ridden a good mile before his breathing steadied and he spoke. âYou canât blame me for trying. Youâre an attractive woman, Sarah.â
âI can blame you for forcing yourself upon me, when I quite plainly didnât want it.â
âSometimes women like to play hard to get. Sometimes a little resistance is just part of the game.â
âI donât believe that. I certainly donât accept that I didnât make my feelings very plain to you.â
He didnât come back with any reply to that. Perhaps he knew that she was right. They were off the old road, running into the outskirts of Ross now, and there was other traffic around them. She reached for her bag, fumbled for her comb. He reached up and pulled down the sun visor in front of her, said with an attempt at his normal voice, âThereâs a mirror on the back of that.â
She ran the comb through her hair, resisted the temptation to reach for her lipstick and restore her make-up. Somehow that would have been condoning his action, accepting it as no more than a harmless romantic sally rather than the ugly attack it had been.
As if Martin Beaumont sensed what was in her mind, he said, âIt was just a pass at you that failed, thatâs all, Sarah. You must have dealt with a lot of those in your time. Donât make it more than it was.â
He was telling her not to make the mistake of taking this further, that this would be his story and that she had no witnesses to help her to establish that it had been anything more than that. Sarah Vaughan wanted to tell him that it had been something much bigger and much uglier than a simple pass. Passes were something callow young men did when they were seeking a kiss; not attacks mounted by an ageing roué who was trying to assert the power of company ownership. All this flashed through her mind, though she was not able to put it into words until much later.
They were running into the forecourt of the garage where her car awaited her now, so she said nothing at all. She did not even look at him again, but slid quickly from the Jaguarâs leather and moved into the office area of the garage without a backward glance.
SIX
A listair Morton hadnât given up the idea of murder. Indeed, every time that Martin Beaumont denied him the share in the business he had promised, it seemed a more attractive option. It was true that in the cold light of day murder didnât seem as easy a proposition as it did when you dreamed of it alone in your armchair in the hour after midnight, but he was still convinced that if you planned it properly the crime was eminently possible.
Sometimes you needed to fan the flames of your hatred, to convince yourself anew of how badly the man was treating you. At the end of April, two months after he had first entertained the delicious notion of ridding the world of Martin Beaumont, Alistair elected to set his grievances before the boss again. You couldnât be fairer than that, surely? Giving the man a final chance to redeem himself before you proceeded with your plans against him was more than fair.
Had Alistair not been a secretive sort of man, he might have shared his thoughts with someone else. But Morton had a wife who lived her own life and no children. There was no one to tell him that his thinking might be a little unbalanced.
He presented himself at precisely ten oâclock for the meeting he had arranged with the owner of Abbey Vineyards. Exactly on time as usual, as Beaumont observed with a slightly mocking smile. Alistair accepted the bossâs offer to sit in the chair in front of the big desk. He didnât see how he could do anything else, though he really wanted to stand toe to toe and challenge the man, not go through the rituals of a polite exchange.
âWhat can I do for you, Alistair?â Beaumont had that formal smile which Morton now saw as very false.
âYou can honour your promises!â said
âI can blame you for forcing yourself upon me, when I quite plainly didnât want it.â
âSometimes women like to play hard to get. Sometimes a little resistance is just part of the game.â
âI donât believe that. I certainly donât accept that I didnât make my feelings very plain to you.â
He didnât come back with any reply to that. Perhaps he knew that she was right. They were off the old road, running into the outskirts of Ross now, and there was other traffic around them. She reached for her bag, fumbled for her comb. He reached up and pulled down the sun visor in front of her, said with an attempt at his normal voice, âThereâs a mirror on the back of that.â
She ran the comb through her hair, resisted the temptation to reach for her lipstick and restore her make-up. Somehow that would have been condoning his action, accepting it as no more than a harmless romantic sally rather than the ugly attack it had been.
As if Martin Beaumont sensed what was in her mind, he said, âIt was just a pass at you that failed, thatâs all, Sarah. You must have dealt with a lot of those in your time. Donât make it more than it was.â
He was telling her not to make the mistake of taking this further, that this would be his story and that she had no witnesses to help her to establish that it had been anything more than that. Sarah Vaughan wanted to tell him that it had been something much bigger and much uglier than a simple pass. Passes were something callow young men did when they were seeking a kiss; not attacks mounted by an ageing roué who was trying to assert the power of company ownership. All this flashed through her mind, though she was not able to put it into words until much later.
They were running into the forecourt of the garage where her car awaited her now, so she said nothing at all. She did not even look at him again, but slid quickly from the Jaguarâs leather and moved into the office area of the garage without a backward glance.
SIX
A listair Morton hadnât given up the idea of murder. Indeed, every time that Martin Beaumont denied him the share in the business he had promised, it seemed a more attractive option. It was true that in the cold light of day murder didnât seem as easy a proposition as it did when you dreamed of it alone in your armchair in the hour after midnight, but he was still convinced that if you planned it properly the crime was eminently possible.
Sometimes you needed to fan the flames of your hatred, to convince yourself anew of how badly the man was treating you. At the end of April, two months after he had first entertained the delicious notion of ridding the world of Martin Beaumont, Alistair elected to set his grievances before the boss again. You couldnât be fairer than that, surely? Giving the man a final chance to redeem himself before you proceeded with your plans against him was more than fair.
Had Alistair not been a secretive sort of man, he might have shared his thoughts with someone else. But Morton had a wife who lived her own life and no children. There was no one to tell him that his thinking might be a little unbalanced.
He presented himself at precisely ten oâclock for the meeting he had arranged with the owner of Abbey Vineyards. Exactly on time as usual, as Beaumont observed with a slightly mocking smile. Alistair accepted the bossâs offer to sit in the chair in front of the big desk. He didnât see how he could do anything else, though he really wanted to stand toe to toe and challenge the man, not go through the rituals of a polite exchange.
âWhat can I do for you, Alistair?â Beaumont had that formal smile which Morton now saw as very false.
âYou can honour your promises!â said
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