Her boss smiled. ‘I knew I could count on you, sweetheart.’ He opened the door and they stepped into the corridor. ‘I’ve arranged for a car to drive you home so that you can change and get whatever else you need. If Miller asks any questions you can’t field—legal stuff, whatever—just tell him to have his lawyers call ours.’ Talia’s boss looked at her. ‘You’ll do fine, kid. You’ll see. I know you don’t like this last-minute kind of thing, but you’ve already dealt with Logan Miller and come out ahead.’
‘I didn’t deal with him, John. I didn’t even see him.’
Her boss put his beefy arm around her shoulders and began walking her slowly towards the street door. ‘Yeah, but you impressed the hell out of him. With a guy like that, that’s half the battle.’ He squeezed her shoulders as they reached the door. ‘You’ll do fine.’
Talia smiled. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Break a leg, sweetheart.’
She winced as she stepped into the crisp San Francisco afternoon. Some day, she thought, she had to convince John Diamond to find a better way to wish her good luck.
* * *
Talia sighed as she closed the copy of the Wall Street Journal and lay it on the seat beside her, where it joined a stack of other Journals, a copy of the International Herald Tribune, and several back issues of Business Week magazine. There was an ache in her temples, and she lay her head against the soft leather seat-back and closed her eyes.
She tended to get headaches when she flew—a friendly flight attendant had once told her it was from insufficient oxygen in the cabin air—but she had the feeling that the pain in her head this time had more to do with all the reading she’d done the past couple of hours than with anything so mundane.
For one thing, the cabin of Logan Miller’s private jet wouldn’t suffer from insufficient oxygen or anything else. Everything about the plane was plush, from the glove-leather seats to the walnut panelling. It was stocked with all the luxuries of home—not hers, Talia thought wryly, and not anybody else’s she knew. Even John Diamond’s handsome apartment was spartan compared to this.
‘Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Roberts,’ the steward had said as soon as she’d settled into her seat. ‘May I bring you something? A sandwich, perhaps? Or a salad? Or—’
‘Tea,’ Talia had said. ‘Tea would be lovely.’
Moments later, she’d been sipping a fragrant brew—’Specially blended for Mr Miller, Miss Roberts, I’m glad you like it’—from what was surely a Limoges cup. An assortment of biscuits, arranged on an antique Sheffield platter, had accompanied the tea. When she’d finished, the steward had reappeared, offering headphones, a compact-disc player and her choice of musical selections, a rolling library of books or, if she’d preferred, the latest in films.
Talia, who’d only managed to find and read one short article about Miller International before hurrying to the airport, had shaken her head. ‘Thank you, no. I don’t suppose you have any material about the Miller corporation, do you?’
The steward had smiled, walked to the walnut-panelled bulkhead, and had touched his hand to it. A door had slid open, revealing neatly arranged rows of materials, magazines and newspapers all chronologically organised, each marked to indicate what article contained therein dealt with Miller International.
Talia had been impressed. ‘You’re very efficient,’ she’d said, smiling at the man.
He had grinned. ‘I can’t take credit, miss. This was Mr Miller’s idea. He likes things well organised.’
Well, Talia had thought, settling back with the earliest of the newspapers, at least she and the head of Miller International had that in common.
Now, two hours later, her head hurt from all the facts she’d tried pounding into it. She knew a great deal about the company, but, for all her reading, she knew little more than she had about Logan Miller. He was described in one article as ‘A man fiercely determined to keep his privacy’, and, from what Talia could see, he’d certainly managed. The closest she’d come to any information about him was in an article that dated back four years. It had mentioned possible serious illness.
Talia sighed as she looked out of the porthole at the cloudless blue sky. Either Miller had made a rapid recovery or the writer of the article had been misinformed. A man who’d set such a gruelling schedule for his executives at the Weekend Retreat had to be in good health—unless he hadn’t participated and had simply watched his people work themselves into a lather. Sighing again, Talia reached for the next magazine, one dated six months after the last.
‘Changes Ahead for Miller International?’ said the cover. Perhaps she could learn something here, she thought, flipping the magazine open. Headache or no headache, she had to keep reading. There had to be some thread that would explain the man before they met…
‘Miss Roberts?’ It was the steward, smiling apologetically. ‘We’ll be landing in a few minutes. I’m afraid I’ll have to secure the cabinet.’
Talia nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘You can keep that magazine out, if you like.’
She looked at the copy of Business Week, then shook her head and handed it over.
‘Never mind.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s too late for cramming now, anyway.’
The man’s eyebrows rose. ‘Ma’am?’
Talia smiled wearily. ‘Nothing. How soon did you say we’d be landing?’
‘Ten minutes, miss.’
‘And then what? Will there be a car waiting, or am I to take a taxi to Mr Miller’s office?’
‘Mr Miller will be meeting you at the airport, Miss Roberts. The pilot’s just spoken with him.’ The man smiled politely. ‘Will there be anything else?’
Talia shook her head. ‘Thank you, no. I’m fine.’
Fine, but a little bit nervous. She sat back and looked out of the porthole again, watching as the ground rushed up to meet the plane. Who wouldn’t be nervous in these circumstances? She’d only dealt with Logan Miller via the post, and both times his letters had been curt. He’d never shown his face during the weekend she’d organised; he hadn’t even sought her out to introduce himself.
But he’d been pleased with her efforts. That was what he’d written to John; that was why she was in Los Angeles. The plane bumped gently against the runway. That was a positive fact, wasn’t it? Talia opened her seatbelt as the plane rolled to a stop. Of course it was. And she had some insights into the man, anyway. He liked efficiency and organisation—the steward and the periodical file had told her that. He knew how to delegate authority—look at how he’d turned the plans for the weekend over to her. Everything she’d read had said he was a tough but fair-minded businessman. A smile touched her lips as she got to her feet and walked to the door. He also had good taste in tea. A man like that couldn’t be too difficult to deal with.
The door slid open and warm air swept into the plane. It was always warmer in Los Angeles. Smoggy, too, Talia thought, wrinkling her nose.
What
