she had felt able to, she had rung him to repeat that everything was over between them, that she wanted to be free of him, and that she and her father were leaving the States for good.
It was then he had warned, ‘Don’t think I’m letting you go so easily. Sooner or later I’ll find you, wherever you are.’
Now, just thinking about it, made her shiver.
But, though it was still so vivid in her mind, it had been almost three years ago. Surely after this length of time he would have moved on?
In all probability he was married. When they had once talked about their future together, he had said he wanted children so he might even have started a family.
She could only hope that his life was now settled and stable, and that he had forgotten the past.
But suppose he hadn’t? Suppose he was here in London because of her? Suppose he had finally managed to track her down?
Becoming aware that her unhappy thoughts had gone full circle, she brought herself up short. It was high time she stopped thinking about Jared and started to concentrate on tomorrow, and what was bound to be the most important meeting of her life.
The next morning, after a virtually sleepless night when she had spent hours lying awake trying not to think about the past, Perdita was up at five-thirty.
Her head throbbed dully and she felt like death warmed up—an expression of her father’s that until that minute she hadn’t fully understood.
Glancing at herself in the bathroom mirror, she grimaced. Just when she had wanted to look her best and radiate an air of efficiency and confidence, she looked like something the cat had dragged in.
Oh, well, she would just have to see what ravages a spot of make-up could hide.
Showered and dressed in a smart charcoal-grey business suit, small chunky gold hoops in her neat lobes, her blonde hair taken up into a fashionable knot, she checked her appearance in the cheval glass in her bedroom.
Her skin was flawless, so normally she needed very little in the way of cosmetics. Now, just a light coat of foundation hid the slight shadows beneath her eyes, while a pale lip gloss and a hint of blusher bestowed a healthy glow.
Her brows and lashes were naturally darker than her hair and needed only a touch of mascara to define them even more.
After a critical survey could find no real fault with her appearance, she picked up her bag and headed for the stairs, just as Sally’s voice called, ‘The car’s here now.’
‘Coming.’
The housekeeper, who had insisted on getting up to see her off, was waiting in the hall. With a quick hug, she said, ‘I only hope everything goes well.’
Then, looking oddly flustered, she added, ‘I really do have your best interests at heart.’
Returning the hug, Perdita said, ‘Thanks. I’ll give you a ring and let you know how it goes.’
A little awkwardly, Sally told her, ‘I won’t be home. I promised I’d pop over and have breakfast with your dad. I thought it might help to take his mind off things. Or, at the very least, give him someone to talk to. I hope you don’t mind?’
Touched by her concern, Perdita said warmly, ‘Of course I don’t mind. On the contrary, it sounds like a great idea.’
Outside, it was another lovely sunny day, the air as cool and sparkling as champagne. At that time in the morning the square was still quiet and in the central gardens dew sparkled on the grass and the beds of early summer tulips.
A dark blue limousine was drawn up by the kerb with a uniformed chauffeur waiting to open the door. As she crossed the pavement, he said a cheerful, ‘Good morning, miss.’
Perdita returned his greeting and, trying not to feel like someone about to try and successfully negotiate a minefield, climbed in and fastened her seat belt.
Traffic was very heavy and the journey seemed to be taking so long that she began to worry about being late. If she missed this appointment, the consequences would be disastrous.
On tenterhooks, she breathed a cautious sigh of relief when they finally reached the airport environs and a few minutes later drew up in an area she didn’t immediately recognize.
A smartly dressed sandy-haired young man was waiting for them.
Before turning to lead the way into the terminal building, he greeted her with a smile and a courteous, ‘Good morning, Miss Boyd. My name’s Richard Dow and I work for Salingers.
‘I’m pleased you were able to make it in time,’ he went on as they crossed the VIP lounge. ‘The traffic seems to get worse.’
To her surprise, Perdita found herself escorted through heavy glass doors and out onto the tarmac apron where a private executive jet stood close by, its immaculate white and blue paintwork gleaming in the bright sunshine.
As though sensing her surprise, Richard Dow said, ‘Didn’t Mr Calhoun’s secretary mention that Salingers executives usually have breakfast on the plane?’
‘No. No, she didn’t…Not that it matters,’ Perdita added hastily. ‘It’s just that I was expecting…’ The words tailed off as they reached the plane and she was ushered up the steps.
A white-coated steward was waiting in the doorway to welcome her aboard. ‘Good morning, Miss Boyd. My name is Henry. If you’d like to follow me?’
Short and nimble, his black slicked-back hair gleaming, he led the way through to a small but luxuriously furnished lounge where a table was set for breakfast with damask linen, crystal glasses, a bottle of Krug on ice and a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice.
Pulling out a chair, he deftly settled her at the table. ‘If you would like a glass of champagne and orange juice while you’re waiting? Or a coffee, perhaps?’
Her head still aching and intent on keeping a clear brain, Perdita said, ‘A cup of coffee would be nice, thank you, Henry.’
Having assembled brown sugar and cream, the steward took a glass jug of coffee from a hotplate and filled her cup.
Then, indicating a nearby bell push, ‘If you require anything further, Miss Boyd, just ring for me.’
She thanked him and, silent-footed, he disappeared through a sliding door in the bulkhead.
Relaxing a little now that she was sure the meeting was going ahead, she sipped her coffee and surveyed the quiet luxury that surrounded her.
There were two soft leather armchairs, several bookcases, a comprehensive in-flight entertainment centre and a small leather-topped desk.
Salingers did their top men proud, she thought, taking in the sumptuous carpeting and the two striking paintings by Joshua Lorens that she recognized as originals rather than prints.
With this kind of money at their fingertips, they should have no trouble bailing out half a dozen struggling companies. So all she had to do was persuade
