Anya breathed a sigh of relief as he had immediately moved onto his list of questions, most of which were directed at identifying old photographs, and eliciting anecdotes of Kate’s childhood on the farm and in New York. Anya kept her answers brief and to the point when the journalist moved on to her cousin’s adult life and personality, but it was his final, casual, off-the-cuff question as he switched off his tape recorder that totally threw her.
‘So…this is a kind of circle of fate thing with you and Scott Tyler—him being the owner of Kate’s old home?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said warily, wondering if this was some cunning journalist’s trap.
‘Well, you and Tyler are in love, aren’t you? I thought it would be a natural progression.’
‘Who told you that?’ she asked sharply.
He tucked his tape recorder in his briefcase. ‘Tyler did, on Saturday. He was very co-operative about letting me look around The Pines. Told me Kate had been a sharp negotiator over the price of the house, but he seemed more interested in talking about you than her.’
‘He told you I was in love with him?’ she asked numbly. A total stranger, and a reporter at that? The bastard! He must have still been rawly furious when he got back from wherever he’d driven.
‘Ummm, no, not exactly—actually I think it was the other way around,’ he staggered her by saying, leafing pedantically back through his notebook to the reference.
Anya nearly fell off her chair.
‘What—exactly—did he say?’ she asked tensely.
‘You want the full quote?’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Here it is…ummm…’ He pondered his squiggles, making a few seconds seem like several centuries. ‘Ah, yes: “Kate was certainly a stunning woman, but it’s her cousin I fell in love with. Anya has a kind of quiet grace and inner beauty that hits me square in the heart every time I see her. I think some part of me recognised that on the day we met, and I loved her even before I knew I was capable of it.” Not a bad turn of phrase. The guy could be a writer himself.’
‘But he said that to you off the record, right?’ she said in a strangled voice.
‘Nope. Got it on tape, too.’ He tipped her a sly grin. ‘Why? Would you like me to make a copy of it for you to replay to him every time you have an argument?’
He had been clearly looking forward to the offer of a second cup of tea, but instead found himself unceremoniously bundled out of the door.
Anya’s finger was shaking as she punched in the numbers on her kitchen telephone from the business card in her wallet. ‘I’d like to make an appointment to see Scott Tyler, please. Today. My name is Anya Adams.’
The businesslike voice on the other end was professionally regretful. ‘I’m afraid Mr Tyler is working reduced hours at the moment and he doesn’t have any free appointment slots for the rest of the day. He’s booked right through until he leaves at four o’clock.’
Anya clutched the phone with both hands. ‘But he is in the office?’
‘Oh, yes—but as I explained, Miss Adams, he doesn’t have any spare—’
‘Thank you.’ Anya quickly put the receiver back in the cradle, cutting off a hasty cry.
‘Oh, wait—Miss Adams—’
Remembering the adage about dressing for success, Anya took the time to select her clothes carefully and took extra care with her make-up and hair. She got into her car looking what she hoped was serene and confident, but tension and excitement took its toll and her cool became slightly unravelled in the hour it took to drive to the huge Manukau City shopping centre where Scott’s chambers were located. It was another anxious fifteen minutes before she found the tower block she was looking for and somewhere to park, and in the express lift her stomach seemed to arrive at her destination well before she did.
The professional offices of Tyler & Partners weren’t as intimidating as she had expected—the reception and waiting area actually showing the impact of natural good taste rather than cutting-edge interior decoration. The atmosphere, too, was informal and, by the look of the comings and goings and the number of people flicking through glossy magazines in the waiting room, business was good.
Squaring the jacket of her classically cut powder-blue suit, she approached the reception desk, eyeing the politely enquiring face, calculating whether haughty assumption or confiding friendliness was going to work better.
But when she opened her mouth, the young receptionist spoke first.
‘It’s Miss Adams, isn’t it?’
‘I—yes.’ Was it someone she should know? A former pupil, perhaps?
‘Julie!’ The receptionist waved another, older woman over. ‘This is Miss Adams.’ She mouthed the next two words rather obviously. ‘For Scott.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Anya recognised the voice she had spoken to on the phone. ‘Thanks, Melissa. Miss Adams? This way, please.’
Anya found herself whisked along to the end of the corridor, unprepared for the ease and rapidity of her progress.
‘But, I—don’t—’