Whitney had literally stumbled across his involvement with a councillor who had been sacked for taking bribes, and the deeper she looked into Tom Beresford’s luck in receiving big building contracts from several of the councils, the more she had been convinced he was the one making the pay-offs. Six months of investigation had convinced her she was right. But she was going to need more than she had to convince Hawk to run the story; he only dealt in solid evidence, not beliefs.
She gave the maître d’hôtel her name once she reached the restaurant, allowing him to take her over to the table where Tom Beresford was already seated; she knew every inch of the man’s lined and craggy face, had numerous photographs that she had taken during her study of him. But for today she was just another interested reporter; it wouldn’t do to show she had instantly recognised him in the crowded room.
This morning her mirror had reflected back a coolly sophisticated young woman, her slender body shown to advantage in the pale lilac dress that made her eyes appear more violet than ever and gave a blue-black sheen to her loosely curling hair, its thickness cascading half-way down her back. Whitney was no fool, knowing that her height gave her an advantage over a lot of men, and with the three-inch heels on the black sandals that she wore she knew she was going to tower over Tom Beresford’s five-foot-eight frame by a couple of inches.
Her wish was granted as Tom Beresford politely rose to his feet once the maître d’hôtel had brought her to the table, and she smiled her satisfaction as she shook his hand before sitting down in the chair held out for her, ordering a glass of wine at the query, the man seated opposite her already having a glass of whisky in front of him.
A quick glance at the table to the side of them confirmed that Tom Beresford had brought along Alex Cordell and Glyn Briant, the two men she had learnt were his ‘minders’ or bodyguards, and whom he preferred to call his ‘associates’. She had half expected the two men to be seated with them, the two of them accompanying him everywhere he went, but resisted the impulse to ask him why they weren’t and instead gave him a brightly glowing smile. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this meeting,’ she told him truthfully.
‘Really?’ Pale blue eyes looked at her coldly, although his mouth curved in answer to her smile.
Whitney felt her control of the situation slipping a little. Martin’s comparison to a barracuda had been wrong; this man was more like a shark, watching and waiting before he struck. But they were in a crowded London restaurant, for goodness’ sake; what could he possibly do to her here!
She pushed the unsatisfactory—to her—answer to that to the back of her mind, giving him a guileless smile. ‘Everyone likes to hear a success story, don’t they?’ she encouraged.
‘Do they?’ he drawled.
She gave a light laugh. ‘You must know that they do.’
‘Miss Morgan.’ He spoke in a bored voice. ‘What new angle on my success do you think you can come up with that the supplement of a—more prestigious—newspaper hasn’t already covered?’
She had read the article that had been run a couple of months ago, had been amazed at the gullibility on the part of the newspaper. But that was half of Tom Beresford’s success; the majority of people had no idea of the underhand methods he had used to get where he was. It was only if one dug deep enough, as she had, that the stench began to be apparent.
She gave him a sharp look as she thought the question over. Were the gloves to be taken off immediately then? No, she didn’t think so; not yet, anyway. ‘I write for a daily newspaper, Mr Beresford, with a circulation of two million a day. My story on you would run over two to three days.’
‘I’m really not in need of the free advertising, Miss Morgan,’ he drawled derisively.
Anger flared briefly in her eyes at his condescending tone before it was quickly dampened. Losing her temper with the man wasn’t going to help one bit!
‘Think of the New Year’s Honours List,’ she encouraged warmly. ‘The story of the ingenuity and success of your enterprise can only encourage all those young people leaving school without any prospect of employment that there’s hope for them after all.’
His mouth twisted sardonically. ‘Flattery, Miss Morgan?’ he mocked.
This man may once have been the ‘rough diamond’ she had thought him to be but the years had refined him, and his wealth had given him an arrogant confidence that was daunting. At sixty-two, he should have been paunchy and balding like Martin was, but Tom Beresford still had a head of thick silver hair, the very distinction of the style indicating the expensive cut, his body still lithe and athletic beneath the light grey suit and even paler grey silk shirt he wore. She was quickly learning, as he spoke with smooth assurance, that he was a man in complete control.
‘Not at all, Mr Beresford,’ she dismissed lightly. ‘Your story could be uplifting for a lot of people.’
‘I wasn’t aware James Hawkworth ran stories like this in his newspaper,’ he returned drily.
Whitney raised dark brows. ‘I wasn’t aware I had told you which newspaper I worked for.’
‘You didn’t,’ he confirmed smoothly. ‘A man in my position doesn’t meet just anyone who telephones out of the blue claiming to be a reporter. I naturally did my homework on you.’
‘Naturally,’ she echoed tightly, knowing just how intense that ‘homework’ had been. How had he got her unlisted telephone number?
‘And of course Geraldine recognised your name straight away,’ he added softly, his eyes narrowing as he waited for her reaction to the mention of the woman he had taken as his second wife after years of being a widower.
Geraldine. She still hadn’t recovered from the shock of finding out that Geraldine was married to this man, couldn’t begin to imagine how the other woman could prefer this man, for all his polished manner and wealth, to Hawk.
‘It isn’t exactly a common name,’ she acknowledged tautly, thoughts of Geraldine always having the effect of making her hackles rise. How Hawk could still love the woman—–? But he did, probably always would, even though she was now married to another man. Whitney didn’t particularly want to be around when he was told she was doing an exposé on Geraldine’s husband.
‘After meeting you and witnessing first-hand your uncommon beauty I can quite understand Hawk’s interest in you,’ Tom Beresford murmured appreciatively.
Whitney stiffened at the unexpected—and unwanted—flattery. ‘Didn’t Ger—your wife—also tell you that’s all over now?’ she said tightly.
‘You still work for him,’ he shrugged.
‘I’m treated like any other employee,’ she defended hotly. She wasn’t the one that was supposed to be on the defensive, damn it!
He raised thick silver brows. ‘I had no idea reporters earned enough money to be able to buy themselves five-thousand-pound watches!’
She blushed. ‘Mr Beresford—–’
‘I’m sorry, Whitney, that was a little personal of me,’ he held up his hands in apology. ‘I hope I can call you Whitney?’
‘Of course,’ she confirmed tautly, her eyes flashing
