Carole Mortimer - Hawk's Prey

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Cover

Title Page Hawk’s Prey Carole Mortimer www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

‘AND if those threats were genuine, Whitney—which I think they are—you could lose a lot more than the story!’

She suppressed the shiver of apprehension that tingled down her spine at Martin’s exasperated warning. She didn’t doubt for a moment, either, that the threatening telephone calls she had received during the last week were genuine. The two made here to the newspaper had thrown her a little, but she had been working here two years now and accepted that very often the people involved didn’t like the idea of a story being written about them; their displeasure was part of the territory. But the call she had received last night warning her off the Beresford family had shaken her up enough for her to mention it to Martin Groves, her editor at the daily newspaper she worked for. Last night’s call had been made to her home, and she had an unlisted number!

‘It’s my story, Martin,’ she maintained stubbornly, her chin raised challengingly.

‘Bill could do just as good a job.’

‘Better,’ she acknowledged tightly, an angry flush beneath her high cheekbones. ‘But it’s my story,’ she reminded him again tautly, not willing to accede to his demand that she pass her information on to someone else.

‘Corruption in local councils has been covered before,’ he dismissed scornfully.

‘Maybe,’ Whitney conceded abruptly. ‘But I’m this close,’—she held the thumb and index finger of her left hand centimetres apart—‘to proving that Tom Beresford is involved in most of it.’

Martin shook his head. He was a thin man with sparse grey hair, grandfather to a girl not much younger than the one seated before him. But even paternal pride couldn’t make him claim that his granddaughter’s beauty came anywhere close to Whitney Morgan’s. From the top of her ebony head, her uptilted, violet coloured eyes, and ethereally lovely face, to the slender grace of her five-foot-seven body, she was a beauty. In the hard-bitten profession she had chosen for herself that beauty had been as much of a hindrance as a foot in the door. It was far from the only drawback he knew she had had to overcome.

‘That close isn’t close enough,’ he told her harshly. ‘I run a newspaper, not a suicide squad. I told you to lay off the Beresford story days ago,’ he added sternly before she could interrupt.

She hadn’t relished the idea of telling him about the calls, had expected this anger at the fact that she hadn’t done as asked and dropped the story. But she hadn’t been able to forget what she already knew, the fact that innocent people were being affected, incentive enough for her to ignore Martin’s order, knowing he would be the first to congratulate her if she came through with a story for him.

‘He’s as guilty as—–’

‘Whitney, you know that old gangster joke about going for a swim with concrete shoes?’ Martin cut in pointedly. ‘Well Beresford wouldn’t be joking,’ he added drily, now that he had her full attention.

Whitney studied him warily, uncertainty in the wide violet eyes. ‘You’re just trying to frighten me,’ she dismissed finally.

He sighed. ‘Am I succeeding?’

‘No!’ she lied. Of course she was frightened!

He stood up forcefully. ‘Whitney, the man is a barracuda! He wouldn’t even bother to gobble you up himself, you’re too unimportant and scrawny for him; he’d leave you to one of his minions.’

She knew exactly what Tom Beresford was like, knew that he ran an English version of the Mafia. In his early sixties, a big rough-diamond of a man, he ran an empire in England that was almost as powerful as the one across the Atlantic, although Whitney had found no connection to them during her investigation.

‘I’m glad you told me that, Martin,’ she laughed abruptly. ‘I’m lunching with him today.’

‘ What? ’

She winced at the expected reaction to her announcement. But if what Martin said about the concrete shoes was true she at least wanted someone to know who had been the last person she had seen! Martin looked ready to explode, though, his small wiry body tense with disbelief. Maybe she had been a little rash inviting Tom Beresford out to lunch, but with the security he had surrounding his privacy how else was she supposed to talk to the man himself? He had accepted the invitation, hadn’t he! But after what Martin had just said she couldn’t help wondering if they made concrete shoes in size five!

‘I’m sure you heard me, Martin,’ she sighed. ‘We’re meeting at the restaurant in twenty-five minutes.’

‘Which restaurant?’ His eyes were narrowed.

‘Now, Martin—–’

‘I just want to make sure I have the right river dragged,’ he told her blandly.

‘There is only one river going through London,’ Whitney chided drily at his effort to frighten her out of keeping the appointment.

‘At least you had the sense to arrange to meet in town,’ Martin scowled. ‘What on earth possessed you to meet the man himself? Don’t tell me,’ he sighed resignedly. ‘You wanted to give him the chance to defend himself!’

‘He couldn’t do that,’ she said with certainty. ‘But if I challenge him with what I already know he just might let something slip.’

Martin gave her a pitying look. ‘How long did you say you’ve worked on the National? ’

‘Two years.’ She told him what she knew he already knew, probably down to the day! ‘I know, people like Tom Beresford don’t let things slip out,’ she sighed. ‘I’m not completely stupid—–’

‘You could have fooled me,’ he derided hardly. ‘Just what are you hoping to achieve?’

Her eyes flashed deeply violet. ‘I hope to show Mr Beresford that I’m not easily frightened off!’

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.