One Reckless Night (11 page)

 
Just as she had this time, she realised with a grimace as she plugged her laptop into her main computer terminal to print off her report on the Zolto Electronics acquisition, written after her solitary meal the previous night.

 
Anyway, she'd been too busy lately to cultivate any close female friendships, she told herself defensively. At one time there'd been Clare Mayhew, her best friend at school. They'd gone to university together, and when Clare had begun work at a City office they'd seen each other regularly. But Clare was now Mrs Gregg, with a daughter of less than a year to occupy her, and their relationship had slipped into a kind of limbo.

 
Maybe that was my fault, Zanna thought, watching the pages of the report issuing smoothly from the printer. Perhaps I should have tried harder to keep the thing going, accepted the dinner invitations and put up with Clare's efforts to pair me off with Jack's various friends.

 
But at the time she'd felt impatient-resentful, even- that Clare should imagine there was anything lacking in Zanna's busy successful life which could be put right by one of those pleasant but uninspiring males.

 
What the hell was there about getting married that turned otherwise sensible women into such inveterate matchmakers? she wondered restlessly.

 
The report concluded, Zanna changed into leggings and a sweatshirt and concocted herself a snack meal from cheese, crackers and a tomato she found wilting in the salad drawer of the fridge.

 
She was halfway through it when her front door buzzer sounded an imperious summons.

 
Zanna took a deep breath as she unfastened the safety lock. Then, 'Come in, Father,' she invited calmly.

 
'I should damned well think so.' Gerald Westcott was an imposing man, his stature enhanced by his immaculately tailored dark suit. His naturally florid complexion was darker than usual as he surveyed his daughter. 'What kind of game is this, Zanna? Where have you been all weekend? Didn't those fools at the hotel pass on my messages?'

 
'In great detail.' Zanna gestured towards the newly filled cafetiere. 'Would you like some coffee?'

 
'I'd like some answers,' her father said brusquely. 'What possessed you to simply-disappear like that? Didn't you realize I'd be wanting a full report on Friday's meeting?'

 
'Of course, and here it is.' Zanna passed him the file. 'As for my so-called disappearance, I thought I deserved a small break so I took one. And from now on I may take more. All work and no play, you know,' she added.

 
'I'm glad you feel you can afford the luxury,' Sir Gerald said grimly, his disapproving glance dismissing her casual attire. 'But in future you'll kindly report to me first before vanishing into the blue, and let me know where you can be contacted in case of emergency.'

 
'I see.' Zanna refilled her cup meditatively. 'Well, I'm glad you weren't worried about me, Father.'

 
'Worried?' The heavy brows rose. 'Why should I be worried? You're a grown woman, perfectly capable of looking after yourself, although I admit I was surprised and shocked to find you could behave so irresponsibly. But you're back now, so we'll say no more about it. You did well with the Zolto Electronics deal.' He nodded at her. 'You drove a hard bargain. I'm proud of you.'

 
Words, Zanna realized, that would once have been music to her ears but which now left her unmoved- even slightly uncomfortable. Henry Walton's tired voice seemed to echo in her head. You're your father's own daughter, Miss Westcott.

 
She said quietly, 'I'm glad you're pleased.'

 
'Come into the office early tomorrow.' He tapped the file. 'We'll have breakfast together and discuss this in detail.' He nodded at her again and left, as abruptly as he'd arrived.

 
Leaving me with my orders, Zanna thought bleakly as the door slammed behind him. And the rest of the day to get through somehow, alone with my thoughts.

 
And she found herself shivering.

 
'Are you all right, Miss Westcott?'

 
Zanna, splashing cold water onto her face, turned with a start to find Tessa Lloyd watching her. Her lips tightened. The bout of nausea she'd just endured had been as swift as it had been violent, but she'd comforted herself with the thought that there was no one else around in the women's washroom to be aware of her discomfiture. Now it seemed she was wrong, and there had been a witness after all. Damn.

 
She straightened, uneasily conscious that the world was still tilting dizzily, and reached for the paper towels.

 
'I'm fine, thanks,' she lied, avoiding her pale, glassy-eyed reflection in the mirror. 'It must have been something I ate.'

 
Tessa Lloyd frowned. 'Not, I hope, in the executive dining room. Should I speak to the caterers?'

 
Zanna tossed the used towel into the bin. 'I threw up, Miss Lloyd,' she returned coolly. 'No need to launch a full-scale enquiry.'

 
'But-forgive me-it isn't the first time this week, is it?' The other woman gave her a sharp stare. 'Are you sure you wouldn't like to see the Company doctor?'

 
Zanna bit her lip, silently cursing the efficiency of the office grapevine. 'Quite certain. I really don't want to turn a tummy bug into a federal case. But I might go home,' she added, sounding more nonchalant than she felt. 'See if a day in bed will shake it off.'

 
Tessa Lloyd gave a thin smile. 'And avoid passing it round the office too. These things can spread so rapidly in air-conditioned buildings.'

 
'I think I can safely say it isn't Legionnaires' disease.' Zanna tried to keep her irritation in check. 'I'll finish dealing with my post first-if that's all right with you?'

 
'Of course.' Sarcasm clearly washed over the Tessa Lloyds of this world. 'Shall I tell Sir Gerald you're ill?'

 
'That won't be necessary,' Zanna said quickly. 'I'll be back at my desk tomorrow anyway.'

 
In the month since she'd 'played truant', in Sir Gerald's deliberately jocular phrase, she'd hardly been allowed out of her father's sight for a moment. The work had piled up on her desk, hardly allowing her time for thought, let alone recrimination. At the weekends her presence had been demanded as hostess at a series of business functions. The puppet, she thought ironically, was back, responding to every pull on the strings. Any hint that she was even marginally unwell was likely to launch a major enquiry, and that was the last thing she wanted.

 
Her legs felt wobbly as she made her way back to her office. Megan, her secretary, waiting there for her, gave her an uneasy sideways look as she entered.

 
No prizes for guessing how Tessa Lloyd came by her information, Zanna thought grimly as she seated herself at her desk. Maybe it was time she looked for an assistant with more discretion.

 
'Anything urgent?' She began to glance through the pile of mail.

 
'I don't think so, Miss Westcott.' Megan hesitated. 'One of them was marked "Personal" so I left it for you.'

 
'Oh?' Surprised, Zanna picked up the thick cream envelope with its elegantly lettered superscription "Miss Suzannah Westcott". It was odd to see her full name spelled out for once, clearly by someone who didn't know her very well, she thought, fighting another surge of queasiness. She slit open the envelope and extracted an embossed invitation card.

 
Her brows lifted. The pleasure of her company was requested at the London opening of the Lantrell Gallery.

 
'Lantrell,' she said aloud. 'Do we know them? Does Westcott Holdings sponsor them?'

 
'I don't think so, Miss Westcott. Shall I ring down to the PR section and ask?'

 
'Why not?' The opening, Zanna noted, was in a week's time. As Megan went into her own office to telephone she picked up her diary and began to leaf through it. It was probably some kind of marketing ploy, she thought dismissively, and almost certainly she wouldn't attend, but as someone had taken the trouble to invite her, she might as well mark down the date and time.

 
She was still sitting, staring at the diary, when Megan returned. 'We have no connection with them, Miss Westcott, but Lindsay's heard of them. She says there are Lantrell Galleries in New York and Los Angeles, as well as Madrid, Paris and Nice.' She sounded as if the information had been learned by heart. 'Apparently they specialize in traditional rather than contemporary art and sculpture.' She paused. 'Miss Westcott-are you all right? You've gone as white as a sheet.'

 
Her voice seemed to come from miles away. With a supreme effort, Zanna closed the diary and put it down.

 
'Actually, I feel pretty dire.' She was astonished at how normal her voice sounded. 'There's some dictation on the machine for you, Megan, which I'll sign tomorrow. I'm taking the rest of the day off.'

 
'Will you be all right to drive? Should I call a cab?' Megan was flustered and fluttering. Zanna Westcott hadn't taken time off for illness in living memory. Perhaps she was human after all.

 
'No, and please don't fuss.' Zanna tried to soften the abruptness of the words with a parody of a smile. 'I- I'll be as good as new in the morning.'

 
Please, she thought as she picked up her bag and walked to the door. Please let that be true.

 
Zanna had always loved the view from her living room window. Loved the stretch of the Thames and its busy traffic. Today she looked unseeingly at the sparkle of the sun on the river in the early light.

 
She'd hardly slept the previous night, her mind in turmoil, examining and rejecting the evidence, telling herself that yesterday's suspicion could not be true-that the test she'd conducted some fifteen minutes ago would justify her completely. Because anything else was unthinkable.

 
She glanced feverishly at her watch, willing the time to pass, counting the moments. Her feet felt leaden as she eventually crossed to the bedroom, and went into the bathroom beyond.

 
The mark on the test tube seemed to glare at her, confirming her worst nightmare.

 
Her clenched fist pressed against her abdomen. 'No,' she whispered in anguish. 'Oh, dear God, no.'

 
Had that one reckless night in all her careful life led so disastrously to this? Had it really happened? Could it be true?

 
Even with the incontrovertible proof in front of her, the questions-the denials beat in her brain.

 
She was Zanna Westcott. She didn't make mistakes. She thought things through. She considered the consequences and made balanced decisions.

 
Except once, when she'd allowed herself to be carried away on some private tide of madness. But now the tide had receded, she thought savagely, leaving her marooned on some desperate and lonely shore, more frightened than she had ever been in her life.

 
The walls of the bathroom seemed to be closing in on her. She almost ran back to the space of the living room-its high ceiling, pale, clinical walls and wide expanse of glass-the sound of her breathing rasping in her head.

 
She needed to clear her brain-to think-to plan. That was what she did best, what she was valued for. She wasn't just some pathetic creature at the mercy of her hormones. And this was just another problem needing a solution.

 
And, knowing all that, why did she want to throw back her head and howl like a dog? she asked herself in bitter derision.

 
For a moment she stood, torn by indecision, then, snatching up her bag, Zanna left the apartment on the run, heading for the private underground car park. Although it was still early, the working day was beginning, and soon the inevitable barrage of phone calls would start too. The enquiries she would have to fend off. The questions she could not answer. The hammering at defenses which were suddenly vulnerable.

 
And for a while she needed to distance herself. To regroup her personal resources.

 
She picked a route out of the city totally at random, or so she told herself. It was only when she was actually on the motorway that she realized, or admitted, where instinct was driving her.

 
But even so she didn't have to go through with it. She could still make the wise choice. Take the next exit- get out-get off. Go anywhere but there. She watched the road signs ripple past, each with its promise of a new destination, a new refuge. Watched and did nothing.

 
When the time came she eased across to the nearside lane as if she were an automaton. Within five minutes the tall hedges of the lanes had closed around her, pulling her inexorably into their depths, although she still wasn't sure what she was doing here or what she hoped to achieve by returning. She only knew that she had been drawn back as if by invisible cords, that no other choice had existed but to find Jake and-and then-what?