Page 2 of The Unforgiven
“I miss her too. Tell her we’ll go shopping for her dress as soon as I get back.”
“She can’t wait to be a bridesmaid.”
“I have a more important role for her, but I want it to be a surprise.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Daddy, I can’t sleep,” came a wail over the line. “Read me one more story.”
“Sounds like a call to duty,” Quinn said, smiling. She wanted nothing more than to read Emma a story and then curl up next to Gabe in their bed. She’d put on a brave face for Gabe, but she really was worried about meeting Seth Besson, and she wasn’t entirely sure whose reaction would be more volatile, hers or his.
TWO
The day was muggy and warm, with abundant sunshine bathing everything in a hazy glow. Quinn stepped out of the taxi and stared up at the sign on the indistinct gray building in front of her. The squat and solid office had small windows prudently covered with shades against the sun. Several lorries of varying sizes were parked in the lot adjacent to the building, their cabs empty of drivers. This part of town was more industrial, and a little seedy. The sign above the door readBesson Trucking LTD. The lettering must have been a bright red at some point, but had faded to the color of dried blood, a rusty brown that was beginning to flake in places. Quinn took a deep breath and opened the door.
She stepped into a small reception area with a worn gray industrial carpet and several hardback plastic chairs. An older woman, who seemed to think it was still the sixties, sat behind the desk, her beehive hairstyle vibrating as she typed vigorously. The phone rang and she snatched it up, signaling to Quinn with one pink-tipped finger that she would be with her momentarily. Quinn considered taking a seat but was too nervous, so she remained standing. She supposed it wasn’t very important for a lorry company to look smart, but she’d expected something a little more upscale. Perhaps Mr. Besson couldn’t afford to renovate, or simply didn’t see the need.
The receptionist finished the call and smiled at Quinn, stretching her frosted pink lips in a genuine smile of welcome. “How can I help?”
“Good morning,” Quinn began. “I have an appointment with Mr. Besson.”
“Oh, right. Of course you do. You’re that nice British lady who called yesterday. Well, go right in, darlin’. Just through there,” she said, indicating the door directly across from her desk. “He’s expecting you.”
“Thank you.”
Quinn briefly considered walking out and going straight back to the hotel to collect her things before racing to the airport to catch the first flight to whatever hub would offer her a connection to London. This was mad. She didn’t belong here. What could she possibly hope to gain from meeting this man, who was as far removed from her own culture and background as he could be? She suddenly wished that Gabe were there and couldn’t recall exactly why she’d been so adamant about doing this alone.
You’ve come all this way, she reminded herself as she took a hesitant step toward the office.Just meet him and find out what you can, then run.
Quinn walked toward the door under the watchful eye of the receptionist. She knocked and a voice from within the office invited her to enter. She sucked in her breath as she pushed open the door, only to exhale it in surprise. The man, or more accurately boy, seated behind the desk couldn’t be the right person. He looked to be about eighteen, and had shaggy dark hair and something resembling a goatee, which he had probably tried to grow to hide some of his adolescent spots.
“I was hoping to speak to Mr. Besson,” Quinn said as she advanced into the office. Her stomach soured with disappointment. It would seem that she’d come halfway around the world in pursuit of the wrong Seth Besson.
“Yeah, I know. Sorry. I’m Brett Besson, the heir apparent. Dad’s out of the office for a few days, and I’ve been roped into looking after things here. As you can see, it’s practically a beehive of activity,” the young man said, dripping sarcasm. “I’m supposed to be on spring break, hanging out with my friends. Instead, I’m stuck here with Sandra Dee.”
“Sandra Dee?” Quinn echoed, confused.
“You know, fromGrease. Oh, right, you’re from England. You’ve probably never seen it.”
“Sorry, no, but I’ve heard of it, of course.”
“Anyhow, how can I help you? Ms. Allenby, is it?”
“Yes.” Quinn looked around, feeling awkward at being expected to stand in front of the desk like an errant pupil before a headmistress.
“Oh, sorry. Please sit down,” Brett said.
Quinn sat in a leather armchair facing the desk, unsure what to say to the young man. She could hardly explain her reason for being there without telling him what his father had been up to thirty years ago while doing a semester abroad in Scotland. Whatever anger and resentment she felt toward Seth Besson, she had no right to take out her feelings on his unsuspecting son, so she had to be discreet.
“Local or interstate?” Brett asked.
“Sorry, what?”
“What type of trucking are you interesting in?”
“Actually, I need to speak to your father regarding a personal matter. When do you expect him back?”
“He’s supposed to be resting till next Monday, but I bet he’ll come prancing in here by Thursday, desperate to ream me out for not doing enough in his absence. What kind of personal matter?” Brett asked, his eyes narrowing as he gave Quinn an appraising stare.
