That Devil Love. Lee Wilkinson
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I’ve a business to run.’
‘So have I. That’s why I need a secretary.’
Trying to ignore the unnerving gaze fixed on her face, she demanded, ‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘Leighton was only too willing to provide any information I wanted. It was really quite amusing… But please do sit down.’
She shook her head. ‘You’ve had your fun. Now I’m going.’
Softly, he said, ‘I think not. We have a verbal contract. You agreed to work for me for a month.’
‘The agreement was that I should work for the managing director of Blair Electronics.’
‘Exactly.’
So this was yet another firm controlled by AP Worldwide.
Feeing the trap closing, she protested, ‘Surely making me come here was just to prove how well you can manipulate people? You don’t really want me to work for you…’
‘Oh, but I do. Since having bronchitis just after Christmas, Miss Winton hasn’t been at all well. I gave her a month’s sick leave, so I require someone to fill her place.’
Annis’s long-lashed almond eyes, beautiful eyes which slanted up a little at the outer corners, were blazing with anger and indignation. ‘You mean you got rid of her on purpose!’
He moved his shoulders in a slight shrug. ‘She needed a holiday. A few weeks’ complete rest will do her a world of good.’
Reading Annis’s mind with frightening accuracy, he went on, ‘Of course I can’t force you to stay. But you seem to be building up a nice little business, and if you value it you’d be wise to think carefully before doing anything rash.’
‘That sounds remarkably like a threat.’ Her voice shook a little as it was borne on her what power a man like him could wield.
‘Merely good advice,’ he said smoothly. ‘After all, what’s a month?’
As he spoke he got to his feet and strode over. A moment later he had closed the door, relieved her of her scarf and mac, and was ushering her to a chair.
It was done with such cool assurance that she was sitting down before she had time to weigh up what possible damage he could do Help if she ignored his ‘good advice’.
Resuming his own seat, he observed, ‘You won’t find the work here too onerous. Apart from letters, all I need is someone to accompany me to meetings and take notes, and to act as my hostess if I do any entertaining.’ Casually, he added, ‘It will give you a chance to get to know me.’
‘I don’t want to get to know you,’ she informed him icily.
‘Then I’ll have to see what I can do to change your mind… Now to business. I don’t always tape record—’ he pushed a pad and pencil towards her ‘—so how’s your shorthand?’
‘Slow and inaccurate,’ she informed him sweetly.
He laughed, as if genuinely amused, then, eyes gleaming devilishly, suggested, ‘Well if you prefer, I’ll settle for making use of your other talents.’
Biting her lip, she snatched up the pad and pencil.
They worked without a pause until twelve o’clock. His dictation was fast and decisive, giving no quarter, and she needed every ounce of her concentration to keep up.
All the same she was constantly and acutely aware of the man sitting opposite, of how much she loathed and detested him. Reluctantly aware also of his dark attraction, of the strong pull his magnetism had on her senses.
With a kind of horror she realised that if she hadn’t had such cause to hate him, she might easily have fallen victim to his fascination. Might have found herself hopelessly infatuated with him.
As Maya had been. Maya—the one person Annis had really loved. Her life been a source of wonder to her, her death the greatest of pains. And she had died because of one man—Zan Power.
‘Use my cloakroom if you want to wash and brush up before lunch.’ His voice broke into her thoughts.
Looking up to meet those brilliant eyes, she said blankly, ‘Lunch?’
‘Yes. I want you with me.’ She was about to refuse curtly, when he added, ‘I have a luncheon appointment with Cyrus Oates, the American tycoon. As it’s at his hotel, his wife will be with him.’
‘I’m not dressed for lunching out,’ she objected.
‘You’re dressed like the perfect secretary,’ he assured her mockingly. ‘Which is just as well, because after lunch I’ve a meeting at the bank, and I’d like you to take notes.’
She emerged from the cloakroom some five minutes later, hair and make-up checked, and they took the lift down to the underground car park where his silver BMW was waiting for him.
‘What do you usually do for lunch?’ he queried, when they were settled in the car.
‘Buy a sandwich,’ she told him, omitting to add that with high rents to pay both for her furnished flat and the Regent Street office it was all her tight budget would stand.
As they climbed the ramp to street level and joined the flow of traffic, he ordered, ‘Tell me about your business.’
‘I thought Stephen had given you all the information you wanted.’
Ignoring her prickly response, he asked, ‘Do you usually work alongside your staff as well as coping with the administration?’
‘Yes,’ she answered shortly.
‘But, being the boss, you can take your pick of the assignments?’
Oh, well, if he was determined to talk… And perhaps it was better than sitting beside him in strained silence.
‘It doesn’t usually work like that,’ she answered a shade ruefully. ‘I often get landed with the jobs no one else wants to do.’
Zan gave her a swift sideways glance and raised a black brow. ‘Such as?’
‘Well, there was taking care of George while the family went on holiday…’
‘George?’
‘A twelve-foot python. He turned out to be quite docile, not to say friendly. But feeding him proved a bit of a problem. The worst thing about pet snakes is they prefer their food on the hoof, so to speak. Have you ever tried making a very dead rat look alive?’
He was still laughing when they drew up outside the Farndale Hotel.
They were crossing the foyer when a large, balding man with rimless glasses and a paunch advanced on them. He held out a ham-like fist. ‘Hello, Power. Glad you could make it. This is my wife, Dorothy.’
An equally large lady with eyes as pale as ripe goose-berries in a fleshy face, came forward with an outstretched hand. Having greeted the pair courteously, Zan said, ‘May I introduce Miss Warrener, my secretary.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Warrener,’ Cyrus Oates boomed, while his shrewd grey eyes assessed her slim figure, her cool, patrician beauty.
During lunch, while the men discussed business, Annis asked, ‘Is this your first visit to England, Mrs Oates?’
The polite query was all that was needed to induce a flood of talk with the battering force of Niagara. A look of interest and an occasional word kept it flowing.
They were at the coffee stage, when with a suddenness that took Annis by surprise Mrs Oates finished an account of her visit to Harrods and said in strident tones, ‘Gee, but your boss sure is good-looking. Don’t you think he’s handsome, honey?’
‘I wouldn’t describe him as handsome myself,’ Annis said. Adding with a tight smile, ‘Any more than I’d describe the north