Penniless and Purchased (15 page)

Did she tell me she was paying off credit-card debts, or was that just my assumption? Was she really paying for drugs?

The shake of her head was infinitesimal, but it was there all the same, and Nikos found relief snaking through him. Then incomprehension took over again. So why
was
she living like this?

‘Does your father know this is where you live?’

The question seemed to send a jolt through her, and emotion jagged in her eyes for a second. There was another imperceptible
shake of her head. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she were bandaging her body. As if she were wounded.

Something was wrong, Nikos knew, with foreboding. Very wrong.

‘Why haven’t you told your father, Sophie?’ His voice was low. ‘He couldn’t possibly want you to live here! He would help you get on your feet—you know he would! Maybe you feel you should be independent at your age, not rely on him financially, but—’

A sound broke from her. It might have been a laugh, but Nikos knew it was not. She looked at him. Straight at him.

‘He hasn’t got any money,’ she said. Her arms seemed to tighten around her, and the wildness in her eyes intensified. She was under huge emotional stress, Nikos could see, and he knew he had to tread very, very carefully or she would break into pieces.

He looked at her. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said carefully.

This time she did laugh. But it was hollow and wild. ‘Don’t you? Tell me, Nikos, you who operate up in the financial stratosphere, does
your
fiscal expertise go downmarket at all? Do
you
, running a company the size of Kazandros, ever come across any slang jargon in the financial field? Does the term “boiler room” mean anything to you?’ Her voice was cruel, and vicious. But again it was not him she was aiming at.

He stilled. ‘Yes,’ he said.

Boiler room—slang for financial operations so fraudulent the financial authorities were forever struggling to combat them. Like fetid mushrooms, as soon as one was closed down another sprang up to take its place. Shady in the extreme, and highly, obscenely profitable for those who ran them. Always hungry for more and yet more investors, persuading them by slick, sophisticated marketing to invest in worthless bogus
shares and then, when the promised returns did not materialise, persuading them to invest more and yet more to recoup their original investment, to get to the magic pot of gold at the end of the shoddy rainbow.

Until they had no more money left to invest. Until they had been bled dry. And then the scam merchants moved on to the next victim.

Nikos’s brows drew together in puzzlement. Surely Edward Granton, a long-term, big-league corporate player, would have recognised a boiler-room scam? Known not to go near it? So how the hell had he got trapped in its fraudulent coils?

He pushed the question aside. Right now it wasn’t important. Right now only one thing was important. His gaze swept condemningly around the dingy bedsit. Revulsion rose in him. He took her elbow.

‘We’re getting out of here,’ he said.

Her eyes flared suddenly, and then, like a shadow falling, they went blank again.

‘You go, Nikos,’ she said, in that low, dead voice.

He gave a brief, rasping laugh. ‘There is no way on earth, Sophie, that I am leaving you in this dump. Get your things—we’re going.’ He glanced around again at the bare room. ‘There can’t be much here, and anyway—’ his voice tightened ‘—I have the things you left at Belledon.’

‘I…I’ll come and collect them,’ she said falteringly.

‘They’re only fit for the trash,’ he riposted.

‘They’re all I’ve got. Please.’ Her voice sounded anxious. ‘Please let me collect them—don’t throw them away. I need them. And,’ she went on, forcing herself, ‘I’m fine here—honestly. I’m used to it.’

She took another razoring breath. She needed him to go. Just go. She was starting to break, and she mustn’t break in
front of him—she just mustn’t. The stark shock of his approach on the street was wearing off, leaving in its place only an urgency to get rid of him. She
had
to get rid of him. She had to. It had taken all the strength she possessed to leave him that fateful morning, to force herself to walk away, down the long, long road back to the bleak, hopeless life to which she was condemned and from which there could be no escape.

And now to see him again, to have him here, so close, in this vile dump she lived in, was agony—just agony!

‘Please go, Nikos. I can’t have you here. I just can’t.’ Her voice was strained. ‘I’ve…I’ve got things I have to do. So, please—just go. Please.’

‘What things?’ He was unrelenting.

‘Just things. It doesn’t matter what. Just go, please.’

He could see her distress. It was visible, flaring from her. And he could see, too, that she was at the very end of her strength. She could take no more. And he needed to find out a lot more! His eyes set on Sophie as she stood there, looking so frail a breath of wind might blow her away.

‘Where is your father, Sophie?’ The question came stark, blunt.

He saw her cheeks whiten. He was stressing her, but right now he didn’t care—he had to know where Edward Granton was, and then go and confront him with the truth about his daughter, his once-precious daughter!

What father would leave his daughter to live like this?

‘He’s abroad,’ she answered quickly.

‘Where?’

She gave a shrug, a small, weakened movement, her eyes shifting from his relentless gaze. ‘It doesn’t matter where. Nikos. Look, you have to go,’ Her voice was taut, low. ‘I…I have to be somewhere.’

Nikos levelled a long, measuring look on her. She did not meet his eyes. They were blank, blind, her expression a mask. A mask to hide behind. While behind the mask she was falling to pieces…

He took a step back, nodding. ‘OK—I’ll go.’

He saw the tension in her face ebb by a fraction, and knew he was doing the right thing. His agenda had just changed. The reasons why she had walked out on him could wait—for now. For one long, last moment he looked at her. Then, with a final brief nod of his head, he turned on his heel and left.

She listened as his footsteps rang on the stairs, heard the door to the street open and shut. Then slowly, very slowly, she sank down on the bed, as tears welled up under her eyelids and burnt like acid on her skin.

O
UT
on the pavement, Nikos slid out his mobile phone. Although he could not see his operative—they were skilled at inconspicuous surveillance—he knew the man was in the vicinity. When he answered, Nikos’s instructions were quick and to the point.

‘Keep watching her.’ Then he disconnected and called his driver to bring the car for him.

His mood was savage. But not with Sophie. Not know.

What the hell was going on with her? Why was her father leaving her to live such a life? Running up debts! Taking menial jobs! Queuing up at Job Centres! Resorting to working as an escort!

Everything he’d thought he’d known about her life now had exploded in his face.

But he would find out the truth! The truth about why she had run from him, walked out on him as she had, after such a night together…

No time to think of that now. No time to do anything other than ruthlessly, relentlessly, do whatever it took to keep her in his sights.

His car pulled up at the kerb and he stepped into it, curtly
ordered his driver to drive off. Sophie had to think he had, indeed, done as she had pleaded with him to do—left her alone.

A thin, whipped smile set at his lips. One thing was certain—Sophie Granton was not getting away from him. Wherever she was going now, he’d be there too.

His car meandered through the nearby streets, and it did not take long before the call came through from his street surveillance team that Sophie had left the dump she lived in. But when Nikos arrived at the destination she had made for, in an outer region of London, whose quiet, wide, tree-lined avenues and large Victorian villas were a world away from the litterstrewn, run-down area she lived in, he could only frown in consternation. It was a substantial edifice, with a brass plate discreetly set into the stone wall fronting the short driveway past the entrance.

What was she doing here? At such a place? For a moment he could only stare, beyond comprehension. Then logic clicked in. The only explanation was that this place was something to do with her earlier visit to the Job Centre. She must be here for some kind of job interview—what else? Climbing out of the car pulled up in the driveway, he walked inside.

‘I’m looking for Sophie Granton,’ he announced to the receptionist at the desk, volunteering no other information. The young woman looked momentarily flustered, a female reaction Nikos was familiar with, but she glanced down at the arrivals list and nodded.

‘She’s just arrived,’ she acknowledged. ‘I’m sure it will be fine for you to go through,’ she told him flutteringly. ‘It’s such a lovely day everyone is out in the garden. If you turn to the right you’ll see a door leading directly into the grounds.’

Well, perhaps, thought Nikos, striding off, in a place like this it made sense to conduct job interviews outdoors. He
looked around him, his expression grim. However necessary such places were, they could hardly be cheerful places to work, in any capacity. Physical strength was probably a necessity too, he surmised, and Sophie hardly fitted the bill on that. She had looked as fragile as bone china when she’d stood in that slum she had to call home. His expression grew grimmer. The discovery of just how poverty-stricken her circumstances were had shocked him—the reason for them even more so.

Discomforting thoughts crowded his mind. Thoughts he did not want to think. About everything that had happened to her since he had thrown her from him that fatal night four years ago.

He reached the door the receptionist had indicated and stepped through. Beyond was a paved area with a lawn. It was secluded, but spacious, bordered by flowerbeds and ornamental shrubs, all very manicured. It must cost money to be here. Yet, however good the amenities, it was not a place one could ever want to spend time. How could it be?

He scanned the garden, looking past the occupants with a sombre countenance. Then, at the far side of the lawn, standing beside a wooden bench, he saw her. He arrowed his gait, making straight for his target, ignoring everything else but her. She did not see him coming, was absorbed in her conversation—her interview?—with a woman who was clearly a member of staff. Then the woman nodded and turned away, heading in a different direction, and in that instant Sophie saw him.

She could feel herself going faint. She must be hallucinating. It could not be—
could not be!
—Nikos, striding across the lawn towards her. What was he
doing
here?

How had he even known where she was going? She hadn’t
thought she was likely to be able to get here today, but because the Job Centre had only been able to steer her towards evening work, she had seized the unexpected opportunity to come.

Nikos must have followed her here—it was the only explanation.

But why? Why would he do such a thing? For what purpose? Surely he’d said everything he’d wanted to say already—or else why leave her the way he had when she’d asked him to go? Nikos Kazandros was not a man who obeyed orders unless he wanted to.

Numbly, she faced him as he came up to her.

‘Job interview over?’ His enquiry was civil, but his eyes were veiled, as if he had spoken merely to mask his true question.

She looked at him blankly, unable to answer. Her mind was reeling.

I can’t take any more of this—I just can’t.

Mental and emotional exhaustion numbed her. His eyes were boring into her, like nails. She wanted to shut her eyes, shut him out, but she couldn’t. Why was he persecuting her like this?
Why?

‘Nikos…’ Her voice was like a thread. ‘I can’t take any more.’ Her words were an echo of her thoughts. ‘I can’t.’

She wanted to blink him out of existence, because it was unbearable that he should be here.

He ignored her words. His eyes only flicked briefly around, taking in the scene, his expression controlled. ‘You are seriously considering working here?’ he put to her.

She opened her mouth to answer, but stayed her voice. Her head turned instead. Nikos followed her line of sight. Someone was approaching. As they came near, he could feel the blood drain from his face.

Thee mou
—

The recognition was instant—the shock like a shot to his lungs.

Sophie was going forward, greeting the arrival. Her voice was soft, emotion trembling in it. ‘Hello, Dad,’ she said.

As if frozen, Nikos watched the hunched figure in the wheelchair being steered by a nurse. He raised his sunken head with visible difficulty, his gaze seeking Sophie with hazy effort. She went forward and stooped to kiss him tenderly on his cheek.

‘I got the afternoon off,’ she said to him, with the same soft, tender note in her voice, ‘so I’ve come to see you. How are you today?’

It was the nurse who answered—the same woman Nikos had seen talking to Sophie a moment earlier.

‘All the better for seeing you—isn’t that right?’ She addressed her patient for corroboration, and Nikos watched him making a slow nod. A word came from his lips, low, and enunciated with obvious difficulty.

‘Sophie.’

It was a single word, but there was a lifetime of love in it.

Nikos felt the cords of his throat contract, and could only stand, motionless, while Sophie sat herself down on the bench, the wheelchair positioned right beside it, so she could take the inert hand lying on her father’s lap.

The nurse glanced at Nikos. ‘You’ve got an extra visitor today, Mr Granton,’ she said. Her voice had a note of professional, determined cheerfulness in it. Nikos knew why. Anyone whose task it was to care for patients in such a condition had to be relentlessly upbeat—or they would be unable to carry on.

The drooping eyes lifted with difficulty again. Nikos felt his shoulders stiffen. ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said. It was a lie, but he managed it.

It was
not
good to see Edward Granton again—not like this. It was not good to see a man obviously stricken with a catastrophic blow, confined to a wheelchair, barely able to speak, reduced to a hollow shell.

There was no recognition in the drooping eyes, and Nikos could see puzzlement, as though Edward Granton were searching painfully for who he was. But Nikos was reluctant to give his name—the last thing he wanted right now was for the man he’d left to face financial ruin to remember who he was. He could feel his stomach knotting, as if he’d swallowed a stone.

Edward Granton’s troubled gaze slipped to his daughter’s, and Nikos could see the softening in his expression as she squeezed his hand reassuringly.

‘It’s all right, Daddy,’ she said, and the use of the childish diminutive made the stone feel harder still in Nikos’s stomach. Memory pierced through him—Sophie calling Edward Granton ‘Daddy’ had half amused him, half made him realise just how very young she was, despite her years. A bleak look flashed in his eyes. Well, Sophie Granton was old beyond her years now.

Thee mou
—what had happened? What had happened to reduce Edward Granton to this?

Sophie was talking to her father, murmuring to him, leaning forward, still holding his hand in hers, shutting out the world. Nikos glanced at the nurse.

He spoke to her, keeping his voice low. ‘Can you tell me what caused his condition?’

‘Stroke,’ said the nurse, her voice low and professionally concerned. ‘He’s doing very well, considering. It was very nearly fatal, and of course it came on top of all his other health problems. Two heart attacks took their toll, and weakened him considerably. When the stroke hit he wasn’t expected
to survive, but his daughter has been an absolute tower of strength, and has performed wonders to pull him through. He’s still extremely frail, as you can see, but so much better than he was at the beginning.’

Nikos swallowed. ‘How…how long since he had his stroke?’

‘Well over a year now,’ answered the nurse. ‘Of course it’s excellent that he was able to come here when he was released from hospital. If I say so myself this is a first-class clinic for stroke rehabilitation—and I believe it’s made a significant difference to his prognosis. Which is why,’ she ran on confidingly, ‘it would be disastrous if he had to leave.’

‘Leave?’

‘Well,’ the nurse went on—and Nikos was pretty sure it was because she enjoyed talking to him, as so many females did, and took ruthless advantage—‘unfortunately the clinic is privately run, and it’s understandable that a prolonged stay is sadly beyond the means of many people. But I would very, very much hope that it will be possible for him to continue here.’

Nikos could see her eyes going openly to take in his affluent appearance—the bespoke suit, the handmade shoes, the air of sleek prosperity. But his mind was elsewhere.

Not here. Not in this garden, where patients in wheelchairs were being perambulated by nurses or walking haltingly around, but in a taxi, with rain pounding on the windscreen and roof, and Sophie Granton’s drowned face, cheekbones stark, eyes wild and vicious, mascara running down her hollowed cheeks, hissing at him,
‘I need the bloody money…’

Like in some dark, damnable game, the last of the pieces fell into place.

Gutting him.

He felt himself hollowing out as realisation kicked through him. Everything made sense now—and the sense it made
shook him to the foundation. His eyes went to Sophie. So fragile-looking, yet she had had to bear a weight that would have broken anyone, let alone a girl brought up in wealthy comfort by an indulgent, protective, cosseting father who’d sheltered her from every financial chill. Yet both her doting father and her financial security had been ripped from her, leaving her to fend for herself and more—to take on the emotionally and financially crushing burden of care for a father reduced to a stricken figure in a wheelchair.

How had she done it?

The question sounded in Nikos’s head, but he knew the answer already. She’d done what she’d had to.

Whatever it had taken. Giving up her music. Living in a slum. Working at one dead-end job after another. Working as an escort…

His mind sheered away, but he forced it back.
That
was why she’d taken that repellent job. His gaze moved around, to the manicured gardens and plentiful nurses and the well-kept clinic. He knew how much a place like this would cost.

And I thought she’d run up credit-card debts and didn’t want to let her father know…

Anger at his own presumption stabbed at him. More than anger. For a moment his gaze came back to Sophie, who was still attending to her father, holding his hand, chatting to him tenderly, even though it was clear that Edward Granton found it painfully effortful to respond. They were absorbed in each other. Nikos let them be, and instead returned his attention to the nurse.

‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said, and headed back to the garden entrance to the clinic.

His business at the reception desk did not take long, and then he went out to the forecourt, where his car was waiting
for him. He got in and went on waiting, busying himself with his laptop and some documents to pass the time, though his mind was seething with emotion that made concentrating on something as tedious as business all but impossible.

It was well over an hour before Sophie emerged from the clinic, looking drawn and pale. Nikos intercepted her immediately, allowing her no chance to do anything other than be steered peremptorily into the car.

She attempted to remonstrate. ‘Nikos—what are you doing? I don’t want—’

He cut her short. ‘I need to talk to you.’

Her face closed. ‘Well, I don’t need to talk to
you
,’ she retaliated, pulling away as far as possible along the wide back seat of the spacious interior of the car, with its glass panelling to keep occupants private from the driver.

She was bristling with hostility, he could see, and rounded on him like a cornered animal.

‘What is this, Nikos? What the hell are you following me for? What’s it to do with you what I do with my life?’

He looked at her. A long, level look. ‘You ask
me
that?’

It was all he said, but it was all he needed to say. For a moment their eyes locked, and in them was an infinity of memory.