Martin’s expression softened at the disclosure. ‘I admire your spirit, Whitney—–’
‘But you also deplore it!’ she finished drily.
‘It stinks,’ he acknowledged tautly. ‘Hawk will have to be told about this—–’
‘No!’
‘Whitney—–’
‘I said no,’ she bit out harshly, the thought of Hawk knowing about this sending her into a panic. She could just imagine his reaction.
‘He owns the damned newspaper, Whitney,’ Martin reminded her exasperatedly.
She was well aware of who and what Hawk was. And James Hawkworth – the last person to actually call him James was probably still trying to pick themselves up from the floor!—was not a man she wanted to get into an argument with. And she had no doubt that his reaction to what she was doing would be the same as Martin’s. But for a very different reason.
‘There’s nothing to tell him—–’
‘One of his reporters receiving threats comes under the heading of something, Whitney,’ Martin cut in determinedly. ‘And I know Hawk is going to want to know about them. What did you say?’ He looked at Whitney suspiciously as she mumbled something under her breath.
Her face was flushed as she looked at him challengingly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters,’ he bit out grimly. ‘Although I can see you aren’t about to repeat it. I just want you to know that my decision to take you off the story—–’
‘If you try to do that I’ll go to another newspaper,’ she told him stubbornly.
‘Whitney!’
‘I mean it, Martin,’ she told him in a calm voice. ‘I’ve worked too long and too hard on this one to just calmly let it go.’
He looked at her with narrowed eyes, sighing his defeat in the face of her determination. ‘We’ll see what Hawk has to say about it.’ He maintained control of the situation with the threat. ‘Maybe he’ll decide that your pretty little body isn’t worth saving,’ he added grimly. ‘Or maybe he’ll agree with me that a reporter’s life is worth more than a story!’
‘Someone has to do something about Tom Beresford!’
‘Then let the law deal with him!’
‘They don’t seem to be able to get the evidence on him.’
‘And you do, I suppose,’ Martin scorned.
She sighed, knowing she didn’t have enough for them to print the story either. ‘We both know what Hawk’s answer is going to be,’ she said disgustedly.
‘Do we?’ Martin taunted. ‘I haven’t noticed him leaping to your defence lately.’
Whitney felt her cheeks pale. She knew Martin was only being cruel to be kind when he mentioned Hawk’s lack of interest in her recently, that he just wanted to shock her into realising what she was getting into any way that he could. But she was too sensitive of Hawk’s dismissal of her from his life to feel anything but mortified about Martin’s reference to it. Most of the people that worked on the newspaper knew of the history of her closeness to Hawk, but a lot of them had put it from their mind as Hawk continued to ignore her existence, seeming to accept that she was unconcerned with the situation, too. Only Martin had guessed how very much Hawk could still hurt her by his indifference.
‘Tell him what you like, Martin,’ she said wearily. ‘I’m going through with my decision to meet Tom Beresford. If Hawk’s the newspaper man that I think he is then he’ll approve of what I’m doing.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’ her editor grated.
She shrugged. ‘That will be your problem.’
‘Only until he catches up with you,’ Martin warned derisively.
‘As you just pointed out, why should he bother?’ she dismissed bitterly, glancing frowningly at her wristwatch, diamonds studded about the slender gold face and strap, a twenty-first birthday present from Hawk the previous year. Her twenty-second birthday the previous month had passed without even receiving a card from him. She dismissed the memory impatiently, tossing back her mane of below shoulder-length hair to look at Martin. ‘I’m going to be late if I don’t leave now—–’
‘Whitney—–’
‘For goodness’ sake, Martin,’ she scorned, ‘stop acting like an old woman.’
Anger flared in dark brown eyes at the taunt. ‘Someone should have put you over their knee a bit more when you were a child!’
‘ “Someone” didn’t dare,’ she taunted.
‘OK, Whitney,’ he conceded wearily. ‘Go to lunch with Tom Beresford. I’ll be here to help pick up the pieces when you get back. If you get back,’ he added softly.
A lot of her anticipation for the meeting had gone with Martin’s disapproval of the idea; she had expected him to show a little more enthusiasm for what she had already achieved. No doubt the threat of Hawk’s disapproval had a lot to do with his reaction, but he really needn’t have worried; Hawk had made it obvious he no longer gave a damn what happened to her. But no doubt he would have something to say when he received the bill from the exclusive restaurant on her expenses! She could hardly have invited Tom Beresford to the local McDonald’s.
She had dressed with great care that morning for her luncheon appointment, knew she was going to need all the cool poise she could muster to bluff her way through what she had insisted to Tom Beresford’s assistant was a human-interest story. In view of the threatening telephone calls it was going to be a double bluff, Tom Beresford obviously knowing exactly what her interest in him was! But there were plenty of other things she could ask him about besides the local councils issue, one of them being his rise from the eldest son of a Yorkshire miner to a property and building tycoon who was rumoured to be under consideration for a lifetime peerage in the New Year’s Honours List next year for his contribution to British industry. If you were unaware of the corruption that had enabled him to make that meteoric rise in the building industry, then he did indeed appear a worthwhile candidate for the honour.
But 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