Page 29 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

“I was observing,” Oliver said. “From afar. I didn’t hear a word of your conversation with Tremayne. As promised, you had privacy. But when you got to your feet and he started to grab your arm, I had the impression that he had reached the stage of making a few threats.”

She winced. “Something about the studio destroying my career andWhispers.”

“Had a hunch that was what was happening.”

“So you stepped in to let Tremayne know that I had a little muscle on my side, is that it?”

“I thought we agreed that we were partners in this venture,” Oliver said.

He had the nerve to sound offended, as if she had somehow reneged on a promise.

“That doesn’t give you the right to take charge whenever you feel like it,” she said.

“Did you get anything useful out of Tremayne?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“It’s called distraction. It’s a classic technique in my former profession.”

There was no point in arguing with him. She had agreed to the partnership. Besides, she had to admit that there was a great deal to be said for having him in her corner. He was both mysterious and intimidating. She knew that Tremayne had not been oblivious to the impact Oliver made.

The problem, she thought, was that she wasn’t accustomed to having anyone else in her corner, least of all a man like Oliver. She wasn’t sure what to do with him.

She had dated and flirted in the light, casual way of the modern woman but she had only been seriously involved with one man—Bradley Thorpe. He had been her employer. Charming and good-looking, he’dhad a great job and given every appearance of being in love with her. She still cringed whenever she reflected on how remarkably naïve she had been.

Afterward she had discovered that she was merely the latest in a long line of naïve young women who had occupied her position in Thorpe’s plush offices. He seduced secretaries the same way he collected sports trophies. As far as he was concerned, both were fair game.

Oliver stopped and opened a door.

“Here we are,” he said.

She pushed the unpleasant memories aside with the motto her grandfather had taught her—it’s only a mistake if it kills you or if you fail to learn from it—and walked through the doorway of a handsomely appointed reception area.

A trim, forty-something woman with striking features and warm brown eyes sat at the desk. Her jet-black hair was shot through with silver. She wore it caught back in a sleek, elegant knot at the nape of her neck. There was a gold band on her ring finger.

She stopped typing on the handsome Remington, looked up, and removed her glasses.

“Oh, there you are, Mr. Ward,” she said. “I was wondering if you got my message. I assume this is Miss Glasson?”

“Yes, it is. Irene, this is Elena Torres. She runs this office. Actually, she keeps the entire hotel running. I just try to stay out of her way.”

“How do you do,” Irene said.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Glasson.”

“Please, call me Irene.”

“And you must call me Elena.”

“I told Irene that she could use the telephone in my office,” Oliver said.

Irene thought Elena’s brows rose ever so slightly in reaction to that statement. She could not tell if it was surprise or curiosity or amusement that she detected. Perhaps a mix of all three. Whatever the case, she gotthe clear impression that Oliver was not in the habit of offering the convenience and privacy of his office telephone to his guests.

Oliver had already crossed the room and opened the door, revealing a second, handsomely paneled room.

“Do you have the number of the inn?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

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