The Mistress Contract. HELEN BROOKS
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opened the door to see him sitting back in his chair with a stunned look on his dark face. ‘It’s cancer,’ he said slowly. ‘The poor old girl’s got cancer.’
‘Oh, no. Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Sephy said helplessly. He looked poleaxed and positively grey, and she was amazed how much he obviously cared.
‘They think it’s operable and that she’ll be okay in the long run, but it’ll be a long job,’ he said flatly, after taking a hard pull of air. And then he made Sephy jump a mile as he drove his fist down on to the desk with enough force to make the papers rise an inch or two. ‘Damn stupid woman,’ he ground out through clenched teeth. ‘Why didn’t she say something? The consultant said she must have been in pain for some weeks.’
‘She probably thought it was viral, something like that,’ Sephy pointed out sensibly. ‘No one likes to think the worst.’
‘Spare me the benefit of inane female logic,’ he bit back with cutting coldness.
She swallowed hard. Okay, so he was obviously upset about Madge, and she would ignore his rudeness this time, but if he thought she was going to be a doormat he’d got another think coming! She wouldn’t take that from anyone.
‘Hell!’ It was an angry bark. ‘This is going to hit her hard. Her job is her life, it’s what makes her tick, and she’s been with me from the start. She’ll hate the idea of being laid low, and she’s got no friends, just a sister somewhere or other.’
Sephy remained silent. This was awful for Madge, and difficult for him, but once bitten, twice shy. She was saying nothing.
‘So…’ He rose from the desk and turned to the window so his back was towards her. ‘She’s covered by the company’s private health plan, but make sure she’s in the best room available; any additional costs will be covered by me personally. And send her some flowers and chocolates and a selection of magazines. Is there anything else you, as another woman, would think she’d like?’ he asked, turning to face her with characteristic abruptness.
She stared at him. ‘A visit?’ she suggested pointedly.
His eyes narrowed into blue slits and he was grimly silent for a full ten seconds before he said expressionlessly, ‘I don’t like hospitals,’ as though that was the end of the matter.
‘If she’s as lacking in friends as you said she’d still like a visit,’ Sephy said stolidly. ‘She must be feeling very vulnerable tonight, and probably a bit frightened.’
She saw his square jaw move as his teeth clenched hard and then he sighed irritably, a scowl crossing his harsh attractive face. ‘She’s probably exhausted right now,’ he snapped tightly. ‘It doesn’t have to be tonight, does it?’
Sephy thought of the ravishing Caroline de Menthe waiting at the Savoy and smiled sweetly. ‘That’s up to you, of course, but a little bit of reassurance at a time like this goes a long way,’ she said with saccharine gentleness.
She gathered up the pile of correspondence, now duly signed, as she spoke, and then felt awful about the covert bitchiness when he said, his tone distracted, ‘That’s excellent work by the way, Seraphina. I trust you’ve no objection to standing in for Madge for the next few weeks?’
She hesitated for a moment, his big, broad-shouldered body and rugged face swimming into focus as she raised her head from the papers in her hands, and then, as he raised enquiring black eyebrows she forced herself to smile coolly. ‘Of course not,’ she lied with careful composure. ‘If you think I’m up to the job, that is.’
‘I don’t think there is any doubt about that,’ he returned drily, the deep-blue eyes which resembled a cold summer sea watching her intently. ‘No doubt at all.’
And this time he didn’t smile.
CHAPTER TWO
QUENTIN DYNAMICS occupied a smart, four-storey building in Islington and Sephy’s new flat was just a ten-minute walk away, which was wonderful after years of battling on the train from Twickenham.
The late September evening was mellow and balmy as she trod the crowded London pavements, and the chairs and tables outside most of the pubs and cafés were full as Londoners enjoyed an alfresco drink in the Indian summer the country was enjoying.
Everyone seemed relaxed and easy now the working day was finished, but Sephy was conscious that she felt somewhat stunned as she walked along in the warm, traffic-scented air, and more tired than she had felt in a long, long time.
Mind you, that wasn’t surprising, she reassured herself silently in the next moment. She always worked hard—as Mr Harper’s secretary she was used to working on her own initiative and dealing with one panic after another most days—but being around Conrad Quentin was something else again! The man wasn’t human—he was a machine that consumed facts and figures with spectacular single-mindedness and with a swiftness that was frightening.
No wonder he had risen so dramatically fast to the top of his field, she thought ruefully as she neared the row of shops over which her flat—and ten others—were situated. Other men might have his astute business sense and brilliance, but they were lacking the almost monomaniacal drive of the head of Quentin Dynamics.
Was he like that in all areas of his life? A sudden picture of Caroline de Menthe was there on the screen on her mind, along with the long list of women’s names in the little black book he had tossed to her. It was an answer in itself and it made Sephy go hot inside.
He would be an incredible lover; of course he would! He had lush beauties absolutely panting after him, and inevitably they were reduced to purring pussycats by the magnetism that surrounded him like a dark aura, if all the society photographs and office gossip were anything to go by.
He was king of the small kingdom he had created, an invincible being who had only to click his fingers to see his minions falling over themselves to please him. And he knew it.
She didn’t know why it bothered her so much but it did. Sephy was frowning as she delved in her shoulder bag for her keys to unlock the outside door, behind which were stairs leading to the front door of her flat, and the frown deepened as she heard Jerry’s voice call her name.
Jerry was the young owner of the menswear shop, and nice enough, even good-looking in a floppy-haired kind of way, but although Sephy liked him she knew she could never think of him in a romantic sense. He was too…boyish.
Jerry, on the other hand, seemed determined to pursue her, even after she had told him—politely but firmly—that there was no chance of a date. It made her feel uncomfortable, even guilty, when he was so likeable and friendly, as though she was smacking down a big amiable puppy with dirty feet who wanted to play.
She raised her eyes, her hand still in her bag, and turned her head to see Jerry just behind her, the very epitome of public school Britain in his immaculate flannels and well-pressed shirt.
‘Just wanted to remind you about Maisie’s party tonight,’ he said earnestly. ‘You hadn’t forgotten?’
She had. Maisie occupied the flat two doors along, above her own boutique, and her psychedelic hair—dyed several vivid colours and gelled to stick up in dangerous-looking spikes—and enthusiastic body-piercing hid a very intelligent and shrewd mind. And Maisie’s parties were legendary. The trouble was—Sephy’s eyes narrowed just the slightest as her mind raced—Maisie and all of Jerry’s other friends knew how he felt about her and, ever since she had moved into the flat, some eight weeks ago, had been trying to pair them off.
She had just opened her mouth to give voice to the weakest excuse of all—a blinding headache, which had every likelihood of being perfectly true the way her head was thumping after the hectic day—when a deep cold voice cut through the balmy evening air like a knife through butter.
‘It would have been quicker to walk here with this damn traffic.’
‘Mr Quentin!’ She had whirled right round to face the road at the sound