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He said nothing, merely shifted position slightly in the black chair, and now she was horrified to find herself beginning to waffle as she said, ‘Mind, it could have been worse. There’s a Gertrude and a Euphemia in the next few days, so perhaps I ought to be thankful for small mercies. But Seraphina suggests an ethereal, will-o’-the-wisp type creature, and I’m certainly not that.’
He leant forward again, the glittering sapphire gaze moving over her creamy skin, soft mouth and wide honey-brown eyes, and he stared at her a moment before he said, his tone expressionless, ‘I think Seraphina suits you and I certainly don’t intend to call you by such a ridiculous abbreviation as Sephy. It’s the sort of name one would bestow on a pet poodle. Have you a second Christian name?’
‘No.’ It was something of a snap.
‘Pity,’ he said laconically.
She didn’t believe this. How dared he ride roughshod over her wishes? she asked herself silently. She was searching her mind for an adequately curt response when he switched to sharp business mode, his eyes turning to the papers spread out over his desk as he said, his tone keen and focused, ‘How familiar are you with the Einhorn project?’
As luck would have it she had been dealing with the problems associated with this particular package over the last weeks, and she had just spent ten of the last twenty minutes delving into the file to see if there were any confidential complications Customer Services hadn’t been privy to. ‘Quite familiar,’ she answered smartly.
‘Really?’ He raised his dark head and the hard sapphire gaze homed in. ‘Tell me what you know.’
She considered for a moment or two, trying to pull her thoughts into concise order, and then spoke quietly and fluently as she outlined what had been a disastrous endeavour from the start, due to a series of mistakes which Sephy felt could be laid fair and square at Quentin Dynamics’ door.
He looked down at his desk as she began talking, a frown creasing his brow as he listened intently without glancing at her once. As she finished speaking the frown became a quizzical ruffle, and he raised his head and said, ‘Brains and beauty! Well, well, well. Have I found myself a treasure, here?’ And then, before she could respond in any way, ‘So, you think we should take the full hit on this? Reimburse for engineering call-out charges as well as a free upgrade for the software?’
It probably wasn’t very clever to tell him his company had made a sow’s ear out of what should have been a silk purse within the first half an hour of working with him, but Sephy took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘Yes, I do.’
‘And Mr Ransome’s report, that recommends we merely reduce the cost for the new software?’
Mr Ransome was trying to cover his own shortcomings with regard to the whole sorry mess, but Sephy didn’t feel she could be that blunt.
She didn’t answer immediately, and the blue eyes narrowed before she said quietly, ‘He’s wrong, in my opinion, and although the firm might save a good deal of money in the short term, I don’t think it will do Quentin Dynamics’ reputation any good in the long term.’
He gave her a long hard look. ‘Right. And you think that is important?’
‘Very.’ Now it was her turn to hold his eyes. ‘Don’t you?’
He folded his arms over his chest, settling back in his seat again as he surveyed her thoughtfully. The white sunlight streaming in through the plate glass at the back of him was picking up what was almost a blue sheen in his jetblack hair, and Sephy was aware of the unusual thickness of the black lashes shading the vivid blue eyes as she looked back at him.
He had something. The thought popped into her consciousness with a nervous quiver. Male magnetism; a dark fascination; good old-fashioned sex appeal—call it what you will, it was there and it was powerful. Oh, boy, was it powerful!
‘Yes, I do,’ he said quietly. He stared at her a moment more and then snapped forward, speaking swiftly and softly as he outlined various procedures he wanted put into place. ‘Internal memos to Customer Services, Marketing and Research,’ he added shortly. ‘You can see to those, I presume? And a letter to Einhorn stating what we have decided. And I want a complete breakdown from Accounts of all costs.’
‘You want me to write the memos and the letter?’ Sephy asked quickly as he paused for breath.
‘Certainly.’ The piercing gaze flashed upwards from the papers on the desk. ‘That’s not a problem, is it? I need my secretary to work on her own initiative most of the time, once I’ve made any overall decisions. I can’t be bothered with trivialities.’
Sephy nodded somewhat dazedly. She could see Madge earnt every penny of her salary.
He continued to fire instructions and brief guidelines on a whole host of matters for some few minutes more, and by the time Sephy rose to walk back to Madge’s desk she felt as though she had been run over by a steamroller.
She had enough work to last her two or three days and she had only been in there a matter of minutes, she told herself weakly as she plopped down on her chair. He was amazing. Intelligent—acutely intelligent—and with a razor-sharp grasp of what was at the heart of any matter that cut straight through incidentals and exposed the kernel in the nut.
And he scared her to death.
She worked solidly for the rest of the afternoon, her fingers flying over the keys of the word processor as the pile of papers for signature grew. Apart from telephone calls and a brief stop for coffee—delivered on a silver tray from the small canteen at the basement of the building by one of the staff and drunk at her desk—she didn’t raise her head from the screen, and it came as something of a shock when she glanced at her wristwatch just after half past five.
She quickly gathered up all the correspondence awaiting signature and knocked at the interconnecting door, hearing the deep ‘Come in’ as butterflies began to flutter in her stomach.
He glanced up from his hand-held dictating machine as she entered, his expression preoccupied. He had been running his hand through his hair, if the ruffled black crop was anything to go by, and the tie had gone altogether now, along with a couple more buttons being undone, which exposed a V of tanned flesh and dark curling body hair.
The butterflies joined together in an explosive tarantella, and Sephy forced herself to concentrate very hard on a point just over his left shoulder as she smiled brightly and walked across to his desk. ‘Correspondence for signature,’ she squeaked, clearing her throat before adding, ‘The post goes at six, so if you could look at them now, please? I didn’t realise what the time was.’
He glanced at the gold Rolex on his wrist. ‘Hell!’
‘What’s the matter?’ Sephy asked guardedly.
‘I’ve a dinner engagement at seven,’ he muttered abstractedly. ‘Look, ring her, would you? Explain about Madge, and that things are out of kilter here, and say I’ll be half an hour late. She won’t like it—’ he grimaced slightly ‘—but don’t stand any nonsense.’
‘Ring who?’
‘What?’ He clearly expected her to be a mind-reader, as no doubt the faithful Madge was. ‘Oh, Caroline de Menthe; the number’s in here.’
He threw the obligatory little black book which he’d fetched out of a drawer across the desk.
‘Right.’ She took a deep breath and let it out evenly. She had heard of Caroline de Menthe. Everyone in the world had heard of the statuesque French model, who had the body of a goddess and the face of an angel and who was the toast of London and every other capital city besides. And she was his date. Of course she was. She was the latest prize on the circuit so she’d be bound to be, wouldn’t she? Sephy thought with a shrewishness that surprised her.
Once back at her desk she thumbed through the book, trying to ignore the reams of female names, and then, once she had found Caroline de Menthe, dialled the London number—there were several international numbers under the same name. She spoke politely into the receiver when she got through to the Savoy switchboard.
It was a moment or two before Reception connected her, and then a sultry, heavily accented voice said lazily, ‘Caroline de Menthe.’
‘Good afternoon, Miss de Menthe,’ Sephy said quickly. ‘Mr Quentin has asked me to call you to say he is sorry but he’ll be half an hour late this evening. His secretary has been taken ill and he is running a little behind schedule. He will pick you up at about half past seven if that is all right?’
‘And you are what? An office girl?’ The seductive sultriness was gone; the other woman’s tone was distinctly vinegary now.
‘I am standing in for Mr Quentin’s secretary,’ Sephy stated quietly, forcing herself not to react to the overt rudeness.
There was a moment’s silence, and then the model said curtly, ‘Tell Mr Quentin I will be waiting for him,’ and the phone went dead.
Charming. Sephy stared at the receiver in her hand for a moment before slowly replacing it. Caroline de Menthe might be beautiful and famous and have the world at her feet, but she didn’t have the manners of an alley cat. She glanced at the interconnecting door as she wrinkled her small nose. And that was the sort of woman he liked? Still, it was absolutely nothing to do with her. She was just his temporary secretary—very temporary.
The telephone rang, cutting off further deliberations, and when she realised it was the hospital asking for Mr Quentin she put the call through to him immediately.
It was a minute or two before the call ended and he buzzed her at once. She 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 of his voice and her heart seemed to stop, and then race on like a greyhound.
Conrad Quentin was sitting at the wheel of a silver Mercedes, the driver’s window down and his arm resting on the ledge as he surveyed her lazily from narrowed blue eyes in the fading light. The big beautiful car, the dark, brooding quality of its inhabitant and the utter surprise of it all robbed Sephy of all coherent thought, and it was a few moments before the mocking sapphire gaze told her she was looking at him with her mouth open.
She shut her lips so suddenly her teeth jarred, and then made a superhuman effort to pull herself together as she muttered in a soft aside to Jerry, ‘It’s my boss from work,’ before walking quickly across the pavement to the side of the waiting vehicle.
‘One set of keys.’ He spoke before she could say anything. ‘I noticed them on the floor as I was leaving and thought they might be important?’ he added quietly as he handed her the keyring.
She stared at the keys for a moment before raising her burning face to his cool perusal. Her flat keys, the keys to her mother’s house and car, as well as those for Mr Harper’s office and the filing cabinets. What must he be thinking? she asked herself hotly. It wasn’t exactly reassuring to think one’s temporary secretary was in the habit of mislaying such items. Ex-temporary secretary!
‘I dropped my bag earlier.’ It was a monotone, but all she could manage. ‘They must have fallen out.’
‘Undoubtedly.’ It was very dry.
‘Tha…thank you.’ Oh, don’t stutter! Whatever else, don’t stutter, she told herself heatedly.
‘My pleasure.’ He eyed her sardonically.
‘It was when the fax from Einhorn came through,’ she said quickly. ‘I knew you were waiting for it and I knocked my bag off the desk as I went to reach for it. I must have missed the keys…’ Her voice trailed away weakly. It could have been his keys she’d dropped, the keys to his confidential papers and so on, if he had retrieved Madge’s set. Which he hadn’t yet. And when he did, he was hardly likely to give them to her now, was he? she belaboured herself miserably. He must think she was a featherbrain! And she’d never done anything like this with Mr Harper.
‘No one is perfect, Seraphina.’ And then he further surprised her when he added, the brilliant blue eyes holding hers, ‘It’s a relief, actually. I was beginning to think I’d have my work cut out to keep up with you.’
Her mouth was open again but she couldn’t help it.
‘So…’ His dark husky voice was soft and low. ‘Is that the boyfriend?’ The blue eyes looked past her and they were mocking.
‘What?’ She was still recovering from being let off the hook.
‘The guy who is glaring at me.’ It was a slow, amused drawl. ‘Is he your boyfriend?’
Belatedly she remembered Jerry, and as she turned her head, following the direction of Conrad Quentin’s eyes, she saw Jerry was indeed glaring. ‘No, no of course not,’ she said distractedly. ‘He’s just a neighbour, a friend.’
The black eyebrows went a notch higher. ‘Really?’ It was cryptic.
‘Yes, really,’ she snapped back, before she remembered this was Conrad Quentin she was talking to. ‘He…he owns the shop below my flat,’ she said more circumspectly. ‘That’s all.’ And then she added, as the vivid blue gaze became distinctly uncomfortable, ‘Thank you so much for bringing the keys, and I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble.’
‘How sorry?’ he asked smoothly.
‘What?’ It was becoming a habit, this ‘what?’, but then she might have known he wouldn’t react like ninety-nine per cent of people would to her gracious little speech, she told herself silently.
‘I said, how sorry?’ he drawled lazily, the sapphire eyes as sharp as blue glass. ‘Sorry enough to accompany me to the hospital tonight?’
She almost said ‘The hospital?’ before she managed to bite back the fatuous words and say instead, ‘Why would you want me to do that, Mr Quentin?’ with some modicum of composure.
