A Weekend To Remember. Miranda Lee
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hers—who would leave either to go overseas, get married or have babies. She’d assured him she would do none of those things, since she hated travel, had already been married one time too many, and had had babies—two boys, now thirteen and fourteen, both in boarding-school.
Hannah had been so proud of herself when Jack had rung the next day to tell her she had the job.
Pride was something she’d been deficient in for quite some time, and in gratitude for the chance he’d given her Hannah gave him absolute loyalty in return. In her eyes, Jack could do no wrong. He deserved the best, in her opinion, and the best was not a two-faced two-bit soapie-star by the unlikely name of Felicia Fay.
Hannah’s top lip curled in contempt at the mere thought of the woman.
Really, she was beneath contempt—the worst excuse for a woman Hannah had ever met. She’d begun to suspect as much the moment Jack’s fiancee had opened the apartment door to her the previous evening…
‘Well, if it isn’t the efficient Hannah, running late for once. Whatever will Jack say!’
Startled by her sour tone, Hannah’s hazel eyes blinked wide for a second, before narrowing to appraise further the woman her boss was to marry in four weeks’ time.
There was no doubt that Felicia was physically beautiful—more so tonight than ever before. She looked a million dollars, in fact. Masses of blonde streaked tresses framed a perfectly madeup face before cascading down over slender shoulders. Her tall model-like figure was encased in a suede trouser suit in a deep blue which complemented her big blue eyes. A long rope of reallooking pearls hung between her high, firm breasts, matching drop earrings swinging sexily from her lobes as she tipped her head to one side and returned the appraisal.
‘I see you haven’t had time to change,’ she drawled. ‘I must tell Jack not to work you so hard. Poor Hannah. Still…black always looks well on older women, doesn’t it? It’s kind on the complexion and so slimming.’
Poor Hannah was stunned into silence by such an ill-concealed display of bitchiness. The black dress she was wearing was understated but definitely after-five—not the sort of garment she would ever have dreamt of wearing to the office. And her shoulder-length brown hair was stylishly done up in a French roll, not the simple topknot she favoured for work. Despite all this, Hannah knew she didn’t hold a candle to the bright butterfly standing before her. So why the attempt to put her down?
‘I must thank you for the sweet little engagement gift you sent via Jack,’ the butterfly swept on, with a cloying smile. ‘One can’t have too many ornaments, can one?’
Hannah tried not to choke. The ‘ornament’ she’d sent had been a very elegant and very expensive Lladro!
‘Now, don’t just stand there, Hannah, looking out of place. Do come in. Jack’s busy talking to some important people at the moment, so you’ll have to mingle, I’m afraid.’
Hannah absorbed all the subtle and not-sosubtle slights of Felicia’s welcome with a rueful dismay. This was the first time she’d been alone with Jack’s fiancée for more than a minute, and the cat’s claws were well and truly out. Rather telling, Hannah thought, since she was hardly the sort of secretary to worry a prospective wife. The woman had to be a natural bitch, who believed all other women were the same.
‘I don’t mind mingling,’ Hannah returned as Felicia shut the door behind her.
‘Don’t you? Funny, I always think of you as such a shy little thing. It amazes me sometimes why Jack has so much confidence in you. You don’t seem the type to be a super-secretary.’
Hannah bristled. ‘What type would you say I am?’
Felicia’s laugh was light and tinkling. Presumably it was meant to soften the malice behind the words. ‘Oh, you know. The little-woman-athome type. You are married, aren’t you? You wear a wedding-ring and I heard someone call you Mrs Althorp the other day.’
The fingers of Hannah’s left hand automatically curled over into a tight, tense fist. ‘Actually, no, I’m not any more,’ she said tautly. ‘My divorce came through today. I just haven’t bothered to take off my rings. Maybe I never will. With the number of males who come through the office, sometimes it’s handy to be thought of as married.’
Felicia’s glance was sharp. ‘So you’ve become a man-hater, have you?’ she asked hopefully.
‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly. But I have no intention of ever remarrying, if that’s what you’re asking,’ she added, hoping to put the woman’s unfounded fears at rest.
Her smile still had an edge to it. ‘In that case, I’ll make sure I call you Mrs Althorp when I’m in the office. Funny, I know a plastic surgeon called Althorp. Has a practice on the North Shore. But of course, he can’t be your Althorp. Such a handsome, charming, cultured man.’
Hannah could hardly believe the venom she was hearing. What had she ever done to this woman but be polite and pleasant?
‘I must get back to Jack. You can look after yourself, can’t you?’
With gritted teeth, Hannah agreed that she could, all the while wondering if dear Felicia was the twenty-nine she claimed to be. Hannah’s ex-husband was a dab hand at facelifts, and all sorts of other cosmetic surgery. Dwight’s practice depended largely on ladies in the public eye who wanted to look young forever, and other poor put-upon women whose husbands and boyfriends wanted them to look like the models in Playboy magazine.
The epitome of feminine desirability these days seemed to be large-breasted, tiny-waisted, slenderhipped, tight-buttocked, firm-thighed, longlegged, small-nosed, big-lipped, wide-eyed, nowrinkles, clear-skinned beauties, with the public sweetness of angels and the private talents of whores.
Hannah didn’t quite qualify. Admittedly when she’d married Dwight, at nineteen, she’d been very pretty and her figure excellent. She was still pretty enough, she supposed, with neat features and nice big eyes. And, being fairly tall, she still looked good in clothes. But the birth of two boys by the time she’d been twenty-one, plus another fourteen years, had taken a certain toll. As for her talents in the bedroom…Well, least said, best said about that.
Felicia, however, obviously did qualify—in every way. Her face and figure were second bar none. Her public demeanour in front of Jack was feminine and accommodating. As far as her private demeanour was concerned…Hannah had no doubt that Felicia’s talents in the bedroom were superb as well, to have Jack doing what he’d vowed never to do. Getting married.
Hannah sighed. God, she just hated to think of Jack married to that woman! Felicia was like this apartment—all surface glamour and glitz, but with no soul. In a way, she reminded Hannah of Dwight. Both of them were social climbers, who cared more for appearances than anything else. Jack would find no more happiness with Felicia as his wife than Hannah had with Dwight as her husband.
But it was none of her business, was it, whom her boss married? He was a grown man, thirtyfour years old, with a mind of his own. If she dared venture an adverse opinion of his new fiancée, he wouldn’t be at all pleased. It might even reverberate on her and the job she valued. Really, there was nothing for it but to smile sweetly and keep her mouth firmly shut.
Hannah moved from the marble-floored foyer down three cream-carpeted steps and into the first of the large living-rooms. It was peppered with small groups of people, all with drinks in their hands, several with cigarettes as well. She cringed as the smoke haze teased her nostrils, setting off that old tell-tale pang of need. Irritated with herself, she swept a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and pressed it to her lips, taking a few swift sharp swallows. It wasn’t as good as a cigarette, but it was better than nothing.
Glancing around, she quickly spied Jack across the heads in the next room. Nothing strange about that. At six feet six inches tall, Jack’s head usually stood above all others. His longish wavy jet-black hair was hard to miss as well. Hannah stood, sipping her drink and quietly watching him from a distance.
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