Angel of Death (3 page)

Over the years since, she had never wanted to discuss it, with Terry, or anyone else. When she came out of hospital she had only wanted to forget. The doctors had told her to put the past behind, try to forget, and she had not wanted to think too much about what happened after the wreck, although sometimes she was not sure the medical advice had been sensible. Perhaps refusing to think about something so traumatic allowed it to fester in the mind?

Terry interrupted before the Greek could answer her. ‘Have you seen Sean, Miranda? He should be taking care of Nicola. Why is she alone, over by the front door? Find him and tell him to stick beside his fiancée for the rest of the party, would you? We don’t want her getting upset at being neglected, do we? Her father would be furious.’

Miranda nodded. ‘Of course.’ She half-glanced at Alex Manoussi with a polite pretence of regret. ‘Would you excuse me?’

Did he guess how relieved she was to escape? There was a spark of cynicism in those eyes of his. Or was he simply noticing the way Terry coolly despatched her, like a servant, to do his bidding? Sometimes she resented Terry’s habit of treating her that way, but since her illness she never had the energy to protest or argue.

It didn’t take her long to find Sean in the Victorian-style conservatory at the back of the house, joking and drinking with his friends.

She whispered her message and he groaned. ‘OK, OK, I’ll go and find her. Why doesn’t my father get off my case?’

She frowned disapproval at him. ‘She’s so sweet, Sean; be nice to her.’ It didn’t sound as if Sean cared much about Nicola and Miranda found that sad. The girl deserved better than a reluctant, indifferent fiancé.

‘Don’t you start! Dad’s bad enough.’ Sean glowered, his lower lip petulant. He hated being criticised.

He had his mother’s colouring – blond hair, rough and curly, bright, selfish, vain blue eyes, and a fresh complexion. If he didn’t stop drinking he would run to fat, his face would turn blotchy, those good looks of his would be destroyed and his liver would start giving him problems.

It was not her problem, though. She was paid to keep the firm in the public eye and make sure it had a good reputation. She was not paid to keep an eye on her boss’s son.

Shrugging, she rejoined the party, keeping well away from Terry and the Greek man, who were still talking on the other side of the room.

Miranda circulated, picking up discarded glasses and taking them out to the kitchen to be loaded into the dishwasher by one of the catering team in charge of the party.

The buffet was served half an hour later. She got herself a plate of food and retreated into a corner with it.

Prawns and curls of white turbot crusted with red peppercorns; strips of chicken in a creamy lemon sauce, a few spoonfuls of warm rice mixed with peas and ham and chopped tomato – and a lot of salad. A perfect summer buffet.

While she ate she watched the other guests. The Greek was talking to Sean now, standing beside Nicola who looked faintly nervous of him. Her long eyelashes flickered up and down, her mouth was a little open, as if she had trouble breathing but she kept a polite smile on her mouth, which Miranda found touching.

She really was far too young to cope with Sean, who might not be much older than her but was much tougher. He stood there, one hand in the pocket of his white jacket, while he held a glass in the other, apparently listening to the Greek but all the time looking around the room with those bold, over-bright blue eyes at any attractive woman in view. Miranda felt anxious for Nicola. Someone like her should be cherished and protected, probably had been all her life. Sean would do neither. He would hurt her and make her miserable.

What was the girl’s father doing, allowing this match? Couldn’t he see what sort of man Sean was turning into?

Come to that, why didn’t Terry see the way his son was shaping? Terry wasn’t a fool, surely he must realise the danger of allowing Sean to run wild this way?

But it wasn’t her business, she just worked for the company. Miranda decided to leave. She had run out of things to say to people she barely knew and she wanted to get home.

She saw Sean walk away, towards the hall, and went out to tell him she must be on her way but just before she reached him she heard the shrill peep-peep of a mobile in his pocket. He got it out, flipped it open.

‘Hi. Of course it’s me.’ He frowned. ‘I can’t. No, I can’t.’

Miranda waited, unsure what to do. Sean saw her hovering and gave her a nod.

‘Hang on,’ he said into his mobile, then looked at Miranda. ‘Yeah? What now? Not another summons from my dad?’

‘No, I just wanted to say I have to be going, I have to drive back to London early. Will you give my apologies to Nicola?’

He cut her short. ‘Sure, fine. Thanks for coming. I’ll tell Nicola goodbye for you.’

She smiled politely and walked out of the house, hearing Sean talking into his mobile again.

‘Look, I told you, I can’t see you this weekend, OK? You know what’s happening – I can’t just walk out on my own party.’

He sounded even drunker now. Well, at least he did not need to drive anywhere. No doubt his father would help him up to bed before he fell over.

Miranda had been careful not to drink too much of the champagne so freely on offer and had just swallowed a mug of strong black coffee. Not that she ever did drink more than a glass or two of wine. But tonight it would have been irritating to have to get a taxi to the station and take the train back to town. It would leave her with the problem of picking up her car some other time.

Sean, however, was not in the habit of thinking about consequences. All his life his father had made his life easy. Miranda did not have parents to do that favour for her. Her father had vanished when she was ten, her mother had not been the sort of parent who believes in mollycoddling offspring. Miranda had left home at eighteen to get a job in London, and had only had herself to rely on for years. It would do Sean good to have to do his own thinking for once.

As she drove away, she caught a glimpse in her wing mirror of Alex Manoussi coming out of the house. From the way he stared after her car she guessed he had followed her, was looking for her, and shivered. Thank God she had escaped before he caught up with her.

He still had the same effect on her as he had had, even before the yacht foundered. Always in black, his face set in strong, hard lines, his manner cold, he was not a man anyone would take to on sight.

When he walked up to her and asked her to dance one evening, on the yacht, she had found being in his arms a disturbing experience and afterwards had avoided him whenever they were in the same room. He had not spoken to her during the dance; she had learnt nothing about him and been left curious.

‘Who is he?’ she had asked Tom.

‘No idea. Obviously the boss knows him. Not exactly the life and soul of the party, is he?’

‘He looks like the angel of death.’

Tom had laughed. ‘You do say the oddest things, darling. What do you mean, the angel of death?’

‘I saw a picture once, when I was about eight. My grandfather had it hanging on his wall. There was a little girl, lying on a bed, and beside the bed a man all in black.’

‘An undertaker? A clergyman?’

‘No, a man like that one there – with a face like stone, wearing some sort of armour. And he had big, black wings. Grandad said he was the angel of death, who had come for the child. It was really spooky. I hated it. And that guy looks just like the angel. All he needs is black wings.’

He had come for Tom, the very next night. Had he come for her today? Why had he suddenly reappeared, after three years?

A shiver ran down her back. Was she going to die?

Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, she told herself. This is rank superstition. Grow up, why don’t you?

That night, she dreamt the old nightmare and woke up with the sound of Tom drowning going on and on inside her head and tears running down her face.

She was glad to get up, take a shower, wash the memories out of her head.

It was hot and sunny that Sunday; a little humid. Miranda would not normally wear shorts and a t-shirt to work, but nobody else was around in the office to see her. The porter downstairs at reception, was reading the sports section of a Sunday newspaper with his feet up on the edge of the desk he sat behind. He looked up as she buzzed at the plate glass doors, recognised her and grinned before zapping the door open.

‘Working on a Sunday? Hope you’re on double time!’

‘I hope so, too.’ She walked towards the lift while he watched, enjoying his view of her neat behind in brief red cotton shorts which revealed most of her long, slender legs.

‘You shouldn’t let him take advantage of you!’ he called, thinking that he would love to take advantage of her, himself. She had a curvy, sexy little bottom and he loved those legs.

She pressed the lift button, lifting the hair from her perspiring nape with her other hand, groaning. ‘It’s already really hot out there. We’re going to have a scorcher.’

‘Afraid the air-conditioning is switched off,’ the porter apologised. ‘I’m not allowed to have it on at weekends.’

‘I’ll keep the window open while I’m working.’ She vanished into the lift, waving to him and he sighed, settling down to more long hours of tedium, a goldfish in a glass bowl beyond which life swam freely.

The first thing Miranda did in her office was to open the window but lower the wide-banded linen blinds to keep the room cool and shady. The window looked out into a courtyard full of shrubs and flowers, lined with wooden benches where staff often ate sandwiches in warm weather. The scent of roses drifted up to her nostrils, a dizzying aroma.

She made some strong black coffee, then began keying documents into her word processor, scanning the drawings which went with them and putting them into the computer’s memory too, printing them out afterwards, along with other pages of figures already in the machine’s memory. Terry had also left her a sheet pointing out where the printer differed from their previous one.

She began to sketch out ideas for the campaign, but kept yawning. On the other side of the courtyard lay the family’s apartment which was mostly used by Terry himself. Little golden specks of dust danced in the sunlight as Miranda sat at her desk.

Voices suddenly made her jump. Was that somebody in the courtyard? Nobody should be out there on a Sunday.

Then she realised that the voices came from the other side of the complex – from the family apartment. A window must be open.

‘Get your clothes off or do you want me to do it for you?’

Miranda’s eyes widened and her mouth opened in amazement. What on earth was going on over there? Had Terry brought a woman here?

No, that certainly was not Terry’s voice. Surely it wasn’t Sean? But who was with him? It couldn’t be Nicola. Even Sean wouldn’t talk to her that way. Or would he?

A girl’s voice answered. ‘Give us a kiss first!’

Miranda did not recognise this voice, but she was sure it did not belong to Sean’s fiancée.

Nicola was not long out of one of the best girls’ schools in England; shy, very unsure of herself despite her family’s wealth. She had a faint lisp and stammered when she was nervous, but she had a typical, middle-class accent.

The voice Miranda had just heard was very confident, not to say oversure of itself, and it had a London accent, brash, pushy, huskily sensual. Of a very different class to Nicola.

Who had Sean got over there? His father would be furious if he found out his son was taking strange girls into the apartment.

‘I’ll give you something,’ Sean said roughly and the girl began to giggle.

‘You already have!’

Then came the unmistakable sound of a kiss. Miranda tried to concentrate on her work. She wished they would move away, go into another room. What were they doing in the bathroom?

The sound of running water came next. Oh, my God, were they planning to have a bath? Was that why Sean had told the girl to take her clothes off?

This was becoming very embarrassing. Miranda got up and went over to the window, to close it. As she lifted the blind to take hold of the window catch she saw Sean framed in the window opposite.

He was totally naked, his shoulders wide and powerful, his skin smooth, hairless. She could only see to his waist, but he had a strong, slim, very male body, with good muscle development in the arms and chest.

Behind him steam swirled and billowed. There was a sound of splashing.

‘Come on, darling, get in with me!’ the girl called.

Sean turned away, giving no sign of having noticed Miranda at the window opposite.

She almost closed the window but left it open enough to let some air circulate. It was too hot to have it shut.

She went back to her desk. Muffled now, the voices continued across the courtyard, laughter mingling with splashes.

Until Sean said sharply, ‘What did you say?’

‘I’m up the spout,’ the girl told him defiantly. ‘And it’s your baby. You’re going to have to marry me, Sean.’

There was a silence, then he snarled, ‘You must be joking! Marry you? Even if I could, I wouldn’t marry a greedy little tart like you.’

The girl’s voice roughened, too. ‘You bastard! I’m good enough for a fuck, but not good enough to marry, is that it?’

‘You’re damned right that’s it! How do I even know it’s my baby? You weren’t a virgin when I met you, were you? You’ve spread it around since you were fourteen. I know all about you. How many men have you slept with this month? God knows who the father is.’

She sneered. ‘These days it’s easy to prove. You’ve heard of DNA, haven’t you, Sean?’

‘Yeah, but, even if it is my kid, I’m not marrying you. I’m marrying Nicola. At least I can be pretty sure she’s a virgin.’

‘Bloody hypocrite!’

‘Look, I never promised you marriage, and I knew you’d been with half my mates. We were just having a bit of fun.’

‘That was before I got pregnant. That changes everything.’

‘The hell it does. I’ll give you the money to get rid of it, that’s my best offer, so I’d take it, if I was you!’