‘Linda’s in New York. You are on the spot.’ Mike’s voice rasped harshly, all hint of amusement gone. ‘And, anyway, the French air-traffic controllers went out on strike last night; I can’t get anyone there quick enough. You’ll have to step in. Get down there and interview him before the other papers get wind of it.’
‘Hey, give me a break!’ she howled. ‘This is a guy who thinks that even a book-signing session is an invasion of privacy. How will I get an interview?’
‘Use your initiative; you’re good at that.’ Her boss’s voice brooked no argument. ‘Oh, and don’t forget to take pictures.... I’m relying on you.’ Then, in a deeper, more sinister tone, he added, ‘Your job’s relying on it.’
The line went dead at that.
Oh, wonderful, Cathy thought as she put down the receiver. There was nothing like finishing with an ultimatum. Totally unnecessary, she decided with a shake of her head, but, then, that was Mike all over—he liked the forceful approach. He would be laughing with glee now at the thought of her sitting outside Pearce Tyrone’s gates, desperate to get in.
Just under an hour later Cathy drove her hire car along the Corniche in search of Pearce Tyrone’s villa.
She had asked at the hotel and one of the receptionists had told her that it was along here somewhere, hidden behind huge gates with stone lions on pillars at either side. She slowed down, scanning the abundant greenery that covered the mountainous slopes. No houses were visible from the road; they were all well hidden behind a profusion of trees and shrubs.
She rounded a very sharp bend and then suddenly saw the gates up ahead. There was no mistaking them, tall and imposing with lions at either side, looking proudly out across the blue of the Mediterranean Sea.
She pulled the car in to the side of the road and sat looking at the gates, her heart thudding nervously. Now she had to fathom out how to gain access.
One good thing was the fact that there was nobody else around. Either the other members of the press hadn’t got wind of the developments here or Mike’s information was wrong. She studied the gates with anxious eyes. They were obviously electronically operated and there were cameras pointing down from either side of the pillars. That didn’t bode well for an easy entry.
Cathy bit down on the softness of her lips. She could drive up there and try the direct approach—‘I’m here to interview Mr Tyrone’—then get sent away with a curt ‘get lost’ ringing in her ears. Or she could try the more devious tactic of a woman in distress. Not a very virtuous ploy but it might get her through the gates. She turned the rear-view mirror and checked her appearance.
Cool emerald-green eyes, fringed with long dark lashes, stared back at her from a heart-shaped face. She put a hand to her honey-blonde hair, wondering if she should take it out of the rather severe plait that held it back from her face. Her hair was her crowning glory, long, thick and naturally blonde; it always got her noticed. At the office they had nicknamed her ‘Barbie’ because of her hair and shapely figure. It was a nickname that irritated Cathy intensely; sometimes she felt that because she was blonde with long legs her work was not taken seriously enough.
However, there were times when looking glamorous had its advantages and this could be one of them. She could effect a pouty and breathy helplessness at the gates and say that there was something wrong with her car, then ask to use their phone. Her hand paused on the velvet tie that held her hair neatly in place, and suddenly she thought better of the idea. No, she wouldn’t stoop so low...she would get this interview fair and square.
With determination, she put the car into gear and moved slowly forward towards the gates. As she’d suspected, the cameras were immediately trained on her as she stopped and wound down her car window.
‘Please state your business,’ a male voice ordered in broken English over a crackling intercom.
For a fraction of a second she hesitated and then stated with perfect confidence, ‘I’m here to see Mr. Tyrone.’
There was a moment’s silence and then, to her absolute amazement, the voice issued the command for her to enter and the large gates ground slowly open in front of her.
There you are, she told herself crisply as she drove through; honesty is always the best policy. Even as she spoke the words she had the feeling that something wasn’t right here. This was just too easy.
Cautiously she proceeded up the long winding driveway and when the pretty pink villa came into view, with its dark green shutters still tightly closed against the heat of the sun, she drew in her breath with delight. There was nothing ostentatious about the place, yet it was simply perfect—an oasis of peaceful beauty, surrounded by trees and beautiful flowers. Terracotta pots filled with bright red geraniums lined the steps up to a front door which had been left invitingly open.
What more could I ask? Cathy thought with glee as she parked the car and stepped out into the warm air, fragrant with geraniums and lavender. She ran a smoothing hand over her white linen sun-dress as she slowly walked towards the door. Now all she had to decide was what track her interview should follow. Should she start by asking Tyrone outright if he was the father of Jody Sterling’s child? Or should she word the question differently—just ask if the actress had officially named him as the child’s next of kin? Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Pearce Tyrone himself on the front steps.
Hell! He’s gorgeous! Cathy’s business-like thoughts disintegrated as her gaze met with flint-like sapphire-blue eyes. It was totally out of character but her mind went completely blank and her senses were sent into chaos as she noted the powerful breadth of his shoulders, the elegant cut of his summer suit.
He was nine years her senior at thirty-seven, and six feet two with ruggedly handsome good looks and jet black hair. The few photographs she had seen of him had prepared her for the fact that he was attractive, but what she hadn’t expected was the magnetising power of his looks. But there was something else as well. It was really very strange, but she almost felt as if she knew him—as if they had met before somewhere. Yet she knew for certain that they hadn’t.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he rasped angrily. ‘I’ve been expecting you for hours.’
Cathy could do nothing but stare at him, totally taken aback by his sudden outburst.
His eyes raked her face impatiently. Then suddenly he frowned. ‘You are from the agency?’ His voice deepened ominously and his eyes moved, taking in every detail of her shapely figure in the white dress.
The tone of his voice left Cathy in no doubt that if she didn’t just say yes he would throw her bodily back out onto the road.
She gave a slight nod, although what she was agreeing to she had no idea. All she could think of was that she didn’t want to spoil her chances of getting through his front door.
‘Thank heaven for that.’ He waved a hand rather imperiously for her to proceed with him into the house. ‘The child hasn’t stopped crying for hours.’ His voice grated with a mixture of anxiety and annoyance.
Cathy searched for something intelligent and noncommittal to say...nothing came to mind. All she could think of was that he had verified that there was a child here. Silently she walked ahead of him and then stood aside as he closed the front door behind them and pulled a heavy bolt across it.
Too late, Cathy found herself thinking sardonically as she glanced around the gracious hallway. The stranger from the press had already entered the lion’s den. She shivered as she glanced back and met those deep blue eyes head on again. She just hoped that the lion wouldn’t eat her alive when he discovered the truth.
‘Did the agency fill you in with the details?’ He glared at her.
Nerves twisted and spiralled as she wondered what on earth he was talking about. She gave a brief nod.
‘Good. I’ll take you straight up to Poppy,’ he said grimly. ‘We