Page 3 of The Unforgiven
“The kind that I can discuss only with him. He’s resting, you said?” she asked. Seth Besson would be a few years older than Sylvia, so probably still in his forties, or possibly early fifties. “Is he ill?”
“Dad doesn’t want any of his competitors to know, but he’s had gallbladder surgery. He thinks admitting to any type of ailment makes him look weak. Not like he’s got arthritis or cataracts, or something old people get.” Brett shrugged dismissively. “Tell you what. He’s bored out of his mind sitting around the house,recuperating. How about I give him a call and tell him there’s a pretty British lady here to see him. Let’s see what he says.” He gave Quinn a conspiratorial wink and reached for the phone.
He hung up after a very brief conversation and scribbled something on a notepad, then tore out the sheet and handed it to her. “Here’s the address. He’s waiting for you.”
“Is it far from here?” Quinn asked as she looked at the address.
“It’s in the Garden District. A half hour ride, at least. I take it you’ll need a cab?” Brett buzzed the intercom and spoke to the receptionist. “Hey, Shirley. Call Ms. Allenby a cab, will ya?” He hung up and turned back to Quinn. “The cab should be here in about ten minutes. Good luck with Dad.”
“Thanks,” Quinn replied and got up to leave. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“Eh, likewise, I’m sure,” Brett answered with a sly grin. She was sure he was having fun at her expense. “Give my best to the queen,” he added, confirming her suspicions.That little wanker!
“I’ll be sure to do that next time I’m invited for tea,” Quinn replied with a forced smile and walked out of the office.
“You can wait in here if you like,” Shirley said. “It’s getting toasty out there. Lived here all my life and still can’t get used to the infernal heat. And it’s only April.” She sighed.
“Thank you, but I’ll wait outside,” Quinn replied. It would be wiser to remain in the air-conditioned office, but she just wanted to leave. A few minutes in the muggy heat wouldn’t kill her.
By the time the taxi arrived nearly half an hour later, Quinn was sweating and regretting her decision to wait outside. The air-conditioning was barely working, so she rolled down the window and allowed the breeze to caress her face as the car made itsleisurely way through congested lunchtime traffic toward the Garden District. She suspected the driver, hearing her accent and realizing she was a foreigner, had decided to take the scenic route since she’d have no idea if he drove in circles for an hour. He finally stopped in front of a brick mansion, its impressive wrought iron gates, a bronze letterBproudly displayed within a circle of cast-iron leaves. A security camera positioned atop a brick pillar turned its eye on her when she rang the bell.
The gates slid apart silently on well-oiled hinges. Quinn walked up the drive, which was flanked by a lush lawn and flowering shrubs that she thought were azaleas. The three-story house resembled an English manor house, though it looked fairly new.
A small, dark-skinned woman opened the door and invited Quinn to come in. “Mr. Besson is expecting you,” she said. “He’s out back, on the lanai.”
The housekeeper led Quinn down a tiled corridor and through a huge modern kitchen toward a sliding door that led to the back garden. It was an oasis of leafy plants and gurgling water that cascaded from a waterfall into a decorative pond. Quinn saw the white-and-red glimmer of koi fish as they passed close to the surface, making the water ripple and shimmer in the sunlight. A large in-ground pool just beyond the pond sparkled in the sunshine, and several large umbrellas shaded clusters of empty beach chairs. There was a bar area and a small stand off to the side, which Quinn knew from past experience was reserved for a DJ and his equipment. Seth Besson clearly liked to entertain in style. Quinn looked around but didn’t see anyone.
“He’s over there,” the housekeeper said. She directed Quinn off to the right, where a shady gazebo housed two deck chairs with a low table between them. A man in a T-shirt and shorts reclined in one of the chairs, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. “Ah, Mr. Besson. Your guest is here.”
The man jerked awake and sat up, wincing in pain at the sudden movement. He pushed up his cap and smiled at Quinn,making her breath catch in her throat. Was this man really her father?
“Hi. Seth Besson. Please make yourself comfortable. Dolores, bring us something cool to drink. Or would you prefer a pot of tea? I’m afraid I only have Lipton. Not much of a tea drinker, I’m afraid,” he added apologetically.
“Something cool would be lovely. Thank you,” Quinn replied, rooted to the spot.
“Iced tea? Lemonade? Mineral water?” Seth asked.
“Lemonade, please.”
“Dolores, you heard the lady.”
The housekeeper scampered off and left Quinn with Seth. Quinn couldn’t help but stare. He was a big man—not overweight, but muscular and tall. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a bronze tan that gave him a Mediterranean appearance. Quinn tried to find something familiar in his blunt features but saw absolutely no resemblance to herself except the hair color, which she also shared with Sylvia. Seth’s hair was cropped close to the scalp, so it was hard to tell if it might curl when allowed to grow longer. Quinn’s hair wasn’t curly but had a natural wave, just like Sylvia’s, and her eyes were a deep hazel. Neither Sylvia nor Seth had hazel eyes, but Sylvia had once remarked on Quinn’s resemblance to her own mother.
Seth took off his cap and looked up at her. “You gonna stand there all day?” he asked with a smile. His teeth looked very white against his tan, and he had a nice smile that actually reached his eyes and made Quinn feel a little more comfortable.
She took a seat and faced her host. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this. Your son said you’re recuperating from surgery.”
“That little twerp. I told him to keep quiet about that. No one needs to know my private business,” he groused. “Trucking is a cutthroat business. My competitors are vultures who’ll go aftermy contracts if they think I might not be paying attention, even for one day.”
“I had no idea trucking was so competitive,” Quinn replied. She hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, but Seth’s grin faded and he cocked his head to the side, watching her with interest.
“Enough about trucking then. Tell me why you’re here.”
Quinn suddenly wished the ground beneath her would open up and swallow her whole. This man intimidated her even more than Robert Chatham had when she met him in Edinburgh. She knew Chatham’s type well, but Seth Besson was an unknown quantity. She looked up and saw his eyes glinting with amusement.
“Come on, doll. I won’t bite. Let’s hear it.”
Quinn could draw out the story and build up to what she’d come to say, but Seth didn’t seem like someone who’d appreciate a song and dance. He looked like a man who valued directness and economy of speech.
