Unchained Destinies. SARA WOOD
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hastily. ‘Dad retired there.’
‘Is that how you got the job at Kastély Huszár?’ he queried in a tone of mild curiosity. ‘The English manager comes from Devon, I believe.’
She blinked. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, wondering what Vigadó would do if he knew ‘the English manager’ was her brother John! ‘You have to use all the contacts you can,’ she said disarmingly.
‘No doubt you’ve made some worthwhile contacts with my staff too,’ he purred.
‘Well, you see me here, so I suppose I did. So we can carry on working?’ she said, checking, just to be sure.
‘Shall we say…I would like you to turn up tomorrow?’ he replied carefully.
‘Oh! Wonderful! Th-ta!’ she cried in delight.
‘Not dressed like that, though,’ he drawled. ‘I’m sure my staff would be delighted if you clambered up and down ladders in those clothes, but I’d prefer them to keep their eyes and minds on their work.’
‘OK. I’ll wear overalls,’ she assured him earnestly. ‘I won’t even sing. Can’t say fairer than that!’
‘I was surprised to hear singing,’ he mused. ‘Most people only sing in the bath.’
Something in his tone brought a warm curling glow to her insides. She knew enough about men to realise that he’d look fabulous nude, the water gleaming on those pass and biceps…Her muscles tensed at the disturbing and tantalising image of soap-suds gliding down his narrow hips and she ruefully gathered up her hysterical hormones and confined them to barracks again.
‘I sing in the bath too. Got to keep our plastic ducks amused, haven’t we?’ She grinned, but her voice was creakier than it should be.
His slow glance sent unwanted shock-waves up and down her spine. ‘I prefer something a little more tactile,’ he replied huskily.
Several hormones went AWOL again. ‘Uh-huh. Loofahs.’ She nodded sagely and was rewarded with a flash of amusement in his dark eyes.
‘I do believe,’ he murmured softly, ‘that my jet-lag has suddenly vanished.’
‘Well, isn’t that nice?’ she cried merrily and then her brows drew together in a dark line. ‘Did you say jetlag?’ she queried in surprise. ‘Don’t whiz-kids fly Concorde?’
‘Naturally. But back-to-back meetings in Sydney, Hong Kong and New York take their toll nevertheless.’
Her hazel eyes were filled with well-simulated awe. ‘I’ve never talked to a tycoon like you before, she said in admiration, her mind working furiously. He’d relaxed a little and seemed willing to talk at last. She was more than willing to listen while she finished clearing away because she might break down the barriers between them. ‘Here. Have some coffee. A cheese and pickle sandwich,’ she offered, generously passing him the remains of her lunch before ferrying the equipment back into the room. ‘And tell me what you do at these meetings,’ she said earnestly as she did so. ‘Do you talk about sales figures and thump the table and gee people up?’
Declining the food, he hesitated before answering and, hoping to encourage him, she adopted an attitude of fascinated attention. ‘Mainly we were talking about authors,’ he replied casually.
Her body tensed with excitement. ‘Gosh! Isn’t that thrilling? It’s one heck of a glamorous world. I read historical novels,’ she told him eagerly, deliberately not choosing to mention the subject she was most interested in. ‘Do you do those?’
‘We “do” everything.’ His dark eyes flickered. ‘Travel books, reference, mystery and suspense, romance… sagas…’
To Mariann, there seemed to be an increasing tension between them, a waiting, as if each of them was assessing the other, circling, throwing a wary punch or two. And she knew she dared not pursue the avenue he’d left open to her. Every fibre of her being might be directed towards tracing saga-writer Mary O’Brien but this wasn’t the way to do it. She’d have to be patient till tomorrow.
‘Must make your eyes tired,’ she said sympathetically, ‘doin’ all that readin’. He smiled faintly. ‘Speaking of tired, my mum said I should never outstay my welcome so I’d better get my things on.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He shut the door and she was left gazing at its heavy panels, feeling a sense of anticlimax. It had all been easy after all. Too easy? Her brow furrowed in anxiety.
Trudging through the snow back to the Budapest Hilton a short distance away, she mentally reviewed her position. She thought she’d allayed his suspicions, but wasn’t sure. In the morning, she’d have to ask her two fellow decorators not to refer to the fact that she was ‘Viggy’s’ girl.
Despite her predicament, she had to smile. This was the kind of crazy, impossible situation she loved as a challenge to her ingenuity—though several times she’d felt she’d been sailing a little close to the wind!
Lionel rang her and she told him what had happened. ‘The next night, I’ll get that address if I have to set the office on fire and stay on to ransack the cabinet while the flames are leaping about my ears’ she joked.
‘Do that,’ he said hysterically. ‘I can’t hold the bank longer than a couple off days!’
‘Tell them Mary’s as good as yours again,’ she said gently, worried about Lionel’s state of mind. ‘Rely on me. I’ll do everything I can.’
They all worked hard the next day—she, her two ‘mates’ and everyone in the office. Vigadó had either worked all night or had begun at some ungodly hour because when she arrived at eight he was already into a third cup of coffee and barely looked up when she was let in by the janitor.
The reaction of the staff when they saw their boss had arrived unexpectedly was quite amusing. Horror, panic, then a frantic appearance of work—as in a speeded-up film. And Vigadó had said virtually nothing to produce this effect. This was all on the strength of his formidable reputation.
Beneath the boiler suit she boiled. But she didn’t dare strip off. Not with eagle eyes flicking her the odd glance every now and then. So she slaved on the ceiling while her colleagues did the more difficult gloss-work, her neck aching more and more as the endless hours wore on.
Tonight, she told herself. She’d get those records tonight. And prayed that he’d go to bed early after such a long day.
‘Staying on again?’
The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. He’d crept up behind her. ‘Just want to finish this bit of cantaloupe,’ she said, ‘and you can decide if you like it or not when you get the whole effect.’
‘I think I’ll call it a day,’ he murmured, jingling coins in the pocket of his dark grey business suit. She stiffened. Or were they keys? ‘Perhaps I’ll decide tomorrow.’
Terrific! ‘If you like,’ she said politely. And he’d gone. Mariann waited for her thudding heart to slow down and listened. He was slowly walking up the marble stairs to the penthouse apartment above. A few agonising moments later, she let out a long breath of relief and put the roller down on the huge tin.
Silently she slipped into the office he’d been using. It was dark and she couldn’t find the keys anywhere. It was several seconds before she realised that they were no longer in the drawer. Closing her mind to the fact that they were in his pocket, she whirled and heaved ineffectually at the drawers of the filing cabinet. Locked. So she methodically worked through everything in the office but found no keys of any kind.
Leaning against the cabinet, she forced her brain to come up with ideas. The keys were almost definitely in his possession. Either tonight or some other night she’d have to get them. They’d be still in his pocket, or on his dressing-table if