Tiger Man

Storm’s mother was in the garden. A placid, plump woman in her late fifties, she often found it difficult to understand how she had managed to produce such a turbulent firebrand.

Storm was the youngest of the family and the only girl. Both her brothers had left home several years earlier. John, the elder, was a mining engineer who lived and worked in Australia, making very infrequent trips home. Ian, three years older than Storm, was an oil technician who spent half his life commuting between various far-flung outposts of the world, looking for oil, and consequently he too was a rare visitor to the sprawling old house, nestling against the protective lee of the Cotswolds.

‘I thought I ought to cut the last of the roses before the frost gets them,’ Mrs Templeton said to Storm. ‘It makes the garden look so bare, though,’ she added, looking regretfully at her denuded bushes. ‘David drop you off?’

‘Mm. Let me carry those for you,’ Storm offered, relieving her mother of her secateurs and gloves. Although her parents were quite fond of David, Storm sensed that they did not entirely favour her relationship with him. They were such a pair of romantics, she thought affectionately, no doubt they would have preferred her to fall fathoms deep in love. Her mind shied away from the prospect, apprehension shivering through her, as she admitted that she was frightened of the commitment such a relationship would entail. Deep waters were not for her, she decided firmly as she followed her mother into the house.

‘Dinner won’t be long,’ Mrs Templeton warned as Storm headed for the stairs.

‘I’ll just have a quick shower, then,’ Storm replied.

Because of the amount of equipment crammed into their inadequate premises it was always uncomfortably warm in the studios and Storm liked to refresh herself with a shower before sitting down for her evening meal.

What would Jago Marsh make of their premises? she wondered, a sardonic smile touching her lips as she prepared for dinner. The offices themselves were bad enough, but worse by far was their outdated and hopelessly inefficient equipment. Their outside broadcast van had barely passed its M.O.T., in fact Pete had sworn that it was purely on account of Storm’s pleading violet eyes that it had scraped through at all, and so it was with all their gear. Mikes failed to operate, turntables refused to turn; splicers tangled the tapes, and it was always the exhausted staff who had to work on painstakingly righting the faults caused by unreliable equipment. Storm’s lip curled as she thought of Jago Marsh sitting up nursing a faulty transmitter. Well, he was in for a few shocks if he expected his existence to be cushioned with velvet once he joined Radio Wyechester, she thought with grim satisfaction.

Her parents were already seated when she entered the dining room. Storm’s father was a lecturer at the local university, a tall, still handsome man in his late fifties, with a pronounced sense of humour, and a comprehensive understanding of the young.

Although there were only the three of them left at home, Mrs Templeton insisted on a certain degree of formality for their evening meal, and although breakfast was normally a rushed affair with Storm swallowing a quick cup of coffee, standing up in the kitchen, and Mr Templeton munching toast, hidden behind his newspaper, dinner was always a leisurely meal, eaten with due regard for the digestion.

Her mother was an excellent cook, and since Storm had no need to worry about her weight, she tucked into her steak and kidney pie with every evidence of enjoyment.

Richard Templeton lectured in economics and had the dissecting mind of the intellectual. The Templeton household had never suffered from a lack of stimulating conversation, and the dinner table had been a favourite platform for the younger generation to launch its attacks on the elder throughout the boys’ and Storm’s adolescence. Nowadays there were no longer heated discussions about pop singers and curfews, nevertheless Storm enjoyed pitting her wits against her father’s razor-sharp mind—Templeton Père had the disquieting knack of sniffing out the weaker points of an argument, although what she lost in logic Storm more than made up for in vehemence.

‘Had a good day, Storm?’ Mrs Templeton enquired when she had served the apple pie. Storm had been somewhat subdued during the meal, and it struck her that she was looking far from happy.

‘Not really,’ Storm admitted. Her parents knew all about the problems suffered by the station, and both waited sympathetically to hear her news.

‘We’re being allowed to keep our licence,’ she told them, ‘but with certain provisos—one of which is Jago Marsh.’

‘The Jago Marsh?’ her father enquired with some interest. ‘Well, I don’t know why that should make you look so miserable. If you ask me he’s just what your outfit needs. Incredible, the progress he’s made during the last few years. There can’t be many people more experienced in the media today, and I’m sure he’ll be able to do a damned sight more for you than David’s ineffectual…’ He broke off as his wife kicked him warningly under the table.

‘I’m sorry, Storm,’ he apologised, ‘but although I like David, I don’t think he’s cut out for such a competitive business. I never have done…’

‘But you admire a man like Jago Marsh,’ Storm said bitterly, ‘a man who constantly features in the gossip columns—changes his girl-friends like other men change their shirts, is known to be completely ruthless and.…’

‘Most reprehensible,’ her father agreed, surveying her flushed cheeks with twinkling eyes. ‘What is it that you object to most, Storm? That he’s been appointed to try and make some order out of David’s chaos, or his romantic proclivities?’

‘I object to everything about him,’ Storm retorted, abandoning her attempts to reason logically. ‘You don’t know him like I do. He’s the original male chauvinist pig!’

Mr Templeton raised an eyebrow ‘You know him?’

‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ Storm said crossly. ‘I’ve read about him. I’ve heard him lecture, I’ve actually seen him say that women have no place in radio…’

‘Scarcely the basis on which to claim a knowledge of the man,’ her father pointed out. ‘Look, Storm, I can understand how you feel, in some ways, but I think you’re deliberately blinding yourself to the truth. Just because you personally don’t like the Jago Marsh you’ve created in your imagination it doesn’t mean that he won’t do a good job. How often have you come home bemoaning the fact that David has squashed one of your ideas?’

It was true.

‘That’s different,’ she protested.

‘Because you’re the one to do the criticising? Not good enough, my girl, pure feminine logic. Not good enough at all. As it happens I’ve heard Jago Marsh lecture too, and I got the impression of a man who knows where he’s going and when. Granted he won’t suffer fools gladly, but then why should he?’

‘If you two are going to engage in one of your arguments I’m off to the kitchen,’ Mrs Templeton announced. ‘Coffee, Storm?’

‘Yes, please. I’ll give you a hand with the trolley.’

‘You won’t escape that way, my girl,’ warned her father. ‘We’ll thrash this out later. Think a little, love. The man’s got a job to do, don’t go out of your way to make it any harder for him. He’s going to need all the help he can get.’

‘Not according to what one reads in the papers,’ Storm retorted. ‘To read them you’d think he was a one-man miracle worker!’

Over her downbent head her parents exchanged exasperatedly affectionate looks.

‘There’s a documentary on television I wouldn’t mind seeing tonight,’ Mr Templeton announced, changing the subject.

Storm followed her mother out into the kitchen.

‘Your father’s right, you know, dear,’ Mrs Templeton said gently as they washed up. ‘You mustn’t let loyalty to David blind you to his faults.’ She gave a faint sigh. ‘I know it’s none of my business, Storm, but somehow I can’t see David as the right man for you…’

‘Because he’s gentle and kind and doesn’t have sex on the brain?’ Storm retorted fiercely, causing her mother to frown anxiously.

‘I know you think you love him, Storm,’ she said quietly, ‘but if you did I should expect you to want him to have “sex on the brain”, as you put it. Things were different in my day, I know, and sex wasn’t discussed as openly as it is now, but there was never a single doubt in my mind that I wanted your father as my lover, very, very much indeed. I don’t think you can say the same about David.’

This unexpected frankness brought a touch of colour to Storm’s face.

‘Too much importance is placed on sex,’ she announced defensively. ‘It’s only one part of a relationship.’

‘The mere fact that you can tell me that, Storm,’ her mother replied softly, ‘just confirms what I’ve been saying. You can’t possibly love David as a woman should love a man.’

Her mother was hopelessly romantic, Storm thought as she finished her chores, but even so her words lingered, making it impossible for Storm to concentrate on the documentary. When it had finished Mrs Templeton announced suddenly,

‘I forget to tell you—the house down the road has been sold.’

‘Good lord!’ Mr Templeton exclaimed. ‘I never thought it would go so quickly. How much were they asking for it? Well over a hundred thousand, wasn’t it?’

The house in question was their nearest neighbour, the last word in modern design and yet built in such a fashion that it blended perfectly into its rural surroundings. Much use had been made of huge expanses of tinted glass and natural wood. The house had extensive grounds and overlooked the wooded copse that lay between Storm’s parents’ house and it, and Mrs Templeton, who had been inside it, said that it was as beautiful inside as it was out.

‘Going out with David tonight?’ Mrs Templeton asked Storm a little later.

‘No. He’s got some work to do, and so have I.’

‘Making sure the new boss doesn’t catch you off guard?’ grinned her father.

Storm elected to take refuge from his teasing in a disdainful demeanour.

‘Certainly not. I couldn’t care less what Jago Marsh thinks of me!’

But she could not get away from the fact that hateful though he might be, Jago Marsh was going to be in a position of authority over her, and worse still, capable to taking from her a job which she thoroughly enjoyed and had worked hard for.

It was an unpalatable thought to take to bed, and she was unusually quiet when she said her goodnights. Upstairs in her room she dawdled over her preparations for bed, stopping to lean her elbows on her casement window and stare out at the night sky.

Why of all people had David had to confide in Jago Marsh? her rebellious heart demanded, her inner eye seeing him as he had appeared to her during his lecture. He had been wearing a tailored suit, his dark hair neatly brushed, outwardly a conformist adhering to the rules of society, but his face had been that of a man who admits to no rules, except his own; a man who would either lead the pack or turn his back on it; a man who in her heart of hearts she acknowledged was dangerous.

She vowed there and then that when the confrontation came, he would not find her unprepared.

CHAPTER TWO

IT was to come far sooner than she had expected.

The day had not got off to an auspicious start. Far from it, Storm thought as she tussled with a recalcitrant zip. She had overslept, and the fact that she had an important appointment with the managing director of a Gloucester-based employment agency whom she had hoped to persuade to make use of the station’s advertising facilities made her all fingers and thumbs as she pulled on a pale grey skirt and a toning lavender blouse.

The blouse was startlingly effective against her hair, reflecting the colour of her eyes as she blended subtly shaded mauve eyeshadow over her eyelids, adding the merest touch of mascara and kohl pencil, before snatching up her fox jacket—a combined twenty-first birthday present from her parents and brothers. At least the fur gave her a touch of elegance, she thought ruefully as she applied damson lip gloss—something she considered herself badly in need of. She studied herself in the mirror, frowning a little. Thank goodness for high heels! Five foot two did not make for the soignée model girl elegance she envied so much. Her lack of inches was a constant source of irritation to her. ‘Titch’ and ‘Pint Size’ were only two of the derogatory names used by her brothers during their adolescence, and to add insult to injury they both took after their father, easily topping six foot!

Conditioned to her spectacular colouring, Storm was oblivious to the vivid effect of her russet curls against the creamy warmth of her skin, or the generously full curve of her mouth beneath its covering of lip gloss. Wrinkling her nose, she picked up her bag and fled. She was late enough already without wasting more time staring at her own reflection.

Breakfast was a hurried affair, with her mother scolding her affectionately as she swallowed her coffee and refused anything more substantial. Mrs Templeton was lending Storm her Mini and, as always when time was short, this temperamental dowager refused to start first time.

‘She won’t start if you speak to her like that,’ Mrs Templeton warned Storm who was muttering curses over the Mini’s obstinacy. ‘She’s an old lady and it’s a cold morning.’

Storm grinned. Her mother’s habit of treating her elderly car as an eccentric member of the family was a standing joke.

‘Don’t worry,’ she promised, ‘I’ll pay due consideration to her advancing years and uncertain health!’

Very little traffic used the winding road to Gloucester. The early morning mist had dispersed, leaving only the odd patch here and there in low-lying hollows. The glinting autumn sun sparkled on frost-rimed hedges, and Storm hummed happily as she drove along.

Later she admitted to herself that she had been guilty of letting her mind wander, and perhaps even taking up more than her allotted half share of the road, but that was later. Her first instinctive reaction when she saw the powerful green car leaping towards her devouring the slender distance that separated them was one of furious resentment that its driver should behave with such a lack of regard for any other road users.

With almost unbelievable speed the other car swerved away, narrowly missing her, and as Storm glared revengefully at its occupants, she realised that the man seated in the passenger seat was Neil Philips, the local estate agent. Which meant that in all probability the driver was none other than their new neighbour. Scarcely a good omen for their future relationship Storm admitted as she gave the Mini’s steering wheel a reassuring pat. Really, she was getting quite as bad as her mother! A car was a car was a car! Unless, of course, it happened to be an expensive luxury toy designed for men rich and vain enough to own such objects, she reflected, remembering the sleek lines of the green monster. She tossed her head. Arrogant brute, to sound his horn like that! He had been as much in the wrong as she was!

But she had not been giving her driving the concentration she ought to have done, she admitted. Her mind had been on Jago Marsh and the difference his coming was bound to make to her life. David had not said when they might expect him, but surely it would take some time for him to tie up his business affairs in London; that should give them a little breathing space.

Gloucester was busy. It took her ten minutes to find a parking space and another five to check her hair and make-up before sliding out of the car and hurrying towards the Top Girl agency. That was one thing, she thought, chuckling to herself, at least being small meant that one could get out of a Mini without 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 aware look might never have been, his voice and eyes probed mercilessly, driving her to murmur defiantly under her breath,

‘Perhaps it’s because we can’t all aspire to the dizzy heights surmounted by the Jago Marshes of this world.’