Tomorrow...Come Soon Page 4

  `And I've been well paid for it,' he said, still loyal to the company he had robbed. And, fair where she couldn't be just then, 'And I have a lot to be grateful to Grant Harrington for.'

  `Grateful—to him!'

  `Yes, grateful. He could more easily have sent someone else to suspend me—and be justified in doing so. He could

  have sent any one of the senior people I work with here tonight to dismiss me and ask for my office keys.'

  `Is that what he's done—dismissed you?' she asked, tears spurting to her eyes at the indignity he had had to suffer all because of her.

  `He couldn't do anything else,' he said. 'The evidence against me is watertight.'

  `Oh, love,' she mourned, and could no more stay put then than fly. Her high-heeled shoes had long since been dispensed with, and shoeless she went to his side, sitting on the arm of his chair and putting an arm around him as she asked, 'What's going to happen now, Dad?'

  He patted the hand resting on his shoulder. 'He didn't say,' he said on a sigh. 'He just called for my keys, and told me that my suspension was over—and my job with it.'

  Devon wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, glad that with his shoulders hunched before her, he could not see her tears. Oh, how much he must think of her, that he should put her before the honour he valued so much, she thought, tears threatening again.

  `He—won't—prosecute, will he?' she asked, when she thought she had herself under control, bringing out the one fear that would crucify her father more than he was being crucified already.

  `He'll have to,' was the flat answer she received. `But—but his father respected you,' she brought out quickly, clutching at straws.

  `There's no sentiment in business, Devon,' she was told rather severely. 'Grant has already gone farther than I could expect by calling several times in person, when he must have known after his first visit that I was as guilty as hell.'

  They lapsed into silence again, Devon's mind going on to wonder if Grant Harrington would let her father off if somehow, from somewhere, they could pay the money

  back. But how? It ran into thousands, she knew it did. She didn't know the exact figure, but she knew that her treatment had not come cheaply. But from where could they get so much as a thousand pounds? It was hope . .

  `The house!' she said suddenly, excitedly, as her father slewed round in his chair to see what was making her so excited. 'We could sell the house. We could give the money to Harringtons, and move into a . .

  `The bank has first call on the house, child,' he interrupted, revealing something she had never known. And it was then that it came home to her just exactly how much of a drain she had been to him and his resources.

  `It was worth it. Never think that it wasn't,' he said, reading her expression. 'You had to have the -best treatment I could get for that hip of yours.' He squeezed her hand. 'You had to.' And, taking his turn to make her feel better, 'No one would ever know now that there was ever anything wrong with you.'

  `You didn't tell—Grant Harrington why you needed to take some of his money? That it was so that I could have the operation?'

  `The money was gone. What it was used for was immaterial,' he said. 'I broke faith with the company, and that's all that counts in business.'

  As her father had said, the money had been taken, the trust broken, the rest—immaterial. But she didn't have to remember farther back than her encounter with Grant Harrington tonight, to know that he was still of his fixed opinion that she had blithely frittered away every penny of her father's income—and more. Not knowing about her operation, he had been certain, and had been right about one thing—the money had gone on her.

  The elation she had been feeling when she had entered the house was gone for ever, and she was made to feel even more weepy when her father suddenly said:

  `I'm sorry that your home coming had to be like this,' making her think that had she not arrived at precisely the wrong moment, he would have gone on covering up for as long as he could. 'Whatever happens, whether or not I have to go to prison,' that word 'prison' turning her blood to ice, 'it will all have been worth it.' And she thought her heart would break when, with so much on his plate, he tried for a cheery note, and said, 'Now isn't it about time I heard what's been happening to you? We'll crack the sherry open to celebrate, and you can tell me all about it.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  DEVON awoke the following morning with everything as fresh in her mind as it had been through her many waking hours during the night.

  Without any joy in her she had entered into the facade of a happy homecoming. She had sipped a medium dry sherry with her father, and had recounted the lighter parts of her post-operative treatment.

  With all that was hanging over him, she had made no mention of the occasional niggle she still felt in her hip. And she had made no mention either of Dr Henekssen's instruction that she should take frequent periods of rest. Her operation had cost her father dear. It had cost him his honour. He had said it was worth it—for his peace of mind, he had to believe that.

  `The operation was one huge success,' Devon had told him, knowing it would prove true once she had had her final check over with Mr McAllen, -though there were still some weeks to go yet before the consultant would put her file permanently away. 'Dr Henekssen said that I can do anything I ever wanted to do,' she had tacked on brightly, leaving out that the doctor had qualified his statement with the prefix 'In a while'.

  Her father had smiled then, and she had smiled back as he had thought to question whether she would have to see her own consultant again.

  `In about five weeks from now, but it's only a formality,' she said confidently. 'You know how these doctors are, they never like to let you out of their clutches.'

  Devon got out of bed, her thoughts with her father and

  far from happy. The only light in the darkness of the prison sentence looming over him was that she was able to walk straight away without having to wait for her hip to get the message that she wanted to be on her way.

  Guilt sped in to be her companion, and stayed with her as she went downstairs. How could there be light in any of this, when because of her, her father had sacrificed the honour he held so dear?

  She entered the kitchen with an impotent desire to do something, but with no idea of what it was she could do to avert her parent facing, after all he had been through, the final ignominy of serving a term in jail.

  But when, her father down first, she took one look at the man who had not counted the cost to himself, to, his incorruptibility, when it came to putting her first, and she saw that he was looking worse than ever this morning, so Devon knew that she could not just stand idly by while they waited to learn if his lot was to be a term in prison.

  `Morning, Papa,' she said, dropping a light kiss on his grey cheek. 'You sit down with your paper, see to breakfast.'

  Talk in the kitchen where they always breakfasted was spasmodic. But many times as she searched for some way out of the frightening future that loomed, she caught his eyes on her and the easy way she now moved around.

  It was when she joined him at the table, the thought in her mind that there was no need for him to get a move on this morning—he had no office to go to—that that word `office' triggered off an idea in her mind.

  The idea grew, began to take shape, and then became urgent enough to be acted upon. But she knew she would have to go carefully. He would oppose the idea, she knew that, even as she admitted to feeling sick inside at what she was going to do.

  It was ten past nine when, taking care not to give him

  the least chance for suspicion, delaying her errand by flicking a quick duster around, casually, and for the second time since she had come home, Devon was again at pains to prevent him knowing the truth of a matter.

  `Dr Henekssen said I should take regular exercise,' she dropped out. think I'll change into something respectable and go into town.'

  She caught his quick look, and was on pins for a moment in case he
had seen through her. She saw his brows knit together, and knew his brain was at work. Then suddenly he smiled an understanding smile, and without offering to go with her, he said quietly, 'You do that, love.'

  Knowing him well, Devon felt relief as she hopped on to his wavelength. The understanding in his smile meant, she saw, that he had not guessed at what lay behind her reason for wanting to go into town; he thought, the dear man, that now that she had lost her feeling of wanting to hide herself away, she wanted at the first opportunity to lay the ghost of her aversion to entering any of the many stores in Marchworth town centre.

  She was on her way to her room, her mind on which of the few smart clothes in her wardrobe she would wear, when he called her back.

  `Before you do anything, I think it would be a good idea to make that appointment with Mr McAllen,' he said, and caused her to swallow down fresh tears, that whatever dreadful troubles he had of his own, as always he was still putting her first.

  don't have to see him for ages yet,' she reminded him.

  `Do it now, Devon,' he said firmly. 'You know from past experience that we've had to wait ages to get an appointment when we've wanted to see him in particular, and not one of his team.'

  She could see it would only worry him if she didn't do it

  now. But she wanted to be on her way with all speed; in her view he had got more than enough worries to be going on with. Though not for much longer if she . . .

  `Fusspot,' she said lightly as she went to the phone.

  `Done,' she said a few minutes later. 'Lucky, though, that I didn't want an appointment in the next couple of weeks—Mr McAllen is away on holiday.'

  `The usual Thursday clinic?' he enquired to delay her when she was anxious to be away.

  `Thursday is booked solid. But they managed to fit me in on the Monday session in five weeks' time,' she told him, edging to the door.

  Up in her room, after spending some moments in rejecting everything except the suit she had worn yesterday, Devon surveyed herself in the wardrobe mirror. Any other garment would have been preferable, she thought, remembering all too clearly Grant Harrington's cynical eyes travelling the length of her last night. He had decided then that either he or some other man was out of pocket on account of her suit, she knew, but all the same, the smart cut of it gave her confidence that nothing else in her wardrobe would afford.

  Needing all the confidence she could get, she hesitated only briefly before putting her feet into her new black shoes. Then, not allowing herself to dwell on the wisdom of wearing shoes with a heel when she had had so little practice, and trying not to dwell either on the mammoth task she had set herself, she left her bedroom and went to say cheerio to her father.

  The main offices of Harrington Enterprises were housed away from the industrial area where they had a few offices and their principal factory, but the main offices were not too far from the town centre. And had she thought Grant Harrington would have agreed to see her if she telephoned for an appointment first, Devon would

  have stopped off at a telephone box on the way and made a call.

  But without effort recalling the arrogant way he had looked at her as though she was of no account, Devon knew he would be more likely to give instructions that she should not so much as enter the building, much less his office.

  And yet he was going to see her. She was determined on that, even if the palms of her hands were moist as she stood in front of the plate glass doors, her insides quaking at the thought of the short shrift she could count on receiving from him.

  A picture of her father came into her mind, and she was seeing again not his proud bearing, but his hunched shoulders, his face grey, as it had been that morning. It was all she needed to have her pushing the doors inwards. And courage, born of love for him, had her going straight up to the desk and asking to see Mr Grant Harrington.

  `You have an appointment.'

  Devon had thought this one out while she had been getting changed. 'Naturally,' she replied, managing to look as though, like the receptionist, she thought it inconceivable that she should expect to see him without one. 'Grant did tell me where in this vast building his office is,' she confided, 'but . .

  The young receptionist caught on, her smile warmer now that she realised that it was not a business appointment the super blonde had, but an appointment of a more personal nature.

  In no time, Devon had the directions she needed, and was travelling up in a lift knowing that the rest of her quest was not going to be as easy. But she was determined that, having got this far, she Would wrap herself around the legs of Grant Harrington's desk if he tried to eject her before he had heard her out.

  Stepping out of the lift, she counted down the doors along the corridor, and overcoming the fact that her insides were starting to feel like jelly, she hesitated only briefly at the one she had to go through, then, too het up to think of knocking first, she opened the door and went straight in.

  But she was to find that if she had been expecting to see Grant Harrington straight away, then she was in for a big disappointment. For there was only one person in the pale green airy office to which she had been directed, and that person was not him, was not even male, but a dark-haired female of about thirty-five, who looked up from the matter she was typing and showed her a professional smile of enquiry.

  m—I'm sorry,' Devon got out. And, pulling herself together, must have got the wrong door—I was looking for Mr Harrington's office.'

  `I'm Mr Harrington's secretary,' the woman replied, her professional smile still in place.

  Devon found a smile of her own from somewhere. `Oh, good,' she said bravely, 'Then Grant can't be far away.'

  The professional smile stayed put, and it was then that she knew her strategy had come unstuck. The girl on reception had been younger, less up to the ruses that might be deployed to see the very busy head of the Company.

  `If you'd like to take a seat, Miss . . .' She waited for a name that wasn't forthcoming, then went on, I'll advise Mr Harrington that you're here.'

  By this time Devon's eyes were taking in her surroundings. There were three chairs nearby, placed opposite the secretary's desk, so that must be where people usually sat and waited to see him. She spotted a door to the other side of the desk, and knew then that that was where she would

  find the man she had screwed up all her courage to come here to see.

  Well, she wasn't going to be put off at the first obstacle, she thought, aware that the secretary had lost her smile and was watching her. 'I'll . . Devon. said, and pivoted to move quickly towards the door—too quickly in her haste. She felt a sharp pain in her right hip, and the rest of her sentence, the 'I'll advise him myself,' never got uttered.

  A panic of a different kind beset her. She felt winded by the thoughts that came rushing in that her operation had not been a success! And, afraid she would topple over, as had not been unknown, she sank into the seat nearest to her. It must be because of the heels she was wearing, it must be, she thought, as the pain started to subside.

  'I didn't get your name,' pressed the woman she had forgotten was there, her smile back in place now that her invitation to rake a seat had been complied with.

  `Er—Johnston,' said Devon, her mind more concerned with holding down her panic, with telling herself that she would be all right in a minute, that in a minute she would be fit to go through that other door.

  As soon as she was sure her hip wasn't going to let her down, Devon thought, she would carry out her intention to go through that other door. The last thing she wanted was to collapse in a heap at Grant Harrington's feet. I'll go now, she thought, deriding her. fears that her hip might not hold her.

  But it was already too late. She had delayed too long. The secretary, after a swift flick across to note her ring less left hand, was already speaking into the intercom.

  `There's a Miss Johnston here to see you, Mr Harrington. I haven't got her appointment recorded, but...'

  Johnston?' She'd know
that voice anywhere. And, after the briefest of pauses, there was aggression, she knew too,

  Mixed in with incredulity at her cheek, if it was who he thought it was, when the abrupt enquiry came,-"Devon Johnston?'

  The secretary looked her way for confirmation or otherwise. Dumbly, Devon nodded. She heard confirmation of her name passed from one to the other. But when perhaps she should not have been totally surprised at the message that came back, a message which he knew she would hear, what did surprise her was the spontaneous combustion his words set off, firing her pride into such instant fury that she forgot she was there to beg and plead if need be.

  `Be good enough to make a note, Wanda,' he instructed curtly, 'that I have no time to spare now—or ever—for Miss Johnston or any of her sort.'

  Fury such as Devon had never known shot to an immediate peak, her pride cut to the bone. Who the devil did he think he was, that he could belittle her so in front of a third person? How dared he!

  Barely aware that the intercom had been switched off, heedless that the secretary was looking at her as though asking if she would like her to repeat the message, Devon was on her way.

  Not pausing to think twice—or even think at all— smartly she left her chair and circumnavigated the desk. And while Wanda was staring incredulously After her, she - was barging her way in through the door of the adjoining office, not stopping until she was face to face with the man she had come there to see.

  Slowly the big tall man rose from behind his desk, the look he burned her with as he saw she had sprinted past his secretary not promising. Black brows came down, but Devon was unrepentant, and stood with her feet firmly planted on the thick-piled carpet.

  Grant Harrington moved ominously from behind his desk and advanced towards her. But, when it looked as

  though he would pick her up with his all-male strength and toss her back the way she had come, whether from the indignant look of her, or whether because he didn't want another interruption to his day if she tried barging in again, he stopped when Wanda, who Devon was just realising had chased after her, said, 'I'm sorry, "Mr Harrington. She just took off—I couldn't . .