ing company,” Laura corrected frostily. “The biggest one in the county, as I’m sure you know.”
“Sorry. Yes, I do know that.” Laura liked the way Jeremy put his head to one side and hid behind his eyelashes, like a schoolboy caught out in a misdemeanour. He was in awe of her. She liked that. And he was handsome too. Bonus points. “Is he building something for Cordwainer, then? More arcades?”
“Who’s a good little cub reporter, then,” trilled Laura, touching the tip of his shoe under the table with her stockinged toes. “You’re up to something, aren’t you, Jeremy?”
“I’m just taking an interest in my surroundings,” Jeremy said. Laura thought he had practised that innocent look in front of a mirror. It went so nicely with his enthusiastic response to her invitation to the footsie dance. “It’s my job to notice things, so I can’t really stop myself, even when I’m off duty.”
“I bet you’re never off duty.” Laura’s foot nudged his calf.
“I see things.” Jeremy’s breathing was a little laboured now. “And I just want to know what’s behind them. Like earlier on…I saw Rocky Anderson go into Caesar’s Palace…and then I saw you come out…looking upset…and it makes me wonder…”
Laura’s foot jammed its way between Jeremy’s thighs and landed firmly on the bulge in his trousers. A little too firmly, causing him to yelp a little and spill some wine.
“What’s your angle?” she asked harshly. “You’d better tell me what this is all about, sonny boy, or I’ll have you tied to the tracks right at the top of the Dive of Doom before you can say ‘investigative journalism.’ Oh. You like it when I play tough.” Suddenly the mound beneath her foot was like iron. She pushed at it, feeling for some give, enjoying the expression of ecstatic consternation on Jeremy’s face.
“I want to know about Rocky Anderson,” he blurted. “There are rumours. I keep hearing the same names mentioned. Cordwainer and his cronies. And Anderson is his heavy, isn’t he? His enforcer?”
“His goon,” said Laura disdainfully. “Go on. What sort of rumours?”
“Insider dealing. Gambling. Vice and drugs. All that.”
“In Goldsands?” Laura feigned wide-eyed shock before shooting Jeremy a teaser of a smile. “Seriously, you want to mess with Cordwainer? I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“Why not?”
Laura sat back, her gaze roving over the rumpled, slightly agitated but handsomely patrician brow of Jeremy Weill.
“Come home with me and I’ll give you a few pointers,” she said.
“I’ll get the bill.”
The Trewin residence lurked in leafy splendour near the edge of Goldsands’s least eroded cliff, its acres of garden ending abruptly at the chalk and limestone drop, but not before a pool, a croquet lawn and a tennis court with a view had impressed the visitor.
Jeremy was not treated to a tour of the extensive grounds on this occasion, however, finding himself bundled unceremoniously through the spacious lobby and up the stairs to Laura’s domain—a suite of rooms gathered around a terrace at the rear of the building, far from her father’s bedroom on the other side of the house.
“Daddy doesn’t forbid male visitors,” she explained in a low mutter, pushing him into a generous sitting room. “But he doesn’t like me to rub his nose in it. I’m still his little girl, you see. His little princess, winning Pony Club rosettes.” She smiled, rolling her eyes a little.
Jeremy refrained from countering with, And he’s still your daddy. Despite his dodgy dealings in the seediest underbelly Goldsands has to offer.
Instead he sat himself down on a cream leather couch and looked through the picture window to the cliffs and the dark, dark sea beyond.
“Don’t you win Pony Club rosettes anymore?” he asked.
She turned around from the drinks she was mixing them and smirked.
“The glittering trophies I have my eyes on aren’t for dressage,” she said. “Not anymore.”
“The modelling?” Jeremy accepted a dry martini, sipping and wincing a little at its unexpected strength.
“The modelling.” She nodded contemplatively. “Leading on to other opportunities. A part in Hollyoaks, perhaps, then on to presenting, or even a singing career.”
“You’re ambitious. How is the modelling going?”
Laura sucked provocatively on her cocktail-pronged olive.
“Slower than I’d hoped,” she admitted in the end. It seemed Daddy’s clout, alas, did not extend very far beyond Goldsands after all. “I’m an unfashionable type. Nowadays it’s all about the jolie laide. I’m more the golden glamour girl. Too many curves. I’ve tried to flatten myself out, but my stupid bloody boobs won’t play along.”
“Your stupid bloody boobs look just perfect as they are. You don’t need to change a thing.”