all the notice Whitney took of her fresh salmon salad it might as well have been the tinned variety. She had felt, before meeting him, that her in-depth knowledge of Tom Beresford gave her the edge in this interview; she had soon learnt how wrong she had been. Tom Beresford was adept at only choosing to talk about the things he wanted to, politely blocking off any questions that went beyond that invisible barrier he had erected. After almost an hour and a half, when she watched him make his way through a four-course meal and then coffee and brandy, Whitney had had enough, not tasting any of her own food in her agitation. And she was no nearer to finding out anything about his involvement with the local councils from his own lips than she had been when she first made the connection six months ago.
‘Why don’t you invite your bodyguards to join us for coffee?’ She deliberately antagonised him in the hope of getting some reaction by mentioning his two constant shadows.
Laughter in the pale blue eyes was not the reaction she had been hoping for! ‘Glyn and Alex know better than to intrude on me when I’m in the company of a beautiful woman,’ he drawled.
It was the second time he had called her beautiful, and Whitney found she didn’t like the idea of this man finding her attractive.
‘Don’t worry, Whitney,’ he assured mockingly, his eyes predatory. ‘You can’t become contaminated just by my acknowledging your beauty. That was what you were afraid of, wasn’t it?’ he taunted.
She became flushed at his correct assessment of her feelings. ‘What did you—–?’
‘I’m sure Hawk must have complimented you on your beauty numerous times,’ he cut in smoothly.
She gave him a frowning look. ‘Could we leave Hawk out of this?’
‘Of course,’ he agreed easily. ‘I don’t exactly enjoy talking about my wife’s previous lover.’
Whitney could have told him that had been in the plural rather than the singular, that Geraldine had never been satisfied with just one man in her life. But, like Hawk, he didn’t look as if he wanted to hear anything derogatory about the woman he had fallen in love with after several years of grieving for his previous wife. What was it about Geraldine that inspired such love! Her father had always said Geraldine was a man’s woman, and as far as Whitney was aware the other woman had never tried to inspire friendship among her own sex.
‘Mr Beresford, what did you mean a few moments ago when you said I could become contaminated by you?’ She returned to what had bothered her about the statement; was it an admission of some kind on his part?
‘You’re the rich young socialite, I’m the son of a miner,’ he shrugged casually. ‘But I think over the years I’ve managed to eliminate most of my northern accent?’ He met her gaze mockingly, seeming to guess that before meeting him she had expected him to be something of a country bumpkin, for all of his wealth and power.
‘Obviously so,’ she conceded with a cool nod, gathering up her bag and notebook. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Beresford, but I really do have to be going now.’
He gave an inclination of his head. ‘I’ve enjoyed our little chat. I trust I’ll see a copy of your story before it goes to print?’
Not the story she intended writing! ‘Of course,’ she nodded, indicating to the waiter that she would like the bill. She had felt that Tom Beresford had been laughing at her all during lunch, that he was probably finding the exorbitant prices for the meal at the restaurant of his choice highly amusing, too.
His hand reached for the bill first, meeting her questioning gaze with bland implacability. ‘As I’ve enjoyed this meeting so much I insist on paying for our meal.’
Whitney blushed at his mockery, feeling more foolish than ever. Martin was going to fall off his chair laughing when she told him what a mistake this had been. ‘The National can afford it,’ she told him stiffly.
‘I insist, Whitney,’ he told her in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘Please don’t hesitate to contact me again if you need any more information for your article,’ he invited derisively.
And I’ll get you measured up for the concrete shoes, Whitney thought furiously as she left the restaurant after giving a mocking inclination of her head to the two watchful ‘minders’.
The man had been pleasant, not a hint of a threat to his tone, and yet Whitney knew she trusted him even less now that she had actually met and spoken to him. Maybe it was the constant coldness of his eyes even when he laughed, or perhaps the complete assurance of his manner, as if he knew himself to be invincible, but she suddenly knew he was guilty of everything she thought he was.
She had too much of an uneasy knot in her stomach to feel jubilant at the knowledge, knew that she still had a long way to go before she had all the facts together, and that Tom Beresford had no intention of letting her write those facts. ‘Know your enemy,’ they said. Well, she knew hers now, and she wished that she didn’t.
She knew that she had also been hoping for some sort of breakthrough, despite her denial earlier to Martin. But Tom Beresford was as likely to calmly hand over the combination of his safe as he was to deny or confirm her suspicions about him. Damn the man, he—–
‘Miss Morgan?’
‘Yes—–’ She was prevented from turning around to face the man who had spoken to her by one hand being placed on her shoulder and the other clamped about her wrist. ‘What on earth—–?’
‘Walk over to the car, Miss Morgan.’ He directed her towards a long black limousine with darkened windows. So that she couldn’t see out or other people couldn’t see in? ‘Don’t make a scene,’ the man urged as she began to struggle.
‘Make a—–! You can’t do this to me!’ she protested indignantly. ‘We’re in the middle of a crowded street!’
‘I’ve already done it, Miss Morgan,’ the man told her with satisfaction as he urged her inside the back of the car so that she stumbled slightly, the door closing behind her before she could straighten and face her accoster.
She frantically pulled at the door handle. Locked! Her panic increased as she heard the low purr of the car engine being started, banging on the black glass partition between her and the man now driving the car; she could see out of the window after all, which meant no one was supposed to see in!
The partition window lowered only enough for her to be able to see the back of the man’s head, his hair thick and dark, a pair of enquiring brown eyes meeting hers in the driving mirror. And as Whitney had never bothered to take note of the colour of eyes of Tom Beresford’s two dark-haired ‘minders’ it could be either of the men driving the car.
‘Yes, Miss Morgan?’ His voice was cajoling, as if he found the situation amusing.
‘Stop this car immediately and let me out of here!’ she ordered with a confidence that had long deserted her. She had been kidnapped, for goodness’ sake!
‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ he shook his head.
Whitney sat forward on the edge of her seat, wishing she could see more of the man through the inch-wide gap at the top of the glass than the back of his head and a pair of amused brown eyes! The man was sick if he actually enjoyed abducting terrified women off the street and then watching
