Instinctively she pushed the toilet door to, not quite closing it for fear of alerting the security guard, priest, or whoever, of her presence, while she summoned enough nerve to sashay forth with careless aplomb.
She strained her ears. Had she imagined the sound? Almost at once then the clack of a woman’s heels approached and came to a halt somewhere alarmingly close by.
She nearly dropped dead with fright when a rather throaty, feminine, cigarette-husky voice said, ‘Oh, Tom. Commiserations about your dad. I’m so terribly sorry. I know exactly what you’re going through.’
There was a curt, masculine murmur of response.
Cate closed her eyes and prayed that Tom Russell was not the man outside the door about to discover her breaching his costly security arrangements.
‘And as if it wasn’t enough losing your father, without some of the rubbish being printed about him. Did you see that disgusting obituary in the Clarion?’
Cate stopped breathing.
‘I saw it.’
Though the tone was grim, the deep voice had a dark, liquid quality. Like liquid velvet. Dark, dark brown velvet. Black, even.
‘Where do those jackals get the nerve?’ the female voice went on. ‘All that hogwash about editorial independence. Will you sue?’
Cate’s heart jumped into her throat, then Tom Russell said, ‘Wouldn’t they love that? I hope I have more subtlety. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with Miss What’s-her-name. In my way.’
A chill shivered down Cate’s spine. In his way. What was his way?
He spoke again. ‘Eventually they’ll all work for me. For us. Won’t they, Livvie?’ Cate pricked up her ears, then felt ashamed. She was acting like a voyeur. What she should do now was to walk out there, excuse herself, and make a swift, dignified exit. And she would. Just as soon as she screwed up the courage.
Her heart thundered so loudly she felt sure they must hear it, for the woman’s voice issued through with perfect clarity.
‘That’s why I need to talk to you. It’s about our deal.’
There was urgency in the woman’s tone.
‘This isn’t a good moment, Liv. As you might be able to imagine, I have things on my mind today.’ The response was polite, but Cate detected a sardonic tinge to it.
‘Well, how about this afternoon? After the lunch?’
‘Impossible. I have urgent meetings scheduled that can’t be postponed.’
‘Nothing is more urgent than this,’ the woman hissed. ‘Listen to me, Tom. Everything’s at risk. Malcolm has heard something. He’s playing every card he can to hold up the divorce. Somehow he’s got wind of the merger, so he’s asking for a much bigger slice of the company.’ She paused, then added, ‘My grandfather didn’t build an empire for it to end up being controlled by the likes of him.’ There was a hoarse vehemence to the contralto voice.
Cate’s ears rang with the possibilities. She had a sudden inkling into the woman’s identity. Surely that voice was familiar. With her heart thumping, and careful to make no sound, she moved to the door and risked putting her eye to the crack.
Her gaze lighted on a portion of long leg encased in some dark, expensive fabric, brushing a highly polished black masculine shoe. Next to the shoe rested an elegant black briefcase. Then the man moved further into her view, and her heart lurched in her chest.
It was Tom Russell all right, in the living flesh, negligently leaning his tall frame against an ornately carved piece of church furniture. Though his hands were shoved carelessly into his trouser pockets, there was a coiled tension about him. His black eyebrows were lowered over his cool grey eyes as he scoured his female companion with an alert, intelligent gaze.
Forget what Marge had said about him being attractive. He was so hot he sizzled.
Cate moved her head, trying to see the woman, but she only caught a rear-view glimpse of gleaming copper hair confined at the nape in a sophisticated black snood. It was enough though, she thought with wild excitement. The next words, as abrasive as sandpaper in Tom Russell’s stern, accusing voice, confirmed her suspicion.
‘I thought you understood how crucial secrecy is at this stage, Olivia. Bloody hell, what sort of a businesswoman are you?’
Olivia. The woman was Olivia West.
Cate’s brain buzzed into overdrive. She was onto the scoop of the century. What her editor would give to know this. Russell’s joining with the West Corporation. It would be the merger of the tabloid Titans. This was more than mere front page stuff. This meant headlines.
She had to get out of there and write it. In a sudden brilliant inspiration, she shoved her hand into her bag and connected with the minuscule cassette recorder Gran had given her. Her heart skipped an excited beat. Here was a golden opportunity. She’d be the toast of the newsroom. What reporter could resist? Although—Harry was pretty firm on the ethics of recording people without their knowledge. Her fingers hovered over the button while she waged a war with her conscience. Regretfully, the thought of Harry’s flinty gaze, and his strictures about the journalism code won.
At the same time as the powerful redhead’s response floated through to her she realised, with a sinking feeling, it was too late to announce her presence. Already, she knew too much.
She surrendered to the inevitable and put her eye to the crack again, in time to catch a glimpse of Tom Russell prowling about with his lithe, long-legged stride.
And he was worth watching. Though he seemed tense, it was clear that underneath the sombre black shirt, the pearl grey silk tie, the Armani—the suit could be nothing less—his lean, long bones, muscle and sinew were all working together in a veritable symphony of co-ordination.
Unfazed by his critical tone, Olivia West was launched into a feisty come-back. ‘It could just as easily have been someone from your side who leaked. Anyway, Malcolm doesn’t really know anything for certain, he’s just guessing with that diabolical genius he has for ferreting things out about people. He only wants to hurt me. I need your help with this.’
Tom Russell shot back, ‘I never let domestic arrangements interfere with business. Yours are hardly my concern.’
‘But this does concern you,’ Olivia West retorted. ‘Look at it this way. I won’t go on with our merger until I’m free and clear of Malcolm. And if he manages to hold up the court process for three or more months—and he can if the court believes his claim is worth investigating—our deal will collapse. You know it must.’
Every line of Tom Russell’s big, lean frame was charged with impatience. ‘Well, for pity’s sake, make a deal. Give him enough of what he asks for to make him feel he’s scored something.’
‘I’ve given him enough,’ Olivia said fiercely. ‘I’ve given him everything. He’s taken everything. He’s not getting any more of my company. But that’s not even the reason he’s doing this. It’s not about the money. It’s about you.’
Tom Russell came to a sudden halt, right in Cate’s line of vision.
She stayed glued to the sight, until Olivia West spun in to obstruct the view. Despite the media baroness’s artful makeup, her face was strained. Her glossy red lips were compressed and she held her hands, gloved in slinky black lace, clasped in front of her voluptuous chest.
Cate frowned. Was that much cleavage strictly appropriate for a church service?
Olivia turned her back, spoiling Cate’s view of her. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m sure you know Malcolm has always been insanely jealous of you. Some fool’s informed him of the times we’ve met to negotiate, and he’s had the ridiculous