Tiger Man. PENNY JORDAN
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tying oneself in knots.
She made an attractive picture, her skirt toning perfectly with the fox jacket, her hair a banner of rich colour against the pale subtlety of the fur, her eyes shining with anticipation. Several passers-by stopped to give her a second look, but Storm barely noticed.
The clock was just striking ten when she pushed open the plate-glass door of the modern office block which housed the agency’s offices. Disappointment awaited her. The man she had come to see had been called to an urgent meeting in Banbury, and had had to cancel their appointment.
His secretary was sympathetic, offering Storm a cup of coffee as she explained that she had tried to reach her at Radio Wyechester without success.
Storm fought to quell her disappointment. She had worked hard to secure this appointment and had come prepared with various suggestions for alternative jingles and themes that could be used to promote the agency. She suspected that the head of the agency had only agreed to their appointment because she had pressed him, and had in fact been relieved to find an excuse to cancel. However, she had learned that in advertising confidence was everything, so she composed her features into a relaxed smile, and got out her diary to make a fresh appointment.
A whole morning wasted, she thought miserably an hour later as she parked her car in the supermarket car-park beneath their offices. As usual it was crowded, and because Sam Townley refused to give them permanent car-parking spaces she had to circle it a couple of times before she could find a gap. Feeling unusually hot and bothered, she headed for the studio.
Sue stopped her in the outer office.
‘Message for you.’ She pulled a face. ‘Your friend Mr Beton’s been on. He says his ad was cut short again last night, and that it was indistinct. He wants to know if you’re going to cut his bill to match.’
‘Damn!’ Storm swore feelingly. ‘I’ll give him a ring later on. Anything else?’
Sue shook her head. ‘No other messages, but David wants to see you. He said to go to his office the moment you arrived. Pete and the others are already there.’
‘Okay. I’ll be right there,’ Storm told her. David must have decided to hold a meeting following on from his visit to London. Perhaps he wanted to plan a campaign to show Jago Marsh that they weren’t a total write-off. She certainly hoped so.
When she slipped into David’s office five minutes later, there was an atmosphere of tense expectancy in the air. Pete, who was standing nearest to the door, draped an arm across her shoulder, pulling her against him.
David’s small office was cramped at the best of times, but with three of their four technicians, Pete, David himself and Storm in it, there was barely room to move without breathing in, and in vain Storm craned her neck to see over the taller male heads.
‘What’s up? Frightened you’ll miss something my, lovely?’ Pete teased, mocking her lack of inches.
It wasn’t often that Storm lost her cool with her colleagues, but the irritations of the morning had mounted up and her temper was at boiling point. Now it spilled over, making her snap back angrily,
‘What’s to miss, for heaven’s sake? I could do without another eulogy on the marvels performed by Mr Magnificent Marsh. I know David’s desperately trying to sweeten the pill and all credit to him, but as far as I’m concerned Jago Marsh is still poison!’
There was an uncomfortable silence and Storm realised that her voice had carried farther than she had intended. She was just about to mumble an apology for interrupting the meeting when a voice far cooler and crisper than David’s mild tones drawled sapiently from the other side of the room,
‘Ah, I see our missing Advertising Controller has condescended to join us. Perhaps if you took the trouble to listen occasionally, Miss Templeton, instead of commandeering the conversation you might learn something. Marvels, as you call them, aren’t achieved simply by waving a magic wand. They take time and hard work—something that appears to be conspicuously lacking in this set-up.’
Her cheeks burned.
‘Naughty, naughty!’ Pete whispered in her ear. ‘You’ve pulled the tiger’s tail with a vengeance, my lovely. I do believe he’s about to make an example of you!’
As though by magic a path had cleared to David’s desk, and for the first time Storm had an uninterrupted view of the man lounging there.
She recognised him immediately. There was no mistaking that tall well-muscled body encased in an immaculate charcoal-grey suit, nor the hard-boned masculine profile, icy-grey eyes sweeping her from head to foot.
Jago Marsh! Here already! She could hardly believe it.
He flicked back a crisp white shirt cuff to glance meaningfully at the gold Rollex watch strapped to his wrist, and Storm stifled her resentment. If he was trying to imply that she was late for work, he would soon learn different. He came out from behind his desk, the suggestion of restrained power very evident in his lithe movements, his black hair slightly longer than she had remembered, brushing the collar of his jacket. He gestured to the chair in front of David’s desk and said in a deceptively calm voice:
‘Sit down, Storm.’
Every instinct warned her that here was a man who was dangerous. She tried to keep calm, forcing herself to meet his eyes. They were dark grey and right at this moment looked uncommonly like the North Sea when an east wind was blowing over it. She was half way towards the chair before she realised what she was doing, and straightened abruptly. ‘I’ll stand, thank you,’ she said clearly. ‘I’m no different from the other members of this team. Just because I’m female I don’t expect to be treated any differently.’
And he could take that whichever way he chose, she decided triumphantly.
For several unnerving seconds she was forced to endure the diamond brilliance of ice-cold scrutiny and then he was smiling derisively.
‘Well, you’re right about one thing,’ he drawled coolly. ‘You’re feminine all right.’
To her chagrin the others, including David, laughed. Her whole body was quivering with indignation, but even so she was completely unprepared for the hard hands descending on her shoulders as she was propelled backwards and forced gently into the chair.
‘There,’ Jago said gently. ‘Now you can both see and hear what’s going on and everyone else can see over you.’
Storm’s cheeks burned anew. He made her sound like a spoiled, fractious child! Beneath her blouse her skin felt as though it were on fire where he had touched her, her emotions in chaos.
‘Now,’ he drawled, ‘I’ll continue, and if it makes it any easier for you, I promise you I’m not here to dwell on past glories—mine or anyone else’s.’ His eyes swept the room. ‘There’s one thing for sure, if we were relying on relating the successes of your venture we’d have precious little to talk about.’
Here it came, Storm thought numbly. How he must be gloating! Barging in among them, wearing clothes more suitable to a boardroom than David’s shabby office. All that she was feeling showed in her eyes, as she lifted them to his unreadable face. He returned the look, his eyes dropping to the soft curves so lightly masked by the lavender silk blouse. Without a trace of embarrassment they lingered for a while before making a full and appreciative study of the rest of her body, and when his eyes eventually returned to her face, they were no longer cold but warmly sensual with a meaning that was distinctly plain.
Storm went hot and then cold, trying to appear unaffected by the blatantly sensual inspection. No one had ever looked at her like that before, and she shivered a little without knowing why.
‘Well, Storm?’ he queried in the silence which followed. ‘You seemed to have plenty to say for yourself earlier on, suppose you tell me why after nearly twelve months’ operation you’re still floundering about like a bunch of amateurs, playing at operating a radio station.’
That disturbing sexually