She washed up the cups and glasses, emptied the percolator and put everything away as if she’d spent the entire evening alone. She’d tell Della he’d been there—of course she would. But in her own time, which certainly wasn’t tonight. She needed to get her head straight before she broached the subject.
In her room, she took off her robe and reached for her nightgown. But, on impulse, she let it drop to the floor, and slid into bed naked. The sheets were cool against her heated skin, the fabric a caress that tantalised, offering arousal without satisfaction.
Eyes wide, staring into the darkness, she moved restlessly, languorously, aware, deep within her, of a scald of yearning, as unwelcome as it was unfamiliar.
It was wrong to feel like this, she told herself feverishly. Wrong and hideously stupid. None of the men she’d met in the past had affected her in the same way. She’d enjoyed their company—even found it pleasant to be held—kissed—but never wanted more. Had not grieved when it ended.
At the same time, she’d wrinkled her nose derisively at the thought of Mr Right waiting patiently just off-stage.
Not that Caz Brandon would ever figure in that category for any woman, she added hastily. Unless of course it was Ginny Fraser. According to Della, they seemed well-matched. Another ‘celebrity couple’ in the making, smiling for the camera if not for each other.
And maybe, with the prospect of younger talent climbing the television ladder behind her, Ms Fraser would find a different kind of limelight sufficient compensation for her husband’s practised womanising.
‘They’re welcome to each other,’ Tarn whispered, turning on to her front and burying her face in the pillow. ‘And, once this is over, I—I have my career to get back to.’
She tried to think of the next Chameleon project. A couple of tempting names had been dangled in front of her, but ghost-writing was a two way street. She would have to meet the subjects and talk to them. See if there was any kind of rapport which could develop into a platform of mutual trust and liking. A prospect that they would eventually open up to her completely, maybe even tell her things about themselves they hadn’t guessed until then.
That was the best foundation, and while it was being established, either party could simply walk away. It happened, and sometimes she’d been sorry, but often relieved, scenting trouble ahead.
And now, suddenly, there was Lance Crichton, she thought. One of the most successful playwrights of his generation, yet a man who’d always shunned personal publicity, letting his work speak for itself.
But a man who undoubtedly had a story waiting to be told, if approached in the right way. Only she’d come across him at totally the wrong moment because she couldn’t put out even the most discreet feeler without the risk of self-betrayal, she reminded herself, sighing. Until her work here was done, Chameleon had to remain another closely guarded secret.
And so did the way Caz Brandon could make her feel, she thought, and shivered.
‘You found her diary?’ repeated Professor Wainwright. ‘May I see it, please?’
Tarn lifted her chin. ‘I’d prefer to give it to Evie,’ she said quietly. ‘She’s always kept a diary from being a small child. Written in it every day. It was almost an obsession with her. I thought that having it back might help with her treatment.’
‘I think I am the best judge of that, Miss Griffiths. Her case is a complex one. But the diary could be useful in other ways.’ He held out his hand and Tarn hesitated.
‘First, will you tell me something, Professor?’
‘I cannot guarantee that. What do you want to know?’
‘Her mother told me Evie had taken an overdose but I didn’t find anything like that when I cleared her bathroom.’
‘The police removed them. They are a very strong brand, known abroad as Tranquo, and not legally available for sale in this country. I gather their possible side-effects mean that they never will be so licensed. However, supplies of this drug, among other illicit forms of tranquillisers and stimulants, are regularly smuggled in for sale on black market networks.’
‘Smuggled in? By whom?’
He shrugged. ‘No-one is quite sure, but people who travel abroad a great deal on perfectly legitimate business, and therefore have not attracted the attention of the police or customs authorities are natural suspects.
‘It is believed a lot of them are bought by the rich and famous initially for their own use, but then recommended to their friends and acquaintances. Because these drugs work, Miss Griffiths, in spite of their inherent and serious risks.’ He paused. ‘They also cost a great deal of money.’
‘But Evie couldn’t possibly have afforded anything like that,’ Tarn protested. But Caz could, she thought. And he travels constantly. Could it be even remotely possible…
And found her mind closing against the thought.
‘Well, that is something the police will wish to discuss with her when she has recovered sufficiently.’
Tarn stared at him. ‘And you think that’s all right, do you? Have you forgotten that Evie’s not a criminal but a victim, driven to total desperation. And you must know why,’ she added fiercely.
‘Let us say a clearer picture is beginning to emerge.’ He was unruffled. ‘Now, may I have the diary?’
She surrendered it reluctantly, and watched him place it in a drawer of his desk.
She said, ‘And may I go and see Evie?’
‘Not today, Miss Griffiths. I regret that you’ve had a wasted journey, but you are obviously upset, and it would be better to wait until you are calmer, and able to accept that what we do here is for your foster sister’s ultimate good.’
She said, ‘It may be a long time before I believe that.’
‘Also I would prefer her not to know that we have her diary.’ He paused. ‘In future, perhaps you should telephone in advance and make sure your visit is convenient.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and rose from her chair. ‘I shall. But let me assure you, Professor Wainwright, that nothing I’ve done or shall do for Evie will ever be wasted.’
The theatre bar was crowded, and alive with an excited buzz of conversation.
No doubt in anyone’s mind that this was an occasion, thought Tarn drily as she waited for Caz to return with their interval drinks.
She’d felt as if she was strung up on wires as she’d dressed for the evening, choosing a plain black knee-length shift topped with a taffeta jacket striped in emerald and black. Her hair she’d fastened in a loose knot on top of her head, and she wore jet pendant ear-rings.
She looked, she thought judicially surveying the finished article in the mirror, the image of a girl ready for a date with the most attractive man she’d ever met.
Not at all like someone who’d spent her recent days and nights wondering whether or not that same man might be a drug smuggler, and if she should take her suspicions to the authorities.
Eventually, she’d told herself wearily that she was crazy. Because being a womanising bastard and love rat did not make Caz Brandon a felon, much as she might wish it. And watching him get his just deserts did not necessarily mean jail.
Della had arranged to be elsewhere when Caz came to pick Tarn up.
‘I don’t trust myself not to scream, “She’s out to get you, and not in a good way,”’ she’d commented candidly.
Tarn said with difficulty, ‘Dell—this isn’t a joke.’
‘No,’ Della returned. ‘In my view,