Tomorrow...Come Soon Read online

  The long sleek car that stood outside the front door had

  the calm she had fought so hard for wanting to bolt and

  her along with it. She made herself think of her father, of how different he had been since Grant Harrington's visit on Tuesday; and she had climbed the concrete steps.

  Wondering if she should ring the bell and wait to be let in, Devon was again beset by nerves. She decided against calling him to answer the front door—she lived here now, didn't she?—temporarily. Very temporarily, if she had her way.

  She entered the house having no idea where in its vastness he would be, and crossed the hall thinking, since he could only just have got in himself, he wouldn't be put out that her timing was of

  In that, as she opened the sitting room door and went in, she was to discover she had never been more wrong.

  She had thought she was calmer, but one look at Grant Harrington's dark expression as he watched her walk in was enough to have all calm departing, and her insides quaking. He was absolutely furious, she saw, and he wasn't about to waste any time in letting her know it!

  `Where in sweet hell have you been?' he blazed before she could begin to explain she had missed a bus, but had still thought to be there first. 'I told you to be here when I returned!' he thundered.

  CHAPTER SIX

  `IF this is how you keep your promises,' Grant Harrington continued to rage, 'then they're as worthless as you are!'

  That stung, and Devon felt anger she was in no position to feet, as she retorted hotly, 'I don't have a crystal ball—you didn't say what time you would be back. I assumed . .

  Her voice trailed off as his narrow-eyed gaze took in the flashing blue of hers. But with his words separating themselves in her mind to mean that with her not being there as he had commanded, he saw it as her breaking her word—which left him free to break his if he so wished, she was quickly swallowing down her ire.

  `I'm sorry,' she apologised, defensive all of a sudden. 'I missed a bus and had to wait . .

  `Bus!' She hadn't thought his sarcasm would stay hidden for long. 'I would have thought a taxi far more your style.' Oh, how she hated him, hated him that she had to take a defensive position. 'You mean you actually walked a quarter of a mile from the bus stop!'

  Anger was needling her off her defensive stance. She was quite well aware that he thought her a lazy slob, without his sarcasm. But all at once, like a sudden flash of blinding light, it came to her that the sooner that major promise to him had been kept, the sooner that threat hanging over her father would be lifted—only then would she be able to breathe more easily. As suddenly, all her anger drained away. Though before she could so much as get in there and try to placate him, Grant was there first, sarcasm gone, as he rapped shortly:

  `Where's your luggage? I told you to come prepared to stay a while.'

  Well, at least she'd got something right. was here

  earlier,' she told him, not too hopeful of a gold star since his grim expression hadn't lightened at all. put my things upstairs.' And tiptoeing, since it looked as though just one wrong word from her would have him cancelling their contract, didn't think you would mind.'

  If he suspected sarcasm behind her words, though in truth she was meaning her taking the liberty of wandering over his home, then a master at trying to kill her with a look, he ordered her to, 'Pour me a Scotch—I'm going up to change.'

  Unused to pouring a Scotch measure, Devon went to the drinks cabinet when he had gone, and poured the same quantity she thought she had seen him pour before.

  Obviously the sour brute had just got in. Otherwise, it was equally obvious, had she not come in close on his heels, he would either have picked up the phone giving instructions to re-call her father, or, alternatively, have driven over to her home to drag her here by the roots of her hair. Nobody, she guessed, ever welshed on him without paying for it.

  Grant Harrington was not upstairs many minutes, but when he returned, there was an ominous tight-lipped look to him that had her quailing again. Having no idea what thoughts had gone through his head while he had been changing, Devon, hating it, again found herself having to be placatory.

  Handing him the Scotch she had poured on his instruction, she offered a tentative, hope it's all right,' and excused, wasn't sure of the measure—we only ever have sherry at home.'

  Wordlessly he took the drink from her, but the way he

  tipped half of it into the water jug, before tipping the other half down his throat; spoke volumes. She didn't doubt, as he served her with a dark look, that he thought this was just another instance of her lying just for the sake of it. But as the empty glass was placed carefully down on a tray, and his voice came, frighteningly quiet, she thought, so all other thought froze in her as he said:

  `Come with me.'

  Her eyes shot to his. There was danger here, she felt it, could almost touch it. 'Where?' she asked, her voice gone husky.

  `Upstairs.'

  Just that one word, but it was sufficient to have her feet glued to the ground. Why? she wanted to ask. But she rather thought she knew. Oh God, she had thought it would happen tonight—but dear lord, wasn't he going to wait that long!

  Knowing she should be dashing up the stairs ahead of him the sooner to have what was at the root of their bargain sealed, thereby securing his word not to prosecute, Devon felt incapable of moving one step. And that didn't suit Grant Harrington.

  His hand crushing the bones in her wrist manacled her as he jerked her to go with him. Pain shot through her hip so that she was having to concentrate hard on not only trying to keep the lid on her panic, but also in not favouring that hip. He had no belief in anything she told him. Should he see her limp and ask the reason, then her truthful answer would have him seeing it as another of her lies—hadn't he threatened to ram such lies back down her throat?—that being achieved, she saw, treading the stairs behind him, her wrist still held, by taking her in anger!

  Panic that he would roughly use her was sinking her when they reached the top of the stairs and he had hauled

  her along the landing behind him. Then panic was mixed with confusion that he wasn't taking her to the room where that ginormous bed was, but was pushing open the door to the room she had selected for herself!

  `What's the big idea?' he questioned shortly, swinging her into the room in front of him, only then letting go her wrist.

  She stumbled, and because of pain, limped a couple of steps away from him. Her halting gait was noted by him, but he did not refer to it; it was all part of her stumble in his eyes, she saw.

  `I thought,' she said, going very carefully, beginning to feel better that it looked as though she had won a reprieve and that he had dragged her there purely because he was annoyed that she had chosen this room, 'that I would have this room.' And, trying desperately hard to be tactful, `That is, if you don't mind?'

  That he did mind, he did not leave her in any doubt. Swiftly he brushed past her and opened the wardrobe door, sarcasm back with him.

  `I have every confidence that you've investigated each room in the house,' he said. And cuttingly, as he indicated the contents of the wardrobe, 'You can just take this little lot and put them in the wardrobe I've moved into my room.'

  Unreasonable pig! she fumed silently, anger being allowed to surface now that it looked as though she had earned a temporary respite from her worst fear. How the dickens was she supposed to have found a room not in use if it wasn't by investigating?

  `Do I really have to move my things?' she asked, trying to get through to him and his unreasonable attitude. 'I mean,' she rushed on when all she received in reply was one of his superior looks, 'it's not—that is—well, I thought it would be all right if I had a room to myself.

  You've got plenty to spare,' she thought to point out. `And . . . and it's not as if—as if you'll want me with you all night, is it?'

  `Who says I won't?' he asked loftily. And Devon forgot to be placatory.

  `I prefer to sleep alone,'
she snapped, having known she wouldn't be able to keep up her passive role for long.

  And never had she felt such violent feelings towards anyone, when, mockery back, he drawled insolently, `I'll bet you say that to all the boys.' His voice went tough then, when tersely he commanded, `Get your stuff moved.'

  Hanging grimly on to the temper he had awakened from sleep, Devon saw she wasn't quick enough to obey him. For the next thing she knew, long arms had snaked inside the wardrobe and jeans, dresses and skirts were more or less thrown at her, with the comment that she had had too much of her own way in the past and that now she could damn well do as she was told.

  Her arms full, angrily Devon spun away from him, her hip catching her out, and the ensuing limp bringing forth the comment she could do without:

  `See where being smart gets you!'

  Determined not to limp again, though very aware it might have proved less painful, she walked to the room she knew was his, not liking that he stood by and watched as she hung her everyday sort of clothes up.

  `You appear to have left your haute couture outfits at home,' he remarked sourly, having watched her for some minutes without speaking.

  She was not unaware that some of her dresses had faded from too much washing, but she could have done without his commentary. Or the fact that he seemed determined to needle her. Though why he should want to do that was beyond her. Unless he was hating this situation as much

  as her—hating himself, but determined to go through with it.

  `Why,' he pressed, when she clamped her lips firmly and refused to be drawn, 'bring only this sort of gear— trying to get me to fork out for something I shan't be ashamed to be seen out with you in?'

  Mutinously Devon thought again what a lovely mind he'd got, deciding hotly that he wasn't hating anything but her and what he thought she stood for. If he went to buy her so much as a pair of tights, she'd wrap them around his throat and pull—hard!

  `It hadn't occurred to me that we would be going out,' she retorted—and was hard put not to thump him when he taunted:

  `You have had some strange bedfellows!' He ignored the flame in her eyes at his implication that all she did with her other 'bedfellows' was stay in bed, then announced, his eyes flicking over the rest of her, 'You're passable enough for anyone not to be ashamed to seen out with you,' and as her anger peaked, 'Since shame doesn't come easily to me, I'll take you out in what you're wearing.'

  Lofty swine! she thought, as he strolled out, obviously bored standing about watching her stow her things away.

  Several trips more were needed to the bedroom she would have preferred, but which had been ruled out by His Mightiness. She investigated a chest of drawers and found that two drawers had been emptied for her use.

  In no hurry to join him downstairs, thinking that since it locked as though they were dining out, eight o'clock would be soon enough to go down, Devon then checked that the adjacent bathroom had a bolt on it.

  She found the bathwater soothing to her hip, its constant nagging having had a flutter of a different sort of panic invading. But as the ache was eased away, so she was able to think more rationally. But in remembering

  that her hip was fine now, and that tomorrow, since Grant Harrington would not want her with him during the day as well, and would probably take himself off somewhere, leaving her able to get in some of that much needed rest, so some of her mutiny against him died. Devon gave herself another talking to.

  But it was one thing to know that the sooner she gave herself to him the sooner that threat to her father would be lifted. And quite another, she was quickly realising when a heavy fist hammered on the bathroom door, and a sharp voice called:

  `I'm hungry. Get a move on!'

  It was something, she supposed, him being him, that he hadn't attempted to try the door and just barge in to issue his orders. But get a move on she did—just in case— blaming the soothing bathwater that she had lain there without thought to time.

  Having thought to bring the clothes she would wear into the bathroom with her, hurriedly Devon dried and got into a dress that admittedly was home-made, but since she was quite expert with her needle, she hoped didn't shriek 'I made it myself'.

  She listened at the bathroom door, and not hearing a sound, emerged to find she still had the bedroom to herself. There were other bathrooms in the house, so if Grant Harrington had come up for a shower, he must have showered elsewhere, she thought, though she didn't delay very long.

  Lipsticked, powdered, and with the quickest of brushes through her hair, she hurriedly left the bedroom, panicking again that if she didn't soon present herself, that 'I'm hungry' that had been rapped would have his appetite going in other directions.

  His damp hair, when she joined him in the sitting room, told Devon her surmise that he had showered elsewhere

  had been accurate. He was wearing a faintly checked lounge suit, and would, she couldn't help thinking, be the sort of escort, large and distinguished-looking, that many girls might have been thrilled to be seen out with—though not her.

  His eyes went over her blue dress, the colour bringing out the brilliance of her eyes. 'Do you always take this long to get ready?' he asked belligerently, for all there was an admiration showing in his glance she found unnerving.

  `Doesn't every girl?' she asked huskily—and was grateful that he didn't deign to answer as he moved to the door and she followed him out to his car.

  Like every girl she wanted to be pretty, beautiful even, as Grant had remarked she was. But as effortlessly he swung the car out of the drive, without having the least idea what it was about her that clearly drew him to desire her, as her feet got colder and colder, so Devon was wishing that it was something she had been born without.

  Feeling a mass of contradictions, for how could she think that way when because of either that certain something—or maybe because Grant Harrington was hellbent on making her pay for once in her life—she should be glad she was to be used to keep her father safe from prison. But as thoughts that she would have to lie with this bear of a man at her side throughout the night started to make her jittery, as he pulled the car up outside a smart and lively-looking club, so Devon, not used to contact with strangers anyway, shrank within herself.

  She was aware of eyes turning in their direction as the head waiter guided them to their table, but she had eyes for nowhere but in front of her.

  Without taking any of it in, she read the menu. And she did not miss the glint in Grant's eyes that said he thought she was just being difficult when she couldn't make up her mind what she wanted to eat.

  `Anything will do,' she said, thinking anything would just about choke her.

  `Are you dieting?' he asked shortly, when she had only picked at her starter, and wasn't making very much of a job of the chicken in wine sauce in front of her.

  never diet,' she replied stiffly, nerves jumping again as that brought his eyes to give a cursory but well documented glance to what he could see of her figure.

  `Then eat,' he rapped sharply, flushing out a nervous anger as she snapped back:

  `I'm not hungry.'

  Taking her at her word that she never had cause to diet, she heard him order a chocolate nut meringue for her final course—which, when delivered to the table, looked absolutely delicious, but which, after the first spoonful, had her knowing, as her stomach consumed by nerves revolted, that she would be in trouble if she ate anymore.

  Without fuss, she laid down her spoon, and because she had to look somewhere, she directed her eyes on to the dance area below them. Perhaps, she thought, trying to latch on to something pleasant, when all this was over, she might get invited out by some more agreeable man. It would be lovely to dance like those people down there. She twisted in her seat to get a better look at the steps they were doing, and was reminded that she wasn't yet up to such energetic gyrations when she felt a twinge in her hip.

  She would definitely try and rest tomorrow, she was just thinking, when her though
ts were abruptly cut into by Grant, who must have observed her preoccupation with those on the dance floor.

  `We'll dance,' he said—no 'would you care to' about it!

  don't . . .' she said, her head turning to see he was already on his feet. She had been in his arms twice before, but her nerves jangled; all too soon she would be in them again. don't dance,' she told him chokily.

  That he sat down and wasn't 'pressing when she could see from his glinting eyes that her confession had been received as a blatant lie, and she knew she would soon be on the receiving end of a few pertinent comments; they were not very long in coming.

  `I've just about had it with you, Devon Johnston,' he said, his anger barely leashed: 'You might hate my guts that for the first time in your life you're not getting something for free. But just remember this,' he went on, the leash on his temper straining as he leaned forward and snarled in a low tone, I didn't ask your father to steal from me. By your own admission he did it for you. So you just damn well enter into the right spirit—or,' he threatened, which had fear for her father mixing in with the rest of her nerves, 'you'll find it won't take me above two minutes to telegraph Scotland!'

  Her voice stuck somewhere deep in her throat, Devon wanted to tell him she had every intention of entering into the right spirit. But he wouldn't believe her anyway if she did tell him that truly she didn't dance, she saw. Though before she could get vocal release to try and tell him anyhow, the most stunning of sophisticated redheads appeared as if from nowhere at their table.

  `Grant—darling!' she exclaimed, causing Devon to be grateful to her, for her exclamation had his aggressive look going from her, and changing as he rose to his feet while the redhead carried on, 'I tried to get you at your office, but they said you were in France.'

  Tor a few days only,' he replied, a glimmer of a smile on his face, but anger about him still; that smile did not reach his eyes, Devon noted.