Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

hit Gareth hard. Fear crackled through his body as he heard the man’s words and immediately began to imagine what may have happened to his brother. He decided to put off his call to Olivia for a little while. First he would call James’ solicitor. As an officer of the court a solicitor would be able to get information more quickly. He fumbled through the top drawer of his dresser and found the worn business card, and then dialed the number. The call went to voicemail, but he left the information and with all the control he could muster, calmly asked the solicitor to check in on James—that his mother had been more upset than usual and needed confirmation that her son was doing all right. He rung off and sat down, head in his hands, his mind racing with the demands being made on him, and his growing worries about the advisability of seeing Olivia again. He had to choose. It was either his brother’s safety or Olivia’s. The choice was impossible from a moral standpoint, but he knew without any doubt that family would have to come first.

After drawing a few deep breaths he dialed Olivia’s number. Just as it started to click into voicemail she answered. “Hello, Olivia here.”

“Umm, this is Clive Warren. I had said I’d call—remember—when I put you in the taxi?”

He had identified himself and now waited to pick up on her attitude about hearing him on the other end of the line. Much to his surprise, she sounded delighted to hear his voice—or maybe he needed to think that. Yet he went blindly forward and proposed that they see each other again—the next evening. Olivia accepted, but told him she couldn’t make it a late night because she was planning a short trip, her boss having surprised her by agreeing to the short absence. Gareth heaved a sigh of relief when she accepted his invitation and asked if there was something special she might like to do. Olivia told him that she knew of a club not too far from her flat that was featuring a small jazz group from the U.S., and since her parents were always ‘talking it up,’ she thought it might be fun to see what all the fuss was about. He easily agreed and said they could eat first—maybe walk from her flat to a café close by, then go on to the club.

“That sounds like a practical plan,” Olivia said. “I‘ll do my best to be home by five-thirty, but I’ll need to spruce up a bit, so why don’t you call for me at about seven o’clock. We can grab a bite and then catch the first set. I have to be home by eleven o’clock, latest.”

“I’m anxious to see you again, Olivia. I stopped by your office just after noon today—I guess you were at lunch. Mr. Saunders was just on his way out. I told him that I’d be very satisfied to work with another associate. He asked why—had you been unsatisfactory in some way— and I told him the truth. I said that it was more important to me to see you socially than to have you decorate my office. He seemed to understand—gave me a sly smile, actually.”

“You don’t let any grass grow under your feet, do you, Mr. Warren?”

Her tone was light. She sounded as if what he had done pleased her, which pleased him as well. Yet part of what he felt was relief that she would see him again. He asked for the address of her flat, which in spite of her original hesitation, she now gave willingly. He told her that tomorrow seemed too far away, and she laughed it off, thinking he was now showing her his ‘line.’ What she didn’t realize was that as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he meant them. He liked her, and that scared him.

* * *

After ending her call with the suitor she knew as Clive, Olivia placed her mobile back on the coffee table. She picked up her shoes from the floor and went into the bedroom to change. In a few minutes she came out wearing leggings and a sweatshirt. She walked into the kitchen and began to gather ingredients for a light meal. Her frig was devoid of choices other than three kinds of cheese, a few bottles of white wine, a bag of greens and a questionable looking yellow pepper. She curled up on the couch, a glass of wine to her left, the meager salad in her lap, and switched the television to the BBC evening news. Before she had eaten a second bite, her mobile rang. She put down the bowl and reached out for the phone in front of her. Valerie was on the line, calling to find out if Olivia had managed to get time off work.

“So, what did he say?” she asked abruptly,

“No one is more surprised than I am. He said yes—but for a maximum of ten days. He warned me not to call him and try begging for more.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Valerie said, sounding relieved. “Tomorrow morning I’ll get something booked—the soonest possible flight. I’d go online, but it would take too much time to sift through all the travel websites. I know the airfare will cost more—booking at the last minute. I’ll go to that travel agent down the street from my shop and have him find the best fare. He can do the actual tickets and find us a hotel.”

“You seem to have taken it all well in hand. I wouldn’t know where to start, planning at the last minute like this.”

“The agent will actually do the hard part—but still not as hard as the paying part!”

“I’ll stop at my bank tomorrow on the way to work and get my meager donation to the trip. Also, don’t forget to tell whoever books the hotel that we only want two or three stars—three being preferable—if