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She wondered if Richard knew what she was doing. When he’d walked out, she’d been working for Milady magazine, with no prospect of improving her career. Perhaps if he hadn’t walked out she wouldn’t have found the nerve to tackle a book, she thought consideringly. It was true that he’d always made fun of the gossipy pieces she’d been paid to produce for the magazine.
Which brought her back to the subject she’d been trying to avoid ever since she’d left Kay’s office. Was she actually going to write Diane Haran’s story—or at least as much of it as the public would be permitted to know?
The shrilling of the telephone was a welcome escape from her thoughts, and, pushing back a strand of dark, tof-fee-coloured hair, she reached for the receiver. It crossed her mind, as she brought it to her ear, that it could be Kay, but it was too late now. Besides, she was fairly sure that Kay was satisfied that she’d promised to think about the commission. She was unlikely to try and push her any further. Not today, anyway.
‘Yes?’
‘Liv. At last!’ It was her father. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.’ He paused, and when she didn’t instantly jump in with an explanation he continued, ‘Are you all right? Not having a problem with the new book, are you?’
‘No.’ Olivia blew out a breath. ‘No, Kay’s very happy with it, as it happens.’ She forced herself to sound positive.
Her father and stepmother had supported her all through her divorce from Richard, and they’d be most disturbed to hear what she was thinking of doing. ‘I—er—I was just at the supermarket. I’ve just got in.’
‘Ah.’ Matthew Pyatt sounded relieved. ‘Well, your mother and I were wondering if you’d like to come for supper.’ He always referred to her stepmother as her mother. After all, she had acted as such since Olivia was barely five years old. ‘We’ve got something we want to discuss with you, and as we haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks we thought it would kill two birds with one stone. What do you think?’
‘Oh, Dad—’ Olivia wasn’t enthusiastic. After the afternoon she’d had, she’d been looking forward to doing nothing more energetic than putting a frozen pizza in the microwave and curling up with a bottle of wine. Besides, she needed time to think before Kay came back to her. And she wasn’t sure she could hide her anxieties from them. ‘Could I take a rain check?’
‘There is something wrong.’ Her father had always been incredibly perceptive, which was one of the reasons why she’d hoped to put him off. ‘What is it? What’s happened? You might as well tell me.’
Olivia sighed. ‘Nothing’s happened,’ she said, not very convincingly, she had to admit. ‘I’m—tired, that’s all. It’s been a stressful few weeks, finishing the book and—’
‘Why are you stressed?’ Her father broke in before she could warm to her theme. ‘You’re not being harassed by some man, are you? You read about these things in the papers—young women who live alone being terrorised in their homes. I’ve never been entirely happy with the security at the flat. Anyone can get in downstairs.’
‘No, they can’t.’ Olivia was impatient. ‘You know visitors have to use the intercom to get in.’
‘But when that door opens to admit a legitimate visitor anyone can push in with them,’ retorted her father. ‘I know. When I used to install heating systems, you’d be surprised at how many robberies there were.’
Olivia had to smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t mean that the way it sounded.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Her father snorted. ‘And you’re not going to avoid an answer by being smug.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Olivia gave in. ‘I’ll come for supper.’ She suppressed her misgivings. ‘Just give me time to take a shower and change. Is eight o’clock all right?’
The Pyatts lived in Chiswick, just a stone’s throw from the station. It gave Olivia quite a pang getting off the train at Grove Park station. For the four years that she and Richard had been married, she’d got off there every evening on her way home from work. But at least her father’s house lay in the opposite direction to the one she used to take. The Pyatts’ house was detached, with double gates and a block paved drive leading to the front door.
Her stepmother opened the door to her.
‘Liv, my dear.’ Alice Pyatt reached up to bestow a warm kiss on her stepdaughter’s cheek. ‘Your father’s just gone down to the cellar to get some wine. He’ll be annoyed he wasn’t here to greet you himself. He’s been watching for you for the past half-hour.’
‘Am I late?’ Olivia let her stepmother help her off with her coat before stepping into the living room. There was a fire glowing in the hearth, and she moved towards it gratefully. ‘Mmm, this is cosy. I miss an open fire at the flat.’
Alice draped Olivia’s overcoat over the banister and followed her stepdaughter into the room. ‘You’re not late,’ she assured her. ‘It’s your father who’s anxious. Now, what can I get you to drink? Sherry, perhaps, or a G and T?’
‘Will I need one?’ Olivia sank down into the armchair nearest the fire. ‘You’re looking well. Is that a new shade of lipstick you’re wearing?’
‘I am, and it is, but you’re not going to get out of your father’s questions that way,’ responded Alice, with a smile.
‘And I have to say you do look rather peaky. Something is wrong, isn’t it? Your father’s seldom mistaken.’
Olivia sighed. ‘Nothing’s wrong exactly,’ she said, shaking her head at her stepmother’s offer of the sherry she was pouring herself. ‘I’ll wait for the wine,’ she added as Alice came to sit opposite her. And then, ‘I don’t look peaky, do I? I’m just feeling a bit—nervy, that’s all.’
Alice shrugged and took a sip of her sherry, and, looking at the other woman, Olivia had to admit that she didn’t look her age. As long as she could remember, Alice’s hair had always been that particular shade of ash blonde, and although she knew it must be artificial now it still looked as soft and feminine as it had ever done.
‘I’d say your father had some justification for his concern,’ she declared now, crossing one silk-clad leg over the other.
Alice had good legs, too, and she’d never been afraid to display them to advantage. At fifty-five, she was ten years younger than her husband and looked at least twenty, and Olivia had always envied her plump, curvaceous figure.
‘I’ve—I’ve been offered a new commission,’ she said, deciding it might be easier to discuss it with her stepmother first. ‘I’m just not sure whether I want to take it. It will mean living in the United States for a couple of months.’
‘The United States!’
Alice sounded impressed, but before she could say anything more Matthew Pyatt strode into the room. ‘The United States,’ he echoed, bending to kiss his daughter. ‘What about the United States? You’re not going to live in New York, are you?’
‘Of course not.’ Olivia tried to breathe evenly, waiting until her father had lodged himself on the arm of his wife’s chair before going on. ‘It’s just a—a commission I’ve been offered. In Los Angeles. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to take it yet.’
‘And that’s what’s on your mind, is it?’ Matthew Pyatt stretched out his long legs towards the fire. His eyes narrowed. ‘I must say, I’m not enthusiastic about you living out there either. A young woman, alone, in a volatile place like that.’
‘I’m not a child, Dad.’ Olivia wished she’d accepted a glass of sherry now. It would have given her something to do with her hands. As it was she clasped them between her legging-clad knees and pressed her legs together. ‘It’s not living in Los Angeles that’s the problem.’
‘Ah.’ Her father nodded. ‘You’re concerned about us, is that it? Well—’ he put an arm about his wife’s shoulders ‘—that’s what we wanted to talk to you about, actually. You know Alice has a sister living in New Zealand? As it happens, she’s invited us to go out there for a couple of months, too. We were worried about leaving you alone, but if you’re going to be away...’
Olivia swallowed. ‘I see.’
‘You don’t mind, do you, Liv?’ Alice leaned towards her anxiously, and Olivia knew she had to reassure them that that wasn’t the case. But the truth was, she was a little apprehensive. It was as if all the circumstances were conspiring against her.
‘I—Of course not,’ she protested now, seeing the relief in her stepmother’s face as she leaned back in her chair.
‘That’s good.’ Alice smiled. ‘It’s nearly ten years since I saw Barbara.’ She glanced up at her husband. ‘That’s one advantage of being retired. Matt won’t be worrying about the business while we’re gone.’
‘So whose biography are you going to write now?’ asked her father as his wife left the room to check on the supper, and Olivia knew she couldn’t prevaricate any longer.
‘Diane Haran’s.’ Her voice was flat. ‘But I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to do it,’ she added hastily as her father’s face grew red. ‘Don’t look like that, Dad. It’s a wonderful opportunity. And—and she and Richard are splitting up.’
‘You’re not serious!’
Matthew was on his feet now, and Olivia knew she had been right to be apprehensive of seeking his advice. As far as her father was concerned, Richard Haig deserved a beating for the way he’d treated his daughter, and it was only because Olivia had pleaded with him not to get involved that they hadn’t come to blows.
‘Why not?’ she asked, playing devil’s advocate. ‘According to Kay, I’ll never be offered such a lucrative deal again.’
‘You know why not,’ grated her father. ‘And that’s why you’re looking so worried, isn’t it? I wondered why we hadn’t seen you. I never suspected it was because of anything like this.’
‘And it wasn’t.’ Olivia was indignant. ‘Honestly, Dad, I just found out today. I’ve been doing the revisions on the other book. The one about Suzanne Howard. That’s why I haven’t seen you. Nothing else.’
Matthew Pyatt drew a steadying breath. ‘But even so...’
‘As I say, I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet,’ said Olivia evenly, looping a strand of toffee-coloured hair behind her ear. Her hair was long, and she invariably wore it in a chignon when she was working, but this evening she’d created a rather precarious knot on top of her head.
Her father returned to the chair her stepmother had been occupying. ‘But you are thinking of accepting it,’ he pointed out. ‘That’s why you’ve mentioned it to me.’
‘I’ve told you. I’m thinking about it.’ Olivia half resented his interference. ‘I’ll let you know what I decide. It’ll be before you leave for New Zealand, I expect.’
Her father scowled. ‘I’m not sure I want to go to New Zealand now, knowing you’re going to be seeing that swine again.’ He sighed. ‘Liv, there must be something else you can do. Can’t you see, this woman’s just using you to provide a convenient shoulder when she throws him out?’
That thought had occurred to Olivia, too, but she had no intention of admitting that to him. ‘Let’s leave it for now,’ she begged. ‘I’ll let you know what I’m going to do.’
‘And what about Henry?’ Alice asked mischievously, after her husband had related Olivia’s news to her, and Olivia thought how typical it was of her stepmother to try and lighten her husband’s mood.
‘Oh, my next-door neighbour will look after him,’ said Olivia cheerfully. ‘If I go, of course,’ she added, with a nervous smile. ‘But you’re right, I can’t forget the second most important man in my life.’
‘And who’s the first?’ demanded her father grumpily.
‘Why—you are, Daddy,’ she assured him, meeting her stepmother’s conspiratorial gaze.
CHAPTER TWO (#u62d1b8bf-88e2-5587-b3dd-9d4f2ceb716f)
DESPITE her decision, Olivia went through all the arguments why she shouldn’t have accepted the commission on the flight from London to Los Angeles. At the very least, she knew her actions were open to all kinds of interpretation, and she preferred not to examine her motives too closely for fear of what she might find.
Her father wasn’t pleased with her. And if he hadn’t been going away himself she knew he’d have done everything in his power to persuade her not to do it. But, happily, Alice had been there to mediate for her, and they’d departed for Auckland on schedule just two weeks before her own flight was arranged.
And, on a purely objective level, she was quite excited at the prospect of spending several weeks in California. Although she’d been to New York before, she’d never travelled to the West Coast, and it was still sufficiently chilly in England to make the idea of a more temperate climate infinitely appealing.
The knowledge that she was probably going to see Richard again gave her mixed feelings. She couldn’t deny that she was apprehensive, but she was also curious. She wanted to know what was happening in his life; whether the rumours about him and Diane were true. But most of all she wanted to know if she still cared about him. Whether her reasons for accepting this commission were as practical as she’d insisted.
She’d spent the month since she’d told Kay she would accept the commission researching Diane’ s background in the East End of London, and she’d been surprised to learn how well thought of Diane still was amongst the people she’d grown up with. Contrary to the image Olivia had gained of a spoilt and selfish woman, the picture neighbours and classmates painted was of a generous, warm hearted individual, who was not averse to helping out her friends in any way she could. Olivia was given dozens of anecdotes of the ways Diane had come through, from lending money when it was needed to offering her support when it was not.
According to the people Olivia had talked to, success had definitely not gone to Diane’s head. She’d always been a little headstrong, they admitted, but she’d never forgotten her friends or her roots.
And her story was fascinating, Olivia had to admit. Fascinating, amazing, harrowing, at times, but always interesting. The eldest of a family of seven children—many of them with different fathers—her childhood had been blighted by poverty and abuse. Her mother, who had been described as both hard-working and ignorant, had had little time for any of her children, and Diane, as the eldest, had been expected to help care for her younger siblings.
From the beginning, Diane’s outstanding physical beauty had caused problems and she’d become sexually aware at a very young age. But, ironically enough, it was because of an older man’s attraction to the fifteen-year-old Diane that she’d become famous. A wealthy man, he’d taken her to dine at a swish London restaurant and she’d caught the eye of a fashion photographer who was looking for a face for the ‘eighties’.
The rest was history, as they say, but Olivia guessed there was more to it than that. The years between could not have been easy, and although she was loath to admit it Olivia couldn’t help seeing her subject in a different light.
Which was just as well for the job she had to do, she acknowledged. This biography had to be objective, and she was glad that the research she’d already done had enabled her to amend her opinion. Why Diane should have wanted her to write her story was something she had yet to find out. Perhaps she really had enjoyed Eileen Cusack’s biography, Olivia reflected ruefully. After the things she’d learned, anything was possible.
But not probable, the small voice inside her argued as the big jet banked to make its approach to LAX. The sprawling mass that was Los Angeles was spread out below her, and there was no turning back. She was here; she was committed; and she had to stop worrying about Richard and concentrate on the job.
The oval-shaped airport buildings gleamed in the afternoon sunlight as the plane taxied along the runway. It was incredible to think that they’d left London at lunchtime and yet it was still only a quarter to four here. The miracle of international time zones, she thought as the aircraft approached its landing bay. She’d worry about the jet lag later.
The passengers were transferred from the plane to an air-conditioned walkway that conducted them to Passport Control. Because the expenses she was being allowed had enabled her to sit in the Club World section of the British Airways jet, Olivia found herself among the first to reach the Arrivals Hall, and like everyone else she spent the time waiting for her luggage by people-spotting.
She recognised a couple of famous faces who had apparently been travelling in the first-class compartment of the plane, and was surprised at the lack of interest shown towards them. It wasn’t until she noticed the bodyguards, tucked discreetly behind a pillar, that she understood her mistake. But still, it was something to tell her parents when she got home.
She had been checking that her luggage tags were still safely attached to her boarding pass when she looked up to find a man watching her. The fact that his clothes looked expensive and he was wearing a Rolex watch should have reassured her, but it didn’t. It just reminded her of how vulnerable she was as a stranger here.
Diane’s secretary had faxed her that she would meet her at the airport, and she hoped she kept her word. Still, she could always take a taxi, she assured herself impatiently. She knew Diane’s address and she wasn’t a child.
Indeed, she thought ruefully, her height would be a deterrent for most men. And although she was slim she knew she was fairly strong. She wasn’t a fitness freak, but she did enjoy swimming and cycling, and she knew from her experiences in New York that in the normal way she had nothing to be afraid of.
Unless her imaginary attacker looked like the man who had been watching her, she conceded, relieved to see that he had apparently lost interest. He was staring towards the carousel that would eventually spill out their luggage, and she found herself observing him with rather more interest than sense.
He was certainly big, she mused, and dark, with a lean, sinewy grace that was nothing like the muscle-bound heroes Hollywood seemed to spawn with such regularity. And although he was good to look at his appeal lay in the roughness of his features rather than their uniformity. Deep-set eyes beneath dark brows, and narrow cheekbones and a thin-lipped mouth; if there were lines on his face, they were lines of experience, and she realised he was probably ten years older than the twenty-five she’d originally judged him to be.
She wondered who he was. Not a film star, she decided, though there was another man hovering close by who could be a minder. If he needed one, she speculated doubtfully, realising she was being far too nosy. Whoever he was, he wasn’t interested in her, and she was unlikely to see him again.
The carousel had begun to turn and suitcases appeared like magic from the chute above it. A black holdall appeared, and the man standing beside the man she had been watching went to rescue it. She noticed he also had a suit carrier looped across his shoulder, and after he’d plucked the holdall from the conveyor he and his companion turned towards the exit.
First class, Olivia informed herself silently, realising the two men must have travelled on the same flight from London. She grimaced. So what? It was nothing to do with her. It was time she started paying attention to her own luggage. She thought she could see one of her suitcases just starting along the metal belt.
‘Would you happen to be Ms Pyatt?’
The unfamiliar voice was amazingly sexy. It conjured up images of hot sultry nights and bare brown limbs tangled in satin sheets. Olivia decided she was in danger of acting out her own fantasies, and, blaming the man who had fired her imagination, she turned to find that he hadn’t left after all but was standing right behind her.
‘I—’ Swallowing to ease the dryness of her throat, she started over. ‘Yes,’ she said, a little reluctantly. ‘I’m Olivia Pyatt.’ She’d reverted to her own surname when she and Richard were divorced. Then, because it was the only thing she could think of, she asked, ‘Did Miss Haran ask you to meet me?’
The man’s lean mouth twitched. ‘Not exactly,’ he said, humour tugging at the corners of his lips. ‘But Diane told me you were travelling on this flight.’
So he did know Diane. Olivia breathed a little more easily, although common sense told her it was the only explanation. ‘Did you travel from London, too?’ she asked, as if she didn’t already know that he had. He was probably a Californian, which would explain his accent and his tan.
‘Yeah.’ He glanced towards his companion, who was waiting patiently for him to finish. ‘B.J. and I make the trip fairly regularly.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s not to be recommended.’
‘Because of the jet lag?’ guessed Olivia, aware that her suitcase was about to start going round again. ‘Excuse me, I must get my luggage. I don’t want to have to carry it any further than I have to.’
‘I’ll get it.’
Leaning past her, the man lifted the heavy bag off the carousel and set it down beside her. In jeans and a light cotton jacket, he moved much easier than she did in her corduroy suit. The suit had seemed reasonably lightweight, too, when she’d left London, but she was already sweating. But that could be because of the present situation, she conceded. She wasn’t used to being accosted by strange men.
‘Is this all?’ he asked, and for a moment she didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘Your luggage,’ he prompted, and, glancing up at him, she noticed he had tawny eyes. Like a cat, she thought, realising she was behaving stupidly. For God’s sake, he was being polite. Nothing else.
‘Um—no, there’s one more,’ she said hurriedly, scanning the conveyor. ‘It’s always the way, isn’t it? One comes, and then you’ve got to wait for ever for the other.’ She glanced towards his companion, who was still standing with the holdall in his hand and the suit carrier draped over his shoulder. ‘Please—don’t let me keep you. I’m sure your friend must be getting impatient.’
‘B.J.?’ He, too, glanced the other man’s way, and then turned back to give Olivia a lazy smile. ‘No sweat,’ he said as Olivia’s toes curled inside her Doc Martens. ‘It’s cooler in here than outside.’
‘Oh, but—’ Olivia wanted to ask why he was waiting with her, but she couldn’t. Loosening the tight cuffs of her jacket, she peeled them back over her wrists. ‘Um—do you think Miss Haran’s secretary will be waiting outside? She said she’d come to meet me herself.’
‘Bonnie?’
He had the name right, and Olivia nodded. ‘A Miss Lovelace,’ she agreed, not used to using the woman’s given name.
‘I guess she’ll be waiting in the Arrivals Hall,’ he responded carelessly. ‘I’ll point her out to you when we go through.’
Olivia caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I—gather you’re a friend of Miss Haran’s,’ she said awkwardly, and he made a husky sound of disbelief.
‘Hell, yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t introduce myself, did I? I’m Joe Castellano. I—guess you could say I have an investment in Diane’s career.’
He held out his hand, and Olivia had no choice but to shake it, hoping he wouldn’t be too put off by her sweaty palm. ‘How do you do, Mr Castellano?’ she said, wondering if he was a frequent visitor to Diane’s Beverly Hills mansion. It would be rather nice, she thought, if he was.
She barely had time to extract her hand before she saw her other suitcase approaching. There were quite a lot of people gathered round the carousel now, and she saw several of the women weighing up the man at her side. And why not? she thought ruefully. He was attractive. Was he married? she wondered, rather foolishly. He was wearing a signet ring on his right hand but that was all.
