given his name but had slammed the receiver down when he received no reply to his impatience—was easily recognisable as being that of Gabriel Vaughan.
She had telephoned the garage before taking her shower, had been informed that it would be ready for collection in half an hours’ time, once they had replaced the old and worn battery. Then she’d showered quickly before switching on her answer machine as she usually did when she had to go out.
She had only been out of her apartment for an hour, but the flashing light on the answer machine had told her she had five messages. The first two had been innocuous enough—enquiries about bookings, which she would deal with before she went out to collect her supplies for this evening’s dinner party. But the third call—! He didn’t even need to say who it was—she could recognise that Transatlantic drawl anywhere!
It wasn’t even twelve hours since she had left the Warners’ home; the damned man had left no time at all before trying to contact her again!
What did he want?
Whatever it was, she wasn’t interested. Not on a personal or professional level. On a personal level, he was the last man she wanted anything to do with, and the same applied on a professional level. For the same reason. The less contact she had with Gabriel Vaughan—on any level—the better she would like it.
That decision made, she decided to totally ignore the call, pretend it never happened. After all, he hadn’t left a name or contact number, just those few words of angry impatience.
Having so decided, she reached out to switch the machine back on. After all, she had a business to run.
‘Jane! Oh, Jane…!’ There was a short pause in the fourth message, before the woman continued. ‘It’s Felicity Warner here. Give me a call as soon as you come in. Please!’ Felicity had sounded tearful enough at the beginning of the message, but that last word sounded like a pleading sob!
And Jane didn’t need two guesses as to why the other woman had sounded so different on the recording from the happily excited one she had left the evening before; no doubt Richard had been to his meeting with Gabriel Vaughan!
Maybe she should have tried to warn the other woman last night, after all, once she had realised who Richard was dealing with? But if she had done that Felicity would only have wanted to know how she knew so much about the man. And it had taken her almost three years to shake off the how and why she had ever known a man like Gabriel Vaughan.
But Felicity sounded desperately upset, so unhappy. Which really couldn’t be good for her in her condition—
‘Don’t you ever switch this damned thing off, Jane Smith?’ The fifth message began to play, Gabriel Vaughan’s voice sounding mockingly amused this time—and just as instantly recognisable to Jane as on the previous message. ‘Well, I refuse to talk to a machine,’ he continued dismissively. ‘I’ll try you again later.’ He rang off abruptly, again without actually saying who the caller had been.
But Jane was in no doubt whatsoever who the caller had been, remembered all too well from last night when he had called her ‘Jane Smith’ in that mocking drawl. Two calls in a hour! What did the man want?
Some time in the last hour—if Felicity’s cry for help was anything to go by—he had also spoken to Richard Warner!
The man was a machine. An automaton. He bought and sold, ruined people’s lives, without a thought for the consequences. And the consequences, in this case, could be Felicity’s pregnancy…!
Once again Jane switched off the answer machine. She didn’t want to get involved in this, not from any angle. And if she returned Felicity’s call she would become involved. If she wasn’t already!
She didn’t really know the Warners that well. She understood they had been guests at several other dinner parties she had catered for, which was why Felicity had telephoned her for the booking last night.
Over the years Jane had made a point of not getting too close to clients; she was employed by them, and so she never, ever made the mistake of thinking she was anything else. But somehow yesterday had been different. Felicity had obviously been deeply worried, had desperately needed someone she could talk to. And she had chosen Jane as that confidante, probably because she realised, with the delicacy of Jane’s position working in other people’s homes, that she had to be discreet, that the things Felicity talked to her about would go no further.
Jane never had been a gossip, but now there was a very good reason why what Felicity had told her would go no further: she simply had no one she could possibly tell!
Her life was a busy one, and she met lots of people in the course of her work, but friends, good friends, were something she had necessarily moved away from in recent years. It was an unspoken part of her contract that she never discussed the people she worked for, and Jane guarded her own privacy even more jealously!
Her life had taken a dramatic turn three years ago, but determination and hard work meant she now ran her own life, and her own business. Successfully.
That success meant she could afford to rent this apartment; it was completely open-plan, with polished wood floors, scatter rugs, antique furniture, and no television, because not only did she not have the time to watch it, but she didn’t like it either, her relaxation time spent listening to her extensive music collection, and reading the library of books that took up the whole of one wall. It was all completely, uniquely her own, and her idea of heaven on an evening off wasn’t to go out partying as she would once have done, but to sit and listen to one of her favourite classical music tapes while rereading one of her many books.
But somehow those last three messages on her answer machine seemed even to have invaded the peace and tranquillity of her home…
Much as she liked Felicity and felt sorry for the other woman, she simply couldn’t return that beseeching telephone call.
She
