Unchained Destinies

To Mariann, there seemed to be an increasing tension between them, a waiting, as if each of them was assessing the other, circling, throwing a wary punch or two. And she knew she dared not pursue the avenue he’d left open to her. Every fibre of her being might be directed towards tracing saga-writer Mary O’Brien but this wasn’t the way to do it. She’d have to be patient till tomorrow.

‘Must make your eyes tired,’ she said sympathetically, ‘doin’ all that readin’. He smiled faintly. ‘Speaking of tired, my mum said I should never outstay my welcome so I’d better get my things on.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He shut the door and she was left gazing at its heavy panels, feeling a sense of anticlimax. It had all been easy after all. Too easy? Her brow furrowed in anxiety.

Trudging through the snow back to the Budapest Hilton a short distance away, she mentally reviewed her position. She thought she’d allayed his suspicions, but wasn’t sure. In the morning, she’d have to ask her two fellow decorators not to refer to the fact that she was ‘Viggy’s’ girl.

Despite her predicament, she had to smile. This was the kind of crazy, impossible situation she loved as a challenge to her ingenuity—though several times she’d felt she’d been sailing a little close to the wind!

Lionel rang her and she told him what had happened. ‘The next night, I’ll get that address if I have to set the office on fire and stay on to ransack the cabinet while the flames are leaping about my ears’ she joked.

‘Do that,’ he said hysterically. ‘I can’t hold the bank longer than a couple off days!’

‘Tell them Mary’s as good as yours again,’ she said gently, worried about Lionel’s state of mind. ‘Rely on me. I’ll do everything I can.’

They all worked hard the next day—she, her two ‘mates’ and everyone in the office. Vigadó had either worked all night or had begun at some ungodly hour because when she arrived at eight he was already into a third cup of coffee and barely looked up when she was let in by the janitor.

The reaction of the staff when they saw their boss had arrived unexpectedly was quite amusing. Horror, panic, then a frantic appearance of work—as in a speeded-up film. And Vigadó had said virtually nothing to produce this effect. This was all on the strength of his formidable reputation.

Beneath the boiler suit she boiled. But she didn’t dare strip off. Not with eagle eyes flicking her the odd glance every now and then. So she slaved on the ceiling while her colleagues did the more difficult gloss-work, her neck aching more and more as the endless hours wore on.

Tonight, she told herself. She’d get those records tonight. And prayed that he’d go to bed early after such a long day.

‘Staying on again?’

The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. He’d crept up behind her. ‘Just want to finish this bit of cantaloupe,’ she said, ‘and you can decide if you like it or not when you get the whole effect.’

‘I think I’ll call it a day,’ he murmured, jingling coins in the pocket of his dark grey business suit. She stiffened. Or were they keys? ‘Perhaps I’ll decide tomorrow.’

Terrific! ‘If you like,’ she said politely. And he’d gone. Mariann waited for her thudding heart to slow down and listened. He was slowly walking up the marble stairs to the penthouse apartment above. A few agonising moments later, she let out a long breath of relief and put the roller down on the huge tin.

Silently she slipped into the office he’d been using. It was dark and she couldn’t find the keys anywhere. It was several seconds before she realised that they were no longer in the drawer. Closing her mind to the fact that they were in his pocket, she whirled and heaved ineffectually at the drawers of the filing cabinet. Locked. So she methodically worked through everything in the office but found no keys of any kind.

Leaning against the cabinet, she forced her brain to come up with ideas. The keys were almost definitely in his possession. Either tonight or some other night she’d have to get them. They’d be still in his pocket, or on his dressing-table if he changed from the formal suit into something more casual for the evening.

Mariann bit her lip. But how to lay her hands on them? This wasn’t some backwoods lad she could fool. However…people said she was sexy. Her sex-appeal had always been a terrible burden and she’d never turned on its full voltage because of the trouble it might get her into. So far she’d always had a tongue sharp enough to cut groping men down to size. She knew exactly how to cool their ardour. Maybe this was the time to test her quick wit to the limit. If she could get into Vigadó’s apartment, perhaps find some excuse…

She gulped. It would be a case of getting close enough to pick his pocket, or search the bathroom and his bedroom. Risky. But she didn’t have any choice. Lionel was relying on her.

Could she be frightened of something? Scream, run upstairs and claim an intruder had come in…? No, the janitor would come running. And a straightforward, Can I see your etchings? approach would get her into his bed quicker than she could say Picasso. But if she were in trouble…

She remembered how paint had stained his last pair of trousers and he’d been fastidious enough to get annoyed. Her face lit up with a broad grin. If he was still wearing the charcoal-grey gear, she could ruin it and make sure he removed it. If not, she could get into his bathroom by the same plan that had formed in her mind.

‘You’re brilliant!’ She giggled to herself.

Hurrying back to where she’d been working, she impatiently tore off her boiler suit, pushed the roller off the tin and slopped cantaloupe paint down her shorts. It slid in satisfying melony rivers all down her bare legs. Perfect!

Trying not to laugh, she allowed it to stain her golden skin for a few moments, let out a loud yell, paused, and ran up the marble steps to Vigadó’s apartment.

CHAPTER THREE

VIGADÓ had changed into casual beige trousers and jacket, as she’d hoped, and cradled a drink in his hand. It worried her that he didn’t look surprised to see her at all.

‘An accident!’ she wailed, displaying her legs.

‘Yes?’

‘My legs are turning marmalade!’

‘Yes.’

Men must have been kidding her about her sex-appeal! she thought irritably. Here she was, all legs and heaving bosoms, and throwing herself on his mercy, and he wasn’t affected at all! Her lip quivered mutinously. ‘I can’t put my clothes on over this!’ She waggled a bright knee about. He didn’t even look down. So she caught his arm and moved in closer, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. ‘I know it’s a cheek, but can I…could I use your shower?’

‘There’s a staff washroom downstairs.’ He made to close the door.

Her knee jammed in it quickly and she leaned all her weight against it, finding herself almost falling into the apartment when he let the door go. ‘There’s no scrubbing brush,’ she explained. ‘I’ve run out of turps—’

‘You want to use my bathroom.’

‘Yes,’ she said demurely, hoping he’d dumped his suit there.

His mouth looked rather cynical. ‘I suppose you know what you’re doing.’

It seemed to Mariann that his voice was charged with husky indolence, as though he had plans, and she felt the nerves curling her toes. ‘Of course,’ she answered, not at all sure.

‘Come in. I’ll show you the bathroom.’

‘Thanks,’ she said brightly. ‘I’d better get that loofah workin’ smartish!’ she joked, a little worried about his motives. ‘In there? I can manage from here.’ Accelerating her pace, she strode into the bathroom and made to slam the door—but he was there, behind her. ‘I can manage,’ she said again, pointedly, and scanned the room. No discarded clothes. Darn’

‘Please allow me.’ Reaching past her, he turned on the bath taps and sprinkled exotic oils into the water. His courtesy was all wrong but she’d known the risk she’d be running. Searching for some diversionary remark, she leant forward and let her fingers ripple through the scented water. ‘Smells nice. Like Christmas pudding.’

‘Perfumes and spices of the Orient,’ he murmured, his voice betraying a suppressed laugh.

Her spirits lifted considerably. If she could keep him amused, she’d be all right. ‘That explains it. My first time in a sunken bath, you know!’ she confided, trying to sound dazzled by the experience. ‘I won’t hog it for long. Please carry on with whatever you were doing——’

‘Thank you. I will. I was about to have a bath and turn in for the night,’ he said smoothly.

‘Oh! Yes…well, I expect you’re still tired from all those meetings and never sitting down—’

‘What was that you said?’

She ground her teeth with self-anger. There was no reason why she should know that he never allowed people to sit on chairs at his meetings! Who’d tell a decorator’s assistant that? ‘Lucky guess. I can see you now,’ she said, her eyes glazing with a far-away look, ‘striding up and down, telling everyone what to do while they sit riveted. Now,’ she continued, turning off the taps and anxious to escape his interrogation, ‘I’ll be quick,’ she promised breathily. ‘Then you can come in—’

‘Can I just clarify this?’ he said silkily. ‘You’re inviting me to have a bath with you?’

‘A—a bath?’ Shocked, she swallowed away the lump in her throat. ‘I—I—’

You’re very generous. Thank you. I accept, he drawled, loosening his tie.

Mariann’s eyes grew enormous. ‘Whoa there!’ she rasped. ‘I meant I’d clean myself up quickly so you could settle in for a quiet night!’

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