Angel of Death Read Free

over a kitten, wouldn’t it?’
    George made a growling noise in his throat. ‘She’s too good for Sean, that’s for sure.’ He was clearly besotted by the girl and very jealous of Sean – did Sean realise it?
    A moment later, Miranda saw the angel of death on the other side of the room and stopped in her tracks, taking a sharp, indrawn, painful breath.
    It couldn’t be! She closed her eyes, took another deep breath, and opened them again.
    She wasn’t imagining it. It was him. He was wearing black again, but with a difference. Today he was wearing an immaculate black jersey wool suit, with a crisp white shirt, a dark blue silk tie. She saw other women in the room watching him with eager, covetous eyes. Couldn’t they see that brooding air of threat about him?
    ‘Something wrong?’ George asked.
    She swallowed, managed to wave a hand. ‘Who is that? The guy talking to the woman in a pink hat.’
    George looked, frowned. ‘Never seen him before in my life. He must be a friend of Terry Finnigan or maybe Nicola’s father. Or do you think he’s a gatecrasher? Shall I go and ask to see his invitation?’
    ‘No, leave it. I think he’s probably a friend of Terry’s.’ He had been on the yacht after all – and Terry must have invited him. She knew he was not one of the company excecutives, she hadn’t seen him at work, either before or since the yacht foundered.
    She had been introduced to him briefly, during the cruise, but couldn’t remember his name. That was weird, wasn’t it? He had haunted her dreams ever since, yet she didn’t even know his name.
    Terry pushed his way through the crowds of guests, bringing another glass of champagne for her. He was wearing a rainbow: sunshine yellow shirt, blue jacket, hot pink and green tie, blue trousers.
    Huskily, tearing her gaze away from the angel of death, she managed to smile. ‘You look . . . dazzling!’
    He grinned. ‘You mean I have vulgar tastes in clothes! I know. But I love bright colours, they cheer me up when I’m feeling down.’
    He threw a glance over her. ‘You don’t look bad yourself. A bit subdued, all that mauve and white, but it suits you. My old Gran used to wear mauve all the time – it was what widows wore fifty years ago. Black at first, then mauve after six months.’
    Their eyes met and he groaned.
    ‘Hush my mouth! Sorry, Miranda. I spoke without thinking. I’d forgotten Tom.’
    ‘That’s OK,’ she managed to get out, thinking, how could he forget Tom? But three years is a long time and people do forget. She wished she could, but Tom still showed up in her dreams, especially when she was very tired or under a strain.
    ‘You look lovely,’ Terry said in a sweetly obvious attempt to change the subject and cheer her up. ‘What are you doing this Sunday?’
    ‘Nothing much.’ Was he going to ask her out? Now and then she picked up the impression that Terry fancied her and might be going to ask her for a date, but so far it hadn’t happened, and she was not certain whether or not she would welcome his approach if it came.
    She liked Terry, but she did not want to get involved with anyone. She was sure she would know if she were ready for a new relationship. So far she wasn’t.
    He gave her a coaxing smile. ‘I’d like you to work on projected publicity for the new printer. I don’t want anyone to have an idea what we’re doing, yet, which means you can’t do this during the week with people walking in and out of the office all day. Could you do it on Sunday afternoon?’
    ‘OK,’ she said, laughing at herself silently. So much for her daydreaming. It had been work on Terry’s mind, after all, not romance. She should have known it would be. Terry was a workaholic.
    The day to day workload for her job was not exactly heavy. She had to arrange advertising and publicity, of course, but Terry kept a very small budget for either of those. Advertising was largely in trade magazines, and bought in blocks for so many weeks