As soon as she was in his arms she felt herself yielding to the powerful erotic sensations he awoke in her.

Slowly Randal pulled his head back and looked down at her, and Pippa opened her eyes to stare back at him.

“You kiss me like that, and yet you keep pretending you don’t want me?” he whispered. “What’s going on inside that head of yours? We’re both free now, there’s nothing to keep us apart—so why are you still fighting it?”

Note from the Editor:

Charlotte Lamb passed away on 8 October 2000, at her home on the Isle of Man, U.K., surrounded by her family.

She started writing for Harlequin Presents® in the early 1970s, and published 116 novels for the line. More than 100 million copies of her stories have sold worldwide. The Boss’s Virgin was completed just before her death.

Charlotte Lamb will be missed by millions of readers around the globe.

The Boss’s Virgin
Charlotte Lamb

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE party was going to go on for hours, but Pippa was tired; it was almost midnight and she normally went to bed before eleven. When she was younger she’d been able to stay up all night at parties, but her body didn’t have the late-night habit any more since she’d had to be at work by eight every weekday morning. She had been forced to realise that burning the candle at both ends was crazy.

She kept yawning, which wasn’t surprising since the flat was packed with people and oxygen was scarce. She was beginning to feel quite dizzy as she shuffled around, dancing with Tom under flashing strobe lighting.

‘Can we go soon? Would you mind?’ she whispered in Tom’s ear, and he blinked down at her, looking half asleep himself before he smiled that slow, sweet smile of his.

‘I don’t mind at all. I’m dead on my feet. Let’s go and find Leonie and make our excuses.’

They found her in the kitchen making more bites on sticks: bacon-wrapped dates, bits of cheese sandwiched with pineapple, like the other finger food she had been circulating earlier. She hadn’t had any help organising her party; she must have been working very hard all day.

‘Sorry, Leonie, we have to get moving,’ Pippa said apologetically, kissing her. They had worked together for some years now and Pippa was fond of her. ‘We have a long drive back. It was a lovely party; we had a great time. Thanks for inviting us.’

Leonie pushed back her long blonde hair then hugged Pippa. ‘Thanks for coming. People seem to be enjoying themselves, don’t they?’

‘They certainly do. Great food and great music. Where did you get that lighting from?’

‘Hired it—it didn’t give you migraine, did it? I know it triggers migraines in some people.’

‘No, it didn’t give me migraine.’ But she had hated it all the same; the constant, blinding flashes of bright light combined with the loud music had made her head ache.

‘Have some cheese,’ Leonie offered, and Pippa took a piece, bit it.

‘Delicious, thanks,’ she said. ‘Sorry to have to go. I hope you’ll be very happy, Leonie. You’ve got a great guy there; I’m sure you will be.’

Leonie glowed, eyes happy. ‘He is gorgeous, isn’t he? And so is Tom!’

He laughed and she kissed him. ‘I mean it! You are. I’m really looking forward to your wedding.’

‘So are we,’ Tom said, holding Pippa tighter. ‘We seem to have been planning it for years. I can’t believe it’s going to happen at last next week. You’ll be planning yours now. Believe me, it’s a mistake to hurry. There’s so much to work out.’

Tom was good at planning, drawing up lists, double-checking every little detail. He had masterminded their wedding; Pippa had simply attended to the details.

‘Well, must go,’ he said, and she followed him out of the flat into the faint chill of a spring night. She took his arm, snuggling close to him for warmth. The flat had been so crowded and overheated; the fresh air hit them with a blow that woke them up.

His car was parked down the road. All around them London glowed and buzzed although it was nearly midnight. On a Saturday most young people went out or had parties. The central city streets would be heaving with people drinking and laughing, spilling out of pubs and restaurants to stand in the road, talking, reluctant to go home yet.

Tom hadn’t drunk much—he never did; he was a very careful abstemious man—but he had to concentrate to keep his wits about him as they drove through the busy streets which led through the West End and the grey, crowded streets of the much poorer East End into the eastern suburbs. At last, though, they came to the road leading to rural Essex, and within twenty minutes were a short distance from Whitstall, where they both lived.

A small Essex town with a busy market once a week, it had once been a remote village, a cluster of small cottages around a pond, where cattle had stood up to their knees, drinking, a medieval church with a white-painted wooden spire, and a couple of traditional pubs. They drank at The Goat, whose new sign suggested devil worship, although the name actually related to the goats which had once been kept on the common. The King’s Head had a very old sign: a mournful Charles the First swung to and fro in the wind above the door.

During this century the village had grown into a town as the railway, and then the advent of the motor car, encouraged people from inner London to move out into the country. With new people had come more houses, circling and doubling the old village centre.

Tom had arrived first and bought a new house on a small modern estate which had been built. Pippa had come to his house-warming party and fallen in love with Whitstall, so she had bought herself a cottage there, too.

‘We’ll be home soon now,’ Tom murmured.

Pippa yawned beside him, her chestnut hair windblown around her oval face and her slanting green eyes drowsy. ‘Thank goodness! Mind you, I enjoyed the party. It’s great to see our colleagues letting their hair down now and then. They’re usually concentrating too hard to smile much.’

‘It was fun,’ he agreed. ‘Leonie and Andy seemed to be on top of the world—she’s very happy, isn’t she? Getting engaged suits her.’

‘Suits me, too,’ Pippa said, chuckling.

He laughed, reaching a hand across to touch one of hers, the hand which bore his ring, a circle of little diamonds around a larger emerald. ‘Glad to hear it. It certainly suits me. Being married will be even better.’

‘Yes,’ she said. At last she would be part of a family; she couldn’t wait.

The street lamps had ended. They were driving along narrow, dark country roads between hawthorn hedges beyond which lay fields full of black and white cows which had a ghostly look as they moved, flickering and dappled, over the grass they grazed on. Here and there one saw a frilly-leaved oak tree, or an elm vaguely outlined against the night sky.

Pippa sleepily thought about her wedding dress, which would soon be finished. The village dressmaker was hardly what you could call rapid—indeed she worked at a sloth’s pace, whenever she felt like it, Pippa had decided—but the dress was exquisite, a vision of silk and pearls and cloudy fullness. Pippa had a final fitting tomorrow morning. She couldn’t take time off work; her fittings had to happen at weekends. Of course, Tom had never glimpsed the dress; everyone insisted that that would mean bad luck.

She already had her veil, but she had yet to buy the coronet she would wear to hold her veil down. She had been looking for exactly what she wanted for weeks, without success. Then on Friday evening, as she’d walked to the tube station, she had seen a coronet of pearls and amazingly lifelike white roses in a wedding shop in Bond Street. Unluckily the shop had shut at six o’clock, so she hadn’t been able to buy it. She would go back on Monday, during her lunch hour.

It had taken months to plan everything. She had often wished she had a mother to help her, but, being an orphan without any relatives, she had had to manage alone. The wedding had eaten up half her savings as she had no family to pay the costs. Tom had generously insisted on paying half, making himself responsible for the reception, the white wedding cars and the flower arrangements in the church.

Her green eyes slid to his profile, half in shadow, half lit now and then by moonlight, showing her a straight nose, floppy fair hair, a still boyish face. He was a wonderful man: tender, caring, warm-hearted. She had known him for four years and the more she learnt about him the more she liked him.

And yet… She sighed. And yet, she was still uncertain, troubled. He had first proposed two years ago, but she had gently refused that time, and the next two times he had asked her to marry him. Marriage was an important step; it meant far more than living together, or sharing a bed. She hadn’t had a family or a home as a child. She had been brought up in foster care, never feeling she belonged to anyone, or anywhere, envying other children who had parents who loved them.

She had no idea who her parents had been, in fact. She had been left outside a hospital one rainy spring night. Nobody had ever come forward with information about her background. Enviously she had watched other children at school who had a family, a home, something she was never to know.

In consequence she took marriage and family very seriously. To her, marriage meant committing to spending the rest of your lives together, and she wasn’t sure she could face that with Tom.

Oh, she liked Tom a lot, found him very attractive, knew him well. He was her boss. They had worked together every day in the same London office for four years, and had always had a good working relationship. Pippa enjoyed his company; he was a good-looking man, and when he kissed her or touched her she wasn’t repulsed. If they had not slept together it was because Tom had never insisted. Oh, they had come close to it, yet he had always drawn back, saying he wanted to wait until they were married. He wanted their marriage to mean something deeply important, and she was impressed by his personal integrity. She saw marriage in the same light. Sex was easy. A life commitment was hard.

And yet… She gave another sigh. And yet, something was lacking between them. She knew very well what it was: that vital ingredient. She had been honest with Tom from the beginning, telling him the truth about how she felt. She was not in love with him, even though she liked him so much, and to Pippa it was vitally important to love the man you married.

He had said he understood, accepted that, but he believed she would begin to love him once she was his wife, once they shared their lives fully, and maybe she would. She hoped so.

The car put on more speed. They were coming closer to the little cottage where Pippa lived. Tom came very fast round the final corner just as another car came out of a narrow lane to the right.

Pippa gasped, sitting upright, as tyres screamed on the road surface. Tom put on his brakes and tried to spin the wheel to avoid the other car, but it was too late. The cars hit each other with a violence that threw Pippa forward; she would have gone through the windscreen if her seat belt had not held, and if the airbag had not ballooned outward to cushion her fall.

For a moment or so she was too shocked to move or think, could not remember what had happened. Then she dazedly began to fight her way out of the billowing folds of the airbag, to sit up and take stock. At her side, Tom had also been cushioned by his own airbag, but he had already recovered enough to undo his seat belt and open the car door.

‘Are you okay?’ she shakily asked him.

‘I think so. Stay here,’ he muttered.

The other car, a long red sports car, was skewed across the road, its nose buried in the hedge.

Had the driver been killed? she anxiously wondered, as Tom began unsteadily to walk towards it, but then the sports car’s door opened and the driver emerged, a tall, lean man, whose immaculate evening dress seemed incongruous in this situation.

Pippa stared, her body pulsing with shock, her heart beating too fast inside her ribcage, her skin cold, her limbs trembling.

The two men faced each other, inches apart. ‘Are you hurt?’ Tom asked.

A deep voice answered curtly. ‘Just cuts and bruises. No thanks to you. What the hell were you doing, driving at that speed?’

Defensively, Tom countered, ‘Why did you pull out like that, without looking?’

‘I stopped to make the turn. When I looked left the road was empty. I started to come out, then you appeared at about seventy miles an hour. I had no chance to avoid you.’

It was true. Tom had been driving too fast; he should have slowed as he approached the junction. That was what he normally did, but at this time of night he hadn’t been expecting to see another vehicle turning out. It was pure luck that the accident hadn’t had worse consequences. They could all have been killed.

Tom didn’t argue; no doubt he realised he wasn’t entirely blameless. He was usually such a careful driver; it wasn’t in character for him to take risks.

Glancing past the other man at his red car, he asked, ‘Is there much damage to your car?’

They stood with their backs to Pippa, who huddled down inside her black velvet evening jacket, shivering, but not taking her eyes from them. Tom bent down to peer at the sports car’s long, sleek bonnet.

‘I’m afraid there are a lot of scratches on here.’

‘Yes,’ the other man agreed angrily. ‘It will cost the earth to have the paintwork renewed and the car is new. What about your car? Is that badly damaged?’

He was over six foot, with a long, supple back and even longer legs. As he half turned to glance back at Tom’s car she saw his strong features: hard, sardonic, an imperious nose, a generously cut mouth, heavy-lidded eyes, and the way his dark hair curled behind his ears.

He glanced at Tom’s car. ‘I see you have a passenger,’ he murmured. ‘An eye witness. A woman? I hope she’ll tell the truth if we have to go to court.’

‘Don’t be offensive,’ Tom snapped. ‘I admit, I was driving too fast, but I was on the main road. You were coming out of a small lane; you should have waited, let me go past. I’ll pay your garage bills; there will be no need to involve the police, or go to court. But if we did my fiancée would tell the absolute truth; I wouldn’t ask her to lie.’

The other laughed curtly, his manner making it plain that he did not believe that.

Tom was bristling. Pippa saw his hands screw into fists, but he kept his voice level. ‘We had better exchange addresses and the names of our insurance companies. By the way, I work for mine, so you need have no fear they won’t pay.’

He turned away to walk back towards his own car. ‘I’ll get my documents.’

The other man leaned into the red sports car and emerged again with some papers in his hand. He began to follow Tom and Pippa turned her head away, face hidden by the high collar of her velvet jacket.

She sensed the other driver bending to stare at her and closed her eyes, hoping he couldn’t see her clearly.

‘Is your companion hurt?’ he asked Tom, who was looking into his glove compartment for his documents.

‘What?’ Tom looked at her. ‘Are you okay, Pippa?’

‘Just tired,’ she whispered huskily, not turning or lifting her head.

But she still felt the probe of the other man’s grey eyes and her heart beat like a metronome.

‘I’ll get you home as soon as I can, darling,’ Tom murmured, brushing a strand of her rich chestnut hair back from her forehead.

He turned towards the other driver, proffering the documents he held. The two of them used the bonnet of Tom’s car to write down the information each needed. Still keeping her eyes almost closed, Pippa watched through her lashes, breathing unsteadily, hearing the deep, cool voice talking, hoping he wouldn’t ask for her address or demand she speak to him.

If she could only get away, escape; she felt doom threaten her, a fate she was not strong enough to withstand. Hurry up, Tom, she thought. Don’t stand there talking.

She knew that soothing voice he was using; he was trying to calm the other driver, placate him, talk him round. It was a technique Tom used in business every day; he was an expert at persuading people to do what he wanted.

They worked for an insurance company in central London. Tom was one of the executives who dealt with large claims. He needed all his tact, diplomacy, cool patience, to negotiate with claimants and lawyers. He was doing that now.

Stop talking, Tom, she thought desperately. Get back in the car and let’s drive away. Take me home. Take me safely home.

The two men shook hands—a typically polite English gesture. They had come to an agreement.

‘Goodnight, Mr Harding. I’ll be in touch.’

The other murmured a reply, less clearly, shot another look into the car. Pippa tensed in dread, but he turned to walk away and she could relax a little, letting out her held breath. He was going.

Tom got back into the car beside her, groaning.

‘Well, that was bad luck. My own stupid fault, driving too fast.’ He started the engine; it flared, raced, while he listened to it anxiously. ‘Let’s hope there isn’t too much damage.’

‘Did you notice much?’

‘One wing has crumpled, that will have to be replaced, and my door is badly scratched, but it could have been worse.’

‘We could have been killed,’ she agreed, her eyes fixed on the man sliding his long legs back into the red sports car. The night wind lifted his thick, silky black hair, winnowing it like caressing fingers.

Yes, it could have been much worse; it could have been disastrous. Her entire body was limp, as if she had barely escaped with her life. All the adrenalin had drained out of her. She yearned to be alone, in her cottage, to think, to recover from this.

Tom parked outside her cottage a few moments later and turned to kiss her. ‘Goodnight, darling. I’m sorry about the accident.’ He looked down at her, frowning. ‘You’re very quiet—are you angry with me?’

‘No, of course not. I’m very tired, that’s all.’

‘And having an accident didn’t help,’ he wryly said, grimacing. ‘Sleep well, anyway. I’ll see you on Monday.’

She got out of the car, waved to him as he drove off, and let herself into her cottage, switching on the light. Before she could shut the door again a furry black shape brushed past her and ran gracefully through the hall into the kitchen.

Groaning, she closed the door and followed. ‘You’re a nuisance, you stupid cat. I want to go to bed, not hang around here feeding you.’

Samson ignored her, nose in the air, his elegant black body seated pointedly beside the fridge. He knew there were the remains of a chicken in there, left over from the dinner she had cooked for Tom last night, and although he would eat tinned cat food if nothing else was available his favourite food was roast chicken.

Pippa knew she would get no peace until she had given in, so she got out the chicken and sliced some into Samson’s bowl, added crushed biscuit, poured fresh water into another bowl, and put them down. The cat immediately started eating.

Pippa left the kitchen, turning off the light, and went upstairs, stripped, put on a brief green cotton nightdress. In the bathroom she cleaned off her make-up and washed. In the mirror her face was oddly grey, her eyes dilated, black pupils glowing like strange fruit.

Shock, she thought, looking away hurriedly. Returning to her bedroom, she got between the sheets and switched off the light.

The cottage only had two bedrooms and a bathroom; downstairs there was a comfortable sitting room and the kitchen, with its small dining nook at one end. Her firm had helped her with the purchase; the price had been very low because the place had needed so much work. It had been occupied for years by an eccentric old man.

He had left the cottage more or less as it had been when he’d inherited it from his father forty years earlier, she’d been told by the estate agent. He had done no repairs, no redecoration. By the time he died himself, the place had been in a parlous state. But—the agent had beamed—it wouldn’t take much trouble to modernise.

She should never have believed him. Even though the price had been low, the mortgage was more than she would have wished to pay. She had very little left over once she had paid it each month. Despite that, she loved this little house; it was the first real home she had ever had.

In her childhood she had passed from one “family” to another. Some foster mothers had only liked small children and hadn’t been able to cope with older girls. Once her foster family had split up in divorce and she had been parcelled off to another one. She had yearned for stability, for a sense of belonging, a real home—and at last she had one. No price could be too high for that.

She could do without expensive clothes, make-up, visits to beauty parlours, holidays abroad. She had a home of her own; that was all that mattered.

She had had to minimise the expense of conversion, though. So she had done all the redecorating herself, even painted the outside walls, standing on a rather rickety ladder she had bought for a song in an auction, but she had had to pay a local builder to repair the roof and instal a new bathroom. Those jobs were beyond her.

But when she and Tom were married they would be living here; she wouldn’t have to move again. Tom had grown to dislike his own house; living on a housing estate meant living with noisy children running around all day, kicking balls, shouting, riding far too fast on their bicycles along pavements, and his neighbours played their radios and televisions too loudly.

Life would be easier for them if they lived in her cottage. Tom insisted on taking over her mortgage and she meant to pay for all the food they bought. Their joint income would be comfortable. They would even take holidays in the sun in exotic places.

Lying in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, Pippa smiled at that thought. She hadn’t been abroad much; she was dying to go to foreign places, enjoy better weather.

An image flashed through her mind with a strangely vivid sensation, as if it was happening now, right now, and she started, shuddering.

The car crash, those terrifying sounds of tyres screaming on tarmac, the airbag ballooning into her face, the red sports car skewed into the hawthorn hedge, the moment when the driver got out.

Her heart beat painfully, her ears drumming with agitated blood. She shut her eyes. She wouldn’t think about it. She had to forget; she must clear her head.

Oh, why had it happened? Why now? Fate had a strange sense of humour. Only one more week and she would be Tom’s wife. Why had they had the accident, crashed into the man’s car, at this particular time?

She tried to sleep, but was awake most of the night. The flashback kept coming. Her brain was her enemy and would not let her forget. As the hours wore on, her head began to ache. She was first hot, then cold, twisting and turning in the bed, hearing the tick-tick of the clock on her bedside table as though it beat in her blood.

Eventually she did fall into a heavy, stupefied sleep from which she woke abruptly when her alarm went off at nine o’clock. She felt like death as she stumbled out of bed.

After a shower she dressed in jeans and a clean white T-shirt, then went downstairs to make coffee.

Samson gave her an angry greeting. She was usually up well before this time, and like all cats he had a good sense of the time, especially where meals were concerned. While she moved about he kept brushing against her, slithering between her legs, making his demand calls. Miaow. Miaow. Where’s my breakfast? Where’s my food?

After giving him a saucer of milk and cereal, she let him out of the back door, watched him streak through the little garden, then she poured herself orange juice and sat down to sip it. After contemplating the idea of some toast, she decided against it—she really wasn’t hungry.

The dressmaker arrived half an hour later, bright and cheerful in a neat grey skirt and blue blouse. ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ She said as Pippa opened the front door.

‘Lovely.’ In fact Pippa hadn’t noticed; she had been too preoccupied. Now she glanced around, absorbing the bright spring sunshine, the blue sky, the tassels of catkins on a hazel tree in her garden, the frilly yellow daffodils and deep purplish blue of hyacinth. She had planted them last year; this year they had come up without her help.

‘Yes, lovely,’ she agreed. Another one of Fate’s little jokes, this wonderful weather, the beauty of the morning. It should have been stormy, threatening, not full of light and hope. The weather did not fit her mood at all. ‘Can I get you some coffee, Mrs Lucas?’ she asked, stepping back to let the dressmaker into the hall.

‘Thanks, I’d love some later, but I’d like to get on with the fitting first; I have a busy day ahead.’ Mrs Lucas considered her, frowning. ‘Aren’t you well, dear? You’re very pale.’

‘We went to a party last night, and on the way home we had a bit of an accident.’

‘No! Was it serious? Anyone hurt?’

‘Thank heavens, no, and the car wasn’t badly damaged, but it was a shock.’

‘Of course it was. Bound to be. No wonder you’re pale. Well, I won’t take up too much of your time. There isn’t much to do; the dress is nearly finished. I just want to check that it fits perfectly. Have you got everything else, now?’

‘Almost everything.’

‘Good girl. Well, get your jeans and T-shirt off, stand on that chair, and I’ll slip the dress over your head.’ Mrs Lucas stood waiting while Pippa obeyed her. The silk and lace dress was carefully held between her two hands and once Pippa was in position she delicately lifted her hands and the dress dropped over Pippa’s head and rustled softly as it fell to her feet. There was a small mirror on the wall opposite her; Pippa could see a partial reflection of herself, looking strange and unfamiliar in that dream dress. What was it about a bride that left a romantic glow?

Mrs Lucas got busy with pins, tucking in her waist a fraction, clicking her tongue. ‘You’ve lost weight again! Another pound, I’d say.’

‘Sorry. I’m not dieting, honestly. I can’t think why I’m losing weight.’

‘Oh, it often happens to brides. Wedding nerves, rushing around, forgetting to eat; they always seem to lose weight. Don’t worry, I can cope.’

Her mouth full of pins, she adjusted the set of the lacy bodice from which Pippa’s head rose so vividly, with that frame of bright chestnut hair lit by morning sunlight. Pippa watched her mirrored image with uneasy green eyes. Everything seemed surreal, unlikely—was that really her?

And if she seemed strange to herself now, she was going to feel much stranger in a week, after her wedding.

Looking at her watch with a groan, Mrs Lucas got up from her knees. ‘I must go; I’ve got so much to do today. I’ll just take the dress off, Pippa, before you get down. Next time you see it, it will fit you perfectly, I promise. You’re going to be a lovely bride.’

The silk and lace softly, sibilantly, lifted over her head. Mrs Lucas inserted the dress back onto a hanger inside the plastic carrier in which she had brought it, and zipped up the carrier.

‘Have you got time for that coffee?’

‘Sorry, no, not really. See you soon.’

She was gone a moment later. Pippa put her clothes back on and made herself black coffee, sat sipping it, trying to shake off her disturbed and uneasy mood.

In a week’s time…just a week now…she would be Tom’s wife. She should be radiant, over the moon. A woman’s wedding day was supposed to be the happiest of her life—so why didn’t she feel happy?

Maybe all brides felt this sense of doom, the fear, the sinking in the pit of the stomach close to nausea? Far from being happy, she had a strong feeling that she was about to make the worst mistake of her life.

She must stop thinking like that! What was the matter with her? She was going to be happy. She wouldn’t let herself think negative thoughts.

She went to bed early that evening and was up in good time to get to work. Tom was always there early, and expected her to be early too. Working in an insurance company wasn’t exactly thrilling, but the job paid well and the work was never complicated or difficult.

Monday was always a calm day; the postbag was light and their workload was easy enough to deal with as they always tried to clear their desks by Friday afternoon, so she was able to go to lunch a little early that day, to give herself time to get to Bond Street, and then hopefully grab a snack before she went back to the office.

She caught a bus, then walked anxiously, hurriedly, to the bridal shop, relieved to see that the pearl and rose coronet was still in the window. The assistant sat her in a chair in front of a mirror, brought a wedding veil and the coronet for her to try on.

Pippa gazed at herself, smiling; it really was perfect, just what she wanted.

‘You look lovely,’ the assistant told her, and Pippa thought she looked pretty good, too.

‘It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for,’ she confessed. ‘I’ll take it.’

Then the smile went and her eyes widened in horror as she saw a reflection of the street outside behind her shoulders.

A man stood there, staring at her: tall, elegantly dressed, his black hair brushed and immaculate.

In the mirror their eyes met. His were fixed and glittering, bright and hot as burning stars. Pippa stared into them, her stomach turning over, grew icy cold and fainted.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE recovered consciousness slowly, not quite sure what had happened, her lids flickering, then rising; she looked up, her green eyes dazed, not focusing properly.

Two faces bent over her. The assistant looked anxious, upset. The other…

Pippa took one look at him and promptly shut her eyes again. She did not want to believe he was real. Surely she wasn’t imagining things, dreaming him up in the oddest places, at the oddest times? Her head buzzed with distressed questions. What was he doing here? Come to that, what had he been doing outside the bridal shop? What was going on? First the accident; now he’d turned up while she was trying on her bridal coronet. What was Fate up to?

‘She’s fainted again,’ the assistant said. ‘Oh, dear. Do you think she’s really ill? She’s very pale. Should I ring for an ambulance? Or a doctor?’

‘No, I don’t think she’s ill; she’s just playing dead,’ said the deep, cool voice she remembered so well.

How dared he? What right did he have to read her so accurately? Angrily she opened her eyes once more and glared at him, beginning to get up.

It didn’t make her any less furious that he helped, as effortlessly as if she weighed no more than a child, lifting her with one arm around her waist, his warm hand just below her breast, the intimacy of the contact making her heart thud painfully.

‘Oh…perhaps we shouldn’t move her yet,’ the assistant nervously murmured. ‘She may still be groggy.’

‘Oh, she’ll be okay. Would you run out and stop that taxi going past? Thanks.’

Pippa was still being held close to that long, lean body; the proximity was doing drastic things to her, especially when she looked up and sideways at the hard-edged, smooth-skinned, masculine face.

She heard the other girl’s high heels clipping across the shop and knew she was alone with him. Panic streaked through her; she pushed him away and his arm dropped.

Those bright eyes gleamed with what she grimly recognised as mockery. So he was finding the situation funny, was he? Her teeth met.

‘Feeling better now?’ he enquired softly.

‘Yes, thank you.’ Her voice was cold and remote, hiding the rage she felt although she suspected he wasn’t missing it; his argument was open, unhidden.

The shop assistant rushed back, breathlessly said, ‘The taxi’s waiting.’

‘Thank you.’ He looked at Pippa. ‘Maybe you should take the veil off before we go?’

‘We’ go? she thought. She wasn’t going anywhere with him.

But the assistant came to help her. ‘So, did you want the coronet?’

‘Yes, please.’ Pippa fumbled in her bag, found her credit card and held it out.

The assistant offered her the payment slip a moment later and she signed it, then took back her card and put it away, very slowly and carefully, deliberately delaying in the hope that he might go outside to talk to the taxi driver.

She might then have a chance to escape, run off down the road, but he waited beside her, perhaps anticipating her intention. Finally she had to leave the shop, as they walked out on to the pavement he held her elbow lightly, propelled her towards the taxi.

‘I don’t want to…’ she breathed.

‘You might faint again; we can’t have that.’ He smiled, lifting her into the back of the taxi.

She couldn’t quite catch what he said to the driver before climbing in beside her, but before she could ask him the taxi set off with a jerk which almost made her tumble forward on to the floor.

‘Do up your seat belt,’ she was ordered, and her companion leaned over to drag the belt across her shoulder and down to her waist, clip it into place, his long fingers brushing her thigh. He had a fresh, outdoor scent: pine, she decided, inhaling it. She wished he would stop invading her body space. It was far too disturbing.

‘Where did you tell the driver to go?’ she asked huskily as he sat back, not meeting the eyes that watched her as if he could read her every thought.

‘I feel it’s time we had a private chat. I told him to take us to my hotel. Have you had lunch?’

Agitated, she protested, ‘I’m not going to your hotel! I have to get back to work.’

‘You can ring and tell them you’ve been taken ill,’ he dismissed. ‘Have you had lunch?’

‘Yes,’ she lied, and received one of his dry, mocking glances.

‘Where? You came out of your office, caught a bus and went straight to that shop. Where could you have had lunch?’

‘You’ve been following me? Spying on me? How dare you? You had no right,’ she spluttered, very flushed now. ‘Were you on the bus? I didn’t see you.’

‘No, I followed in a taxi, then walked behind you along Bond Street.’

She thought harder, forehead wrinkled. ‘How did you know where I worked?’

‘Your fiancé told me where he worked, so I rang up and asked the switchboard if you worked there, too.’

Simple when you know how, she thought; she should have guessed he would track her down if he wanted to, but she hadn’t thought he would want to.

‘They tried to put me through, but someone in your office said you had just left, were going shopping in your lunch hour. I was ringing on my mobile from the foyer of the building. A minute later I saw you come out of the lift so I followed.’

She was speechless. He made it sound perfectly normal to follow people around, spy on them—nothing to get excited about. But she was so furious she couldn’t even get a word out.

He gave her a wry grin, eyes teasing. ‘Stop glaring at me. I had to see you. You knew that, from the minute his car crashed into mine. You knew we had to meet again, that we have a lot to talk about.’

‘We have nothing to talk about! I don’t want to talk to you at all. I just want to get back to my office and forget you exist.’

But she was so nervous that she put up a shaky hand to brush stray strands of bright hair away from her cheek, aware that he watched the tiny movement with those intent, glittering eyes.

‘And you think you can do that, Pippa?’ he drawled, moving even closer so that their bodies touched.

She couldn’t bear the contact, shifted away into the corner, body tense and shuddering.

‘Yes.’ But her eyes didn’t meet his and she felt him staring at the telltale pulse beating hard in her throat.

He reached out a hand; one long finger slid down her cheek then down her neck, awaking pulses everywhere it rested, until it pressed down into that pulse in her throat. ‘What’s the point of lying? You’re not convincing me; you’re only lying to yourself.’

‘Don’t touch me!’ she muttered, knocking his hand away.

The taxi turned into a hotel entrance, set back from the road. She looked up at the grand façade, ornate and baroque, with ironwork balconies outside every other widow, flags flying on the steep roof. She had heard of the hotel but never been inside it; it was far too expensive. Normally she would have loved to go there for lunch, but not with him.

‘You get out here; I’ll go on to my office!’ she insisted, holding on to the seat with both hands.

To her relief and surprise, he got out without replying and paid the driver. Only then did he turn back towards Pippa. ‘Out you get!’ He reached over and undid her seat belt before she had notice of his intention.

She wanted to yell, scream, hit him, but the hotel doorman had appeared behind him, magnificent in livery dripping with gold braid, smiling an obsequious welcome, and she was too embarrassed to make a scene in front of such an audience.

‘I can’t. Let me go,’ she said instead, very quietly, still hanging on to the seat.

‘Let me help you,’ he blandly murmured, and the next second he had taken her by the waist and was lifting her out of the taxi. Keeping his arm around her, he guided her up the steps into the hotel foyer while the doorman closed the taxi door and followed them. A moment later Pippa found herself being propelled into a lift; the door shut and the lift began to rise.

There was nobody else in the lift with them; she felt free to break away from him, using every ounce of her strength, looking at him with angry hostility as she reeled against the lift wall.

‘How dare you manhandle me like this? And if you think you can get me up to your bedroom…’

‘Suite,’ he coolly corrected. ‘There’s a sitting room; we can have lunch there.’

‘I am not going with you! Bedroom or suite, I am not going anywhere alone with you!’

‘You’re alone with me now,’ he pointed out in silky tones, leaning over her in what she interpreted as menace, despite the laughter gleaming in his eyes. His proximity was threat enough, even when he didn’t touch her.

‘Stop it! Keep away from me!’ she whispered, trembling.

His face was inches away from her own. ‘What are you so afraid of, Pippa? Me? Or yourself?’

Confused, she muttered, ‘Don’t be stupid. How can I be afraid of myself?’

‘Of what you really want,’ he enlarged, eyes watching her intently. ‘Of your own instinct and desires. You’re so terrified of how you feel that you need to shelter behind a pretence of hating me. You can’t risk so much as a look at me, can you?’

Face burning, eyes flickering nervously, she said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do I have to remind you that I’m getting married in a week’s time?’

The lift stopped and the doors opened. Nobody was waiting on that floor; there was no one in view at all. He stepped out, grabbed her hand and jerked her out after him.

‘I am not going with you! Let go of me!’ She struggled to get away, flailing at him with one hand, managed to land a blow on his cheek, and gave a little cry of pain as she hurt herself on the hard edge of his bone structure.

‘Serves you right! You shouldn’t be so violent!’ He ran an exploring hand over his cheek where a red mark burnt. ‘That hurt me almost as much as it probably hurt you.’

‘Good!’

A room door nearby opened and an old lady in a pink linen suit, wearing a small black hat with a black lace veil which fell over her eyes, came out, gave them a startled, uneasy look.

‘Is anything wrong?’ she quavered.

Pippa hesitated fatally; he answered before she could. ‘She’s shy, that’s all. Honeymoon nerves! You know how women get on these occasions.’

The old lady blushed and then smiled; Pippa glared at him. He was maddening; he always had been.

‘I should carry you over the threshold, darling,’ he said, and suddenly grabbed Pippa off her feet before she could stop him, lifted her up into his arms and strode off with her while the old lady gazed after them with a romantic smile.

Pippa knew she should call his bluff, struggle, hit him again, but with that happy, wide-eyed audience she simply couldn’t. In any case a moment later he paused in front of double doors, produced a key and unlocked the suite, carried Pippa inside, into a small hallway, and closed the door behind them with his elbow.

‘Put me down!’ she hoarsely demanded. ‘Put me down at once!’

He carried her into a bedroom and dropped her on the large, white-and silver-draped bed.

Her heart beat wildly in her throat. Surely he didn’t intend… She rolled over to the far edge of the bed and shakily stood up, looking around for a weapon to use if he tried to come anywhere near her. The table lamp looked heavy; it had a bronze cast base and could probably kill someone.

But he was turning back towards the door. Over his shoulder he casually said, ‘Use the bathroom, if you wish. Your hair could certainly do with some attention.’

The door closed behind him. She was alone and safe, for the moment. Her gaze wandered round the room, absorbing the luxury of the furnishings: high French windows covered with lace and floor-length curtains that matched the white and silver satin bed-cover, the bronze-based lamps with their wide silver satin shades, walnut-veneered furniture that was probably reproduction, not genuinely antique, a chest, a wardrobe whose doors were set with mirrors, a dressing table on which stood a vase of white carnations and roses.

She began to walk towards the door of the en-suite bathroom, paused to bend over the flowers, inhaling their faint scent then hurried on, in case he came back.

The bathroom was entirely white, with nineteen-twenties-style fittings, elegant fluted chrome taps. In a cupboard above the vanity unit she found his toiletries: aftershave, an electric razor, shower gel, shampoo. Somehow it was too intimate to stare at them. She quickly shut the door on them and opened her bag.

She found a comb and ran it through her hair, renewed her make-up, considered her reflection, disturbed by the feverish brightness of her eyes, the faint tremble of her mouth, the fast beating of that pulse in her neck.

It was crazy to let him do this to her. She had to pull herself together and somehow talk her way out of this suite. She had given him time to calm down, to think—maybe now he would realise he had to let her leave?

Turning away, she picked up her bag and left the bathroom, quietly opened the door of the bedroom. If he wasn’t in earshot she might be able to get away now.

She couldn’t hear a sound so she began tiptoeing back along the little hall towards the outer door. Before she reached it, however, a voice spoke softly behind her.

‘Don’t even think about it.’

She froze, looking round.

He was leaning on the open doorway into what she glimpsed to be a sitting room, his arms crossed, his body lounging with casual grace, those long legs relaxed, making her forcibly aware of his intense sexual allure, the gleaming display of the peacock. And he knew it, too; he was watching her with that infuriating mockery, knowing what she was feeling, amused and sure of himself.

She probably still had time to make a run for it, but he would only take a few seconds to catch up with her and her self-respect wouldn’t allow her to make a fight of this. In any case, she knew she would only lose. She had to use other weapons against him.

‘I have to get back to work.’

‘I’ve already rung your office and told them you fainted and would be going home to rest instead of going to work.’

She furiously broke out, ‘You had no business to do that!’

He ignored her angry splutter. ‘I’ve ordered lunch, too—something simple. I thought you wouldn’t want anything elaborate. Salad, some cheese, cold beef and chicken, some wholemeal bread, pickles, some fruit, yogurt, and a pot of coffee.’

‘I’m not hungry. You eat lunch; I’ll get back to my office.’ She turned towards the door of the suite.

‘Do I have to carry you in here?’ his voice silkily enquired, and she froze.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she burst out. ‘What’s the point? You’re married; I’m getting married—we have nothing to say to each other.’

Four years ago she had joined his firm after the company she had been working for had gone into liquidation. Pippa had been shocked by the news that everyone was being made redundant, but by sheer good luck she had got a new job the same day. During her lunch hour she had gone into an employment agency to register and had been given an immediate interview with a nearby office.

She had walked down the road, very nervous, a little shaky, and been shown up to the personnel officer, who had tested her various secretarial skills and spent half an hour questioning her.

Pippa hadn’t expected to be given a job there and then, but the personnel officer had leaned back at last and said, ‘When can you start?’

Heart lifting, Pippa whispered, ‘Do you mean I’ve got a job here? You’re taking me on?’

The woman smiled, eyes amused. ‘That’s what I mean. So when can you start?’

She didn’t need to think about it; she knew she would be out of a job by the end of that week and would need to be earning again as soon as possible. She had no one to help her with her rent and the cost of living. She only had herself to rely on.

‘On Monday?’ Relief and delight were filling her.

‘Wonderful. Report to me at nine o’clock and I’ll have someone show you to your desk. You’ll be working in the managing director’s office. His private assistant will be in charge; she’ll tell you what she wants you to do. It isn’t a difficult job, but it’s vital that everything runs smoothly in that office and Miss Dalton is a tough organiser. Be careful not to annoy her. The MD insists on a smooth-running office.’

It sounded rather nerve-racking to Pippa, but the salary was good and the work not too onerous. She left there walking on air, and got back to find everyone else in her office gloomily contemplating living on social security until they found work elsewhere.

‘What about you, Pippa?’ asked the girl whose desk was opposite hers. ‘What will you do?’

‘Oh, I’ve got a new job. I start there next Monday,’ Pippa airily told her, and everyone else stared in disbelief.

‘How on earth did you manage that?’

‘Just luck.’ She told them what had happened and they were envious and incredulous.

‘I’m going there as soon as I’ve finished work,’ one of them said, and others nodded their heads.

By the end of the week at least half of them had managed to find new jobs—some just about adequate, although one of them had got a much better job. There was a much more cheerful atmosphere in the office. They had a big party in a local Chinese restaurant on the Friday evening, knowing that they would probably not see each other again, although some close friends would keep in touch. Working together was a matter of propinquity. Once they all split up their friendships would begin to fade.

It had been Pippa’s first job. She had only been sixteen when she started work there and now she was twenty but felt older because ever since she’d left her last foster home she had been living alone, in one room, managing a tight budget, always struggling to make ends meet. That had made her grow up fast, had taught her a discipline she relied on to help her through each day. She couldn’t allow herself to buy anything she could do without; thrift was essential on such a small amount of money.

Her clothes had to last and look good in the office so she bought inexpensive but well-made skirts and blouses which she could vary daily, and wash again and again. She ate little, bought cheaply in street markets, mostly vegetables and fruit, pasta, some fish now and again, or more rarely, chicken. She only had one electric ring to cook on; she had to choose easily cooked food.

She had never been able to afford to entertain so she didn’t accept invitations from other people, since she couldn’t reciprocate. Once or twice she had had a date with one of the young men in the office, but none of them had attracted her much and the dates had been rather dull.

She felt a little sad, saying goodbye to people she had worked with for four years, though. She was going to miss them. All the same, she was deeply relieved to have another job to go to immediately. She couldn’t imagine how she would have paid the rent otherwise. The life of the street people, homeless and hopeless, gave her nightmares for a while. Being made redundant like that had destabilised her life, made her feel threatened, even after she’d got that new job.

On the following Monday she nervously made her way to the office block where she would be working, was taken up in the lift from the personnel office by one of the girls who worked there.

‘You know who you’ll be working for? Mr Harding, the managing director.’ Her voice had a reverent note. ‘You’re so lucky. He’s gorgeous. And nice. But he’s married, worse luck! His wife is really lovely; she’s a model. You often see her in glossy magazines. They make a stunning couple.’

‘What exactly will my job entail?’ Pippa asked. ‘I was never told.’ That was what interested her, not the sexiness or availability of the boss.

The other girl shrugged. ‘Working on a word processor, sending out letters, sorting mail, taking phone calls—the usual office routine. There are half a dozen girls working in the office and Mr Harding’s PA is a dragon lady. Miss Dalton.’

‘The personnel officer warned me to be very careful with her.’

‘She wasn’t kidding. She bites!’

She hadn’t exaggerated, Pippa discovered a few minutes later, contemplating the tall, cold-eyed woman who ran the office.

Felicity Dalton wasn’t beautiful, but she was striking—very thin and elegant, with long, straight black hair she wore drawn off her face and held with a large black clip. In her beautifully shaped ears she wore diamond studs. Her white blouse was immaculate, her black jersey skirt emphasised the sleek lines of her body. She looked as if she had been sculpted out of ice. A snow queen who clearly did not like people much, especially those of her own sex, whom she treated with hostility and contempt.

She gave Pippa brusque instructions, left her seated at a desk and went back to her own private office.

The other girls all grinned at Pippa once Felicity Dalton had gone. ‘Scary, isn’t she?’ one whispered. ‘I’m Judy, by the way.’

She was the same age as Pippa, and immediately likeable, a short, rather plump girl with curly brown hair and bright brown eyes, the pupils circled by golden rays which made her look like a lion.

‘Hi. I’m Pippa.’

‘Lovely name. Mine’s so ordinary.’ Judy sighed, then went on, ‘If you need any help, just ask. It’s not so long since I was new here; I know how it feels.’

Over that first week Pippa had to go to Judy for help more than once. Some of the letters they had to send were automatic replies to particular types of complaint; she wasn’t always sure which reply to send but Judy knew the office routine by heart.

The managing director himself was away, Pippa discovered, so their workload was not as heavy as it would be when he was working there.

‘What’s he like?’ she asked Judy, whose brown-gold eyes turned dreamy.

‘Very sexy. The Dalton’s crazy about him, but she’ll never get anywhere. He’s married to a really stunning woman; he never notices the Dalton at all. That’s what burns her up, why she’s so frozen and nasty. She’s hurting, so she makes sure we all feel the same.’

‘Poor Miss Dalton,’ Pippa said, with the first real sympathy she had felt for the older woman, who was never pleasant to her.

‘Don’t feel sorry for her! Just because her heart’s breaking is no reason why she should make our lives hell, is it?’ Judy was made of sterner stuff; her brown eyes glinted crossly.

Pippa grinned at her. ‘No reason at all, no! Anyway, you didn’t say what he was like to work for!’

‘He’s quite tough, too, actually, but in a different way. He expects us to work very hard, and he won’t tolerate mistakes, but he isn’t nasty, like Dalton. So long as you work hard he’s decent to you. Half the girls in the office are nuts about him, but he never encourages them. He’s a happily married man.’

‘Has he got children?’

‘One, a boy, around four years old, called Johnny. Randal has a big silver-framed photo of him on his desk. And another photo of his wife in evening dress—she really is fantastic. Wait until you see her!’

She was not to see Mrs Harding for some months, but Randal Harding was back at work the following Monday. Pippa had got in early to give herself a head start; she was only just able to keep up with the work as yet, and Miss Dalton was watching her like a hawk, pouncing on her every mistake. Pippa could not afford to lose this job, so she’d got an earlier bus that morning.

It was a fresh, blustery day; her curly chestnut hair had got blown about as she’d walked along the road, and her skin was flushed with exercise and cool air.

Nobody else was in her office; she sat down in front of her word processor and switched on, arranged her pens beside a pad next to the phone and was about to start work when the door opened. Looking round with a smile, Pippa was startled to see a man entering the office. She got an immediate impression of height and dark, brooding good looks.

He looked surprised too, staring at her. ‘Who are you?’

She didn’t like his curt tone. Coldly, she answered, ‘I work here. Who are you?’

‘I’m the managing director.’

She gulped. Oh, no! She should have guessed. She had known he would be back at work today.

‘Would you make me some coffee and bring it through to my office?’ he asked. ‘Bring a pad, too. I want you to take dictation.’

The door shut again; he was gone, leaving Pippa breathless. Well, that hadn’t been a good beginning, had it? She wouldn’t have left a very favourable impression on him. And she had been so keen to impress him!

Hurriedly she made him coffee, got a few biscuits from the tin kept in the cupboard where the coffee-making equipment was stored, laid a tray, collected her pad and several pens, and went through to his office.

That first session with Randal was tense and anxious; she was terrified of making a mistake. He was clearly in a temper; she sensed he would have gone into hyper-rage for any reason, however slight. So she concentrated hard, listening intently, her pen moving fast and fluently over the pad while he dictated several memos to staff, letters to clients.

Miss Dalton arrived just as he finished. Pippa incredulously saw that the snow queen looked flustered, her skin flushed, apologising as she hurried into the room, still wearing her smart black raincoat.

‘I am so sorry, Mr Harding; I left early so that I would be here when you arrived, but there was some sort of hold-up on the buses; I had to wait for ages before I could get one.’

He nodded impatiently. ‘Never mind, Miss Dalton. Pippa was here early and has taken dictation.’ He looked at Pippa. ‘Get those ready to sign as soon as possible, would you? Thank you.’

Pippa retreated, still shaky, and felt Miss Dalton’s icy eyes on her all the way.

Judy was just hanging up her coat. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked, and Pippa told her in a whisper. Judy whistled. ‘She won’t forgive you for that for a long time! The boss is her property; she’ll hate you for being here when she wasn’t.’

She was absolutely right. Miss Dalton was on Pippa’s case all day, snapping at her, complaining about her work, criticising her for wearing eye make-up, not to mention vivid red varnish on her fingernails in the office.

‘You look like a tart! Mr Harding doesn’t like his employees to wear that much make-up! Don’t come to work like that again!’

Pippa mumbled an apology; the other girls discreetly averted their heads.

Later that morning Miss Dalton struck again accusing her of gossiping to Judy when she should be working.

‘I’ve finished the work Mr Harding asked me to do—shall I take the letters to him to sign?’

‘No,’ snapped Miss Dalton. ‘I’ll do it!’ She came over to Pippa’s desk, picked up the perfectly typed letters and went out with them.

‘Brrr…icy weather,’ Judy whispered. ‘I told you so. She hates you now. Take another step near Mr Harding and she’ll kill you.’

‘It isn’t fair. He asked me to take dictation, and I did—it wasn’t my fault she wasn’t here.’

Miss Dalton came briskly back and loaded Pippa with more work, telling her to hurry up and finish it.

All that day, Pippa couldn’t do anything right.

It was huge relief when Miss Dalton finally departed, leaving Pippa to finish a new pile of work she had been given to do.

‘I’ll be here for hours—she wants all this done by the morning,’ Pippa moaned once the door had shut on the older woman.’

‘That will teach you,’ Judy teased before she left. ‘In future try not to be seen with the boss! Remember, you are a lowly slave and she is the queen!’

It was another hour before Pippa finally got to the bottom of the pile and could switch off her machine and clear her desk. Everyone else had gone; the offices were empty and silent. As she got up to leave the door opened and to her dismay there was Randal Harding again.

Glancing at him, she felt her heart flip over—he was intensely sexy, in his three-piece dark suit, a smooth-fitting waistcoat over his white shirt. He leaned against the doorframe, re-knotting his maroon silk tie.

‘Still here? You work long hours, very conscientious,’ he said with a faintly teasing smile. ‘Everyone else gone?’

She nodded dumbly, unable to speak because he made her so self-conscious.

‘Come on, then; the cleaners will be here in a minute.’ He switched off the lights, plunging the room into darkness, and she hurried towards the door, stumbling into him and feeling something like an electric shock at the contact.

‘Have you got far to go? Where do you live?’ he asked.

‘West Hackham. Twenty minutes by bus,’ she whispered, keeping her eyes down. She was terrified in case Miss Dalton should still be somewhere around, or heard they had left together. Her life wouldn’t be worth living if that happened.

‘Same direction as me. I’ll give you a lift. My car’s parked just down here; come along.’

She hung back, ‘No, really, it doesn’t matter.’

He gave her a wry, amused look. ‘Don’t look so scared. I don’t bite and I won’t make a pass.’

She flushed in horror. ‘No, I didn’t mean…didn’t think…’

He took her elbow and propelled her onwards. ‘Do you live at home, or have you got your own place?’

Why was he asking that? she wondered, still pink and uncertain. The other girls hadn’t said anything about him making passes. Indeed, they’d said he was happily married. Maybe her imagination was working overtime.

They left the building and turned down into the underground car park. Pippa’s eyes widened as they halted beside a long, sleek black Jaguar saloon. She had never driven in a car like that before.

He unlocked the car and put her into the front passenger seat. Pippa stroked the cream leather upholstery, gazed at the polished walnut dashboard, equipped with all sorts of gadgets, including a CD player. It must have cost the earth; he must be very wealthy.

As he started the engine he asked her, ‘Where did you work before you joined us, and why did you leave?’

She told him the name of her old firm. ‘They went into liquidation. We were all made redundant.’

He gave her a sidelong smile of sympathy. ‘Tough luck—were you out of work long before you came to us?’

‘No, I only left them the week before I joined you.’

‘That must have been a relief; no joke being unemployed. I hope you’re going to be happy with us.’

‘I’m sure I will be,’ she said, suppressing all memory of Miss Dalton. ‘I already feel at home in the office.’

He flashed her that warm, sideways smile that changed his face entirely. ‘Good. The work you did for me this morning was excellent. If you keep that standard up, we’ll feel we were lucky to get you.’

Out of the corner of her eye she watched his long-fingered hands on the wheel, his dark jacket sleeves shooting back to show his immaculate white shirt cuffs. She couldn’t blame Miss Dalton for being crazy about him; it would be easy to get that way. His hard profile had a power and masculinity that would have made a strong impact even if he had not been very good-looking, and now that he was no longer in a temper she began to see a charm and warmth that had not been visible when they’d first met.

She hoped he would be like this most of the time, not in that stormy, brooding state. Why had he come to work in that mood today? Had he had a row with his wife?

He drew up outside her address and shot a look up at the shabby Victorian house, the woodwork cracked and peeling, the front door needing new paint. The garden was neglected and overgrown, full of uncut grass and rambling bushes.

‘Is this your family home?’ he asked slowly.

‘No, it’s let out by the room—I rent one room here.’

He grimaced. ‘If I were you, I’d move. It looks as if cockroaches and rats live here, too.’

‘No cockroaches or rats, but there is the odd mouse,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t like to kill the one in my room; like me, it has to live somewhere! But this place is cheap, and the room is quite spacious. I’m used to it.’ And she couldn’t afford anywhere better.

‘Where do your family live?’

She hesitated, hating to talk about her background, then defiantly told him, ‘I haven’t got one.’

He shot her a sharp look. ‘No parents?’ He sounded incredulous, disbelieving.

‘No family at all.’

His grey eyes searched her face; she looked away from their penetrating probe, feeling like someone under searchlights.

‘How long have you been alone?’

‘Always.’ She paused, hesitating about saying any more, then plunged on, ‘I was found as a baby. I’ve no idea who I really am or who my mother was.’

There was a little silence, then he said gently, ‘I’m sorry. You can’t have had a very happy childhood. I’m lucky. I have a sister, although both my parents are dead now. And I’m married, of course, with a child. Having a family roots you in life.’

‘Yes,’ she muttered, because she, of all people, knew that. She dreamt of marrying one day, having children, having a family of her own at last.

She didn’t want to talk to him any more; she hurriedly got out of the car, whispering, ‘Thanks for the lift, Mr Harding. Goodnight.’

He sat watching her as she fled up the path and unlocked the front door. Pippa was aware of his gaze, but didn’t look back. She was a very down-to-earth person; she knew she must not let herself think about him too much. He was her boss; that was all. Just that, nothing else, ever.

Yet whenever she forgot to keep a guard on her mind she thought about him that evening, sitting in her lonely room, listening to her second-hand radio. She couldn’t afford a television but radio was some sort of companion: another voice in her room, music, plays.

She had never been in love, never thought much about other people. Now she couldn’t stop thinking about Randal Harding, remembering his vivid grey eyes, the charm of his smile, the grace and beauty of his male body.

She was filled with curiosity about him. Was his home as beautiful as his car? Elegant, luxurious, comfortable? He wouldn’t be alone tonight, like her—he would have his wife and child for company. Did he know how lucky he was?

That was the beginning. Over the weeks that followed she saw him most days, and each time he gave her that smile, sending her temperature sky-high. Occasionally she had to work for him, and tried hard to stay calm and collected, but it wasn’t easy when it made her heart race dangerously whenever he smiled or his hand brushed hers.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.