Tomorrow...Come Soon Page 5

  `Since she's in,' he told his secretary, 'I'll deal with her,' which to Devon's ears sounded no more promising, and just as insulting as his other remarks.

  The door was then slammed shut as Wanda went out. And as he came away from the door, Devon was again on the receiving end of those dark eyes, his lips curling as those eyes swept over her Swedish suit.

  He did not invite her to sit down—she hadn't expected him to. 'Make it short,' he rapped. 'I'm busy.'

  `I . . .' she began sharply. And was then all of a sudden all too well aware, that she was in no position to show angry pride. She was here to ask him, to beg him if need be, not to send her father to prison.

  `Spit it out,' he barked impatiently. 'And be quick about it!'

  Devon saw again her father as he had been. It forced down her ire, and gave a beating to her reluctance to beg for anything from this sour-faced grey-suited man who had no time to waste on the likes of her.

  `I've come to ask you not to prosecute my father,' she told him flatly.

  And she was then forced to stand quietly by, while he moved past her to his desk and showed her his back for long moments. He turned abruptly, but was to pin her with those dreadfully cold hard eyes for several seconds more before, with a sudden unexpected mocking note, he taunted:

  `Give me just one good reason why I shouldn't.' That

  mocking note told her that she could give him a hundred reasons, and that the outcome would be just the same.

  `Because . .' The moment was there when she should tell him that her father had only taken that money for her operation. But as she looked back at him, stared at the tall virile man who was such a splendid specimen of fitness and health, a man who she knew indisputably had never had a thing wrong with him in his life—so Devon saw he would never understand how desperate her father must ' have felt to have done such a thing.

  `Well?' he prompted brusquely. Not a man to wait long for anything, she observed, as she made herself think positively, that, having got so far, she had to try. Soon he was going to lose patience with her altogether. Any second now she might well find herself being pushed head first out through that door she had just barged her way in through.

  `Because I—don't want you to.' It had not been what she had meant to say, but with his fierce eyes pinning her, nerves were making her tongue-tied.

  It did not surprise her that he looked her over with a contempt he did nothing to hide. But he did not keep her waiting very long before he poured the vitriol she had been expecting down over her head. Though what he said was short and to the point, and left her in no doubt that her plea not to prosecute her father had fallen on very stony ground.

  In my view, Miss Johnston,' he told her malevolently, `you've had altogether too much of what you want.'

  It was clear from that that he was determined to prosecute. `Oh, please,' she begged, even while knowing from the set look of him, that she was pleading in vain.

  `Oh, please,' was mimicked back to her. Then, his tone hardening, 'It's a bit late in the day to suddenly get round to wondering what your friends will say when they hear

  your father has gone to prison for stealing from his employers.'

  Devon felt what colour she had leave, but she got no sympathy from the man watching her. The thought of her father in prison was making her legs feel weak, so that she would dearly have liked to have sat down.

  `Please,' she said, gathering what strength she could, she had to try and get through to this iron hard man, `please don't send him to p-prison. He didn't—didn't take the money for himself.'

  `I know that, you avaricious little bitch!' was blasted at her. 'It should be you serving a jail sentence, not him!' he roared, his control on his temper going, as he continued, `You took and took from him—a man whose integrity I would have staked my life on, so that he had to resort to stealing to keep you in the style you coveted!'

  Devon could take him hurling words of wrath about her head, though strangely, the thought impinged that Grant Harrington needed his fury to rid himself of the tremendous shock he too had received to have his belief in her father's integrity shattered.

  But he was gaining control of his shot temper. She heard his voice even, when, presenting her with his back once more, he went towards the door, knowing before he spoke that the interview was over.

  `You've wasted enough of my time,' he said, and there was an assured finality there as he added, 'Goodbye, Miss Johnston.'

  `Stop!'

  That one sharply spoken word had him pausing. His hand left the handle of the door just as he had been going to open it for her to go through, and he moved towards her until he was only a few feet from her. And there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes that close.

  `You,' he stated with emphasis, 'are in no position to

  give orders to anybody.' He then looked ready to pick her up and put her the other side of that door if she didn't soon voluntarily move herself.

  `You don't,' she got in quickly before he could lay a finger on her, 'you don't know what it was he sp-spent the money on.' She knew she was stammering, but time was closing in.

  Again she was made to suffer the way his eyes swept over her Swedish suit. 'Strange as it might seem, I do not require an itemised account,' he gritted—going on to advise her, 'I'm quite able to reason by just looking at you why it is my books don't balance.' And insolently, his eyes appraising her suit again, 'Odd though you may find it, it doesn't overstretch me to guess that your wardrobe must be full to overflowing with foreign numbers similar to the one you have on.' Too late now to wish she had presented herself wearing anything other than her smart suit, as he hazarded another guess. 'And it wouldn't be tourist class for you on your trips abroad, Miss Johnston, would it? Not for you the mingling with the common masses; it would have to be first class all the way, wouldn't it?'

  How long she had been closeted with him in his office, Devon had no idea. But suddenly, after she had gone through the emotions of feeling sick, of having damp hands and weak limbs, not to mention spurting pride, his blatant goading of her was making her angry again.

  `The money wasn't spent on any of those things,' she flared, but was again subdued when his eyes flicked her suit. 'Well, yes, I—I bought this suit while I was in Sweden,' she said, hating him afresh. 'But I wasn't in Sweden enjoying myself.'

  `Shame,' was his sarcastic offering, sending her ire soaring. Out of season for rich playboys, was it?'

  `Damn you!' she snapped, wanting to hit his cynical face. Arid, riding on temper, the words were rocketing

  from her, went to Sweden because I needed an operation!'

  Her anger fell away as she saw the sharp look he gave her. And the thought crossed her mind that if nothing else, then at least she had knocked his hateful, cynical, disbelieving sarcasm on the head. Promptly she was to be proved wrong.

  `Ah,' he said, and in her view, much too ready with his quick assumptions, 'Abortion, was it?' And while she was staggering from that, 'You needn't have gone to Sweden for it, surely?'

  To have revealed her need for surgery to an outsider-the other operations she had had like this one being talked of to no one—and then to have him come back with that cynicism, plus more insulting remarks, was just too much.

  ` you—swine!' se hissed. And without a thought in her head that she had been ready to grovel to him, so with those words, her hand flashed to the side of his face.

  `Cool it!' he thundered, and had caught her wrist in a fierce grip the moment before her hand would have connected.

  She saw a light she didn't understand in his eyes as they looked into the blazing blue flame in hers. Though she hardly thought it was admiration as he threw the wrist in his grasp from him as though offended to have to touch her.

  But as her fury did indeed start to cool, so she began to wonder—had that really been her who, had he not stopped her, would have given him a vicious swipe across his face? She had no time to go into this new person she had become, for he was going on,
though still sarcastic, to change his opinion that it was for an abortion that she had journeyed to Sweden.

  `Forgive me,' he said, not an atom of apology in his

  TOMORROW-COME SOON

  voice, his look, or anywhere about him. 'It wasn't an abortion, was it?'

  She was wary of him now, the heat in her gone. `No, it wasn't,' she replied quietly.

  `But it was an operation?'

  Devon had no belief in his changed mild tone. It had her hesitating to tell him anything. 'Er—yes,' she said. 'Yes— that was the reason I went away.'

  His look said he thought she was lying through her teeth. But if she was so taut that it wouldn't have surprised her had she snapped in two, then she saw, by the way he propped himself against his desk and studied her, that Grant Harrington was completely relaxed.

  `Which brings us to the crunch of why you're here,' he observed, taking his study from her, to the toes of his shoes. 'What you're really saying,' he said, and paused, then looked sharply up, 'is will I not prosecute your father for robbing me,' he paused again, deliberately she felt, 'in the tragic circumstances of your needing the money for a life-saving operation.'

  Her eyes had been hypnotised by his, hope in her at the start that he was beginning to have some understanding. But as he came to an end, only then did Devon realise that he was baiting her.

  And again she wanted to hit him. She wanted to rant and rail at him. Wanted to verbally abuse him as he was abusing her. But she had to choke down what she was feeling. She was in no position to sling insults back at him. Her dear self-sacrificing father would go to prison if she - didn't hang in there and stick it out.

  `It wasn't—a life-saving operation,' she told him tonelessly.

  `Plastic surgery?' One eyebrow arched. 'You were beautiful before you went,' he remarked without making it sound like a compliment. Though he surprised her with

  his matter-of-fact statement—because, if he thought her beautiful, then he had managed to keep that opinion well hidden. 'Have a hang-up about the shape of your bosom, did you?' he enquired mockingly. And, his eyes taking stock of her breasts, 'They did a good job,' he observed laconically.

  Devon lowered her eyes from dark eyes that stripped her, but when she raised them a second later, she saw that all baiting had gone from him and that he was looking tough again, looking again ready to throw her out on her ear.

  `Oh, please,' she begged, getting in while she still had a chance; before she would feel his hands on the lapels of her suit hauling her to the door. 'My father only did what he did for me. Don't—please don't send him to prison!' The dark eyes on her were impervious to her pleading, as hard and unrelenting they looked back at her. `If—if anyone should be punished, it should be me,' she ended.

  `At last we agree on something,' he replied. And, forcefully, 'Had you not been so set on careering around the world enjoying yourself, had your father thought to spank your rear end instead of giving you everything you craved from infancy, then I doubt very much he would have broken the trust I, and my father before me, placed in him.' And his anger was loosed again at that broken trust. 'The fault is yours, you spoilt, mercenary little parasite,' he reviled her. 'Had you not been so intent on having a good time . .

  `I wasn't having a good time,' she butted in hotly, flaring up at his unflattering description of her. 'I was . . As suddenly as it had come, the heat receded, making her falter over what she was telling him. Tve—only just—left hospital.'

  That she had for the moment floundered was little more than she should expect, she thought. For so long all anger

  in her had lain dormant, so it was hardly surprising that having felt the stirrings of anger more since she had known him than in the last six years, this new person she had become should falter.

  But he was not seeing that her floundering was a result of her emerging from her quiet passive shell. He saw, she knew he did, that her hesitating when telling him she had only just come out of hospital was further confirmation that she was trying to pull the wool over his eyes with nothing but a string of lies.

  `Just when did you come out of hospital?' he asked, when she just knew he wasn't believing that she had ever been hospitalised.

  'Er . Devon was hesitating again, 'Two days ago,' she said, knowing fresh confusion as she tried to back track. `Er—no, it wasn't,' she said, the two nights she had spent in a Swedish hotel mixing up her arithmetic. 'It was Tuesday.'

  `If you're going to invent stories, Miss Johnston,' he told her coldly, 'then might I suggest you write all the facts down to check that they all tie in before you glibly trot them out.' And while she wanted to flare up again, he was coolly complimenting, 'Though I must say your powers of invention are far greater than those of your father.'

  `What do—you mean?' she asked, and was soon to learn that he gave no weight to her story whatsoever, when sarcastically he replied:

  `Extraordinary, wouldn't you say, that in the two or three conversations I've had with your parent since this matter, came to light, never once has he pleaded mitigating circumstances?' And before she could get in, as heatedly she wanted to, 'Extraordinary, don't you think, that never once did he mention this operation it was so vital you should have?'

  `He wouldn't mention it,' she retorted, anger rising at

  his sneering. `He wouldn't mention it because . . .' she could feel herself starting to get flustered, . . . because he knows—that is—er—he knew, that I did have a—hangup, as you suggested.' She saw he was no nearer to believing her now than he had ever been, that he thought she was latching on to the suggestion he had given her so as to make her case more plausible. But she made herself go on despite the fact that he was discrediting every word she said. B -but it was a hang-up about needing surgery at

  all.'

  `Is that a fact?' he enquired, and looked purposefully at the door, everything about him telling her that in his view he had wasted more than enough time listening to her complete and utterly phoney story.

  `I' m not lying,' she said desperately, searching feverishly in her mind for some way to convince him that what she was telling him was the truth. 'Mr McAllen,' she pulled from the recesses of her mind. 'He's my consultant in England,' she said in a rush, excitement rising that he couldn't doubt Mr McAllen's word. `He knows all about me. He can . . .' she stopped, and excitement evaporated.

  `He can . . . ?' prompted Grant Harrington sourly.

  ell—if he was here,' she said lamely, 'he could tell you all about . . . Only . .

  `Only?' he enquired with that lofty cynicism she hated. Just as much as she hated having to tell him, "Only he's—away on holiday at the moment.'

  `How very inconvenient!' She hated him too. , `How about if I write to your doctor in Sweden?' he suggested, `I'm sure he won't be too busy to drop me a confirming line. Though of course he would have to write to you first for permission to give me details. But it shouldn't take more than two or three weeks for letters to go back and forth, and meantime I might have forgotten all about taking legal proceedings.'

  Stunned by the sort of mind he had, Devon stared at him and saw she could have saved all the breath she had used in trying to get through to him. For as his eyes went like cold steel, Grant Harrington had only one more word to say to her, when, not bothering with politeness, he pointed to the door.

  `Out!' he said, and he meant it.

  `Please,' she begged, at her wits' end. Her father had done so much for her, she just couldn't fail him. 'Please don't prosecute him,' she said hurriedly, spurting on still trying to get through. 'Prison would kill him, and and he

  didn't take the money for himself—the debt is mine.'

  Arrogantly he looked at her, his tone as cold as his eyes. `So when areyou going to repay me?'

  `Repay you . .

  `You've said the debt is yours.'

  `I'll work,' she galloped in before he had barely finished, thinking she saw a chink in the brick wall of unrelenting male in front of her. 'I'll work hard—I'll
work for you if . .

  `Not if I have anything to do with it,' was his uncompromising answer, sarcasm on its way, as he took fresh and insulting stock of her, and then drawled, 'What sort of work did you have in mind? Your doctor says you're fit enough for those sort of—er gymnastics, does he?'

  For a moment Devon just wasn't with him. 'He said I would have to take care not to overstrain my . . .' she stopped, his meaning hitting her like a cold shower. She took a deep breath, her hands clenched at her sides for control. 'I meant office work,' she told him coldly.

  `You know anything about office work?' How she detested everything about this man! 'Collie to that,' he continued, uncaring of the wrathful look she threw him, `do you know anything about work at all?'

  All she knew was keeping house, and her liking for him

  did not go up in any fashion that because he was waiting for an answer, she was forced to confess:

  `Well, not really, but . . .' Sharply she was cut off.

  `What you're saying is that at no time since completing your formal education have you earned money to pay your way?'

  Unspeaking, she nodded. And she saw then that his temper was near to being on the loose again, so that it wouldn't have surprised her if he'd hurled 'idle bitch!' at her once more.

  But he had done with words, and action was far more effective as, taking her roughly by the arm, he pulled her with him to the door. And Devon knew then that her quest had failed, that any second now she would be on the other side of that door.

  `Please, Mr Harrington,' she pleaded, ignoring this time the twinge in her hip as his smarter stride had her breaking into a trot. 'I'll do anything for you,' she begged, she'd scrub floors, anything, if only .. .