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As long as they looked the part and did a good job, her ‘girls’ could chatter to whomsoever they wished, in their own time. ‘Are you common?’ she asked.
Amanda didn’t think so for a minute. His accent was pure London, but the streets had been pretty effectively scrubbed from it. And from the brief impression she’d had of him as he’d opened the door, waited for her to fasten her seat belt, she knew that few men of her acquaintance could have matched him for physical presence. He topped her by a head, with shoulders that could have borne the troubles of the world and the kind of bone structure that gave a face character. She catalogued his attributes and found none of them wanting. And there had been something distinctly uncommon about those eyes.
It occurred to Amanda that if she had been looking for a man, rather than a sperm donation, she would be hard pressed to find a more attractive proposition. The thought settled low in her abdomen and lingered there.
Was he common? It wasn’t the answer Daniel had expected, but it was certainly the one he deserved. He’d made the kind of remark that would leave a girl appearing snobbish, feeling uncomfortable if she didn’t answer, chose not to engage in conversation. Hardly the way to treat a paying customer, even if someone else was doing the paying.
He was pleased that she hadn’t fallen for it, but then his passenger was hardly a girl. She was a self-assured and very beautiful woman, far too mature to be taken in by that kind of line—by any kind of line for that matter. Looking the way she did, she was bound to have heard them all before. It would take originality to catch this lady’s attention, to hold it. It occurred to him that it was a long time since he’d met a woman capable of holding his.
‘I was a docklands brat,’ he said, leaving it for her to decide. ‘In the days when there were still docks worthy of the name.’ He still was, he realised, and smiled at the thought. He hadn’t moved very far from his roots.
‘In the days before the warehouses were bought by developers and converted into luxury homes for the seriously rich?’ He had been direct, assuming that the truth would put a brake on the conversation, but her mouth widened in another of those smiles. ‘A bit of a tearaway, were you?’
Got it in one. ‘I’m a model citizen these days,’ he assured her.
‘Mmm.’
The sound portrayed a world of doubt and Daniel laughed. Flirting was a bit like riding a bicycle; there might be a bit of a wobble when you hadn’t done it for a while, but it soon came back.
‘What about you?’ he asked.
Nice teeth, Amanda thought, looking at his smile reflected in the rear view mirror. Then gave herself a mental slap for checking him out feature by feature. As if she were looking over a stud horse. Nice mouth. ‘Am I a model citizen?’
‘That’s a given; after all you’re a Garland Girl. Highly trained, beautifully groomed and guaranteed trustworthy.’
Her shoulders lifted half a centimetre. The public relations image was still in place and doing the job, she was happy to note. It was the quality image she intended to exploit to the full with her plans for expansion. ‘I told you, Miss Garland has very high standards.’
‘Bad-tempered old tartars always use that excuse.’ Stuck fast in rush hour traffic, with nothing to do but look in his mirror at his passenger, he saw her mouth begin to form a protest, then give a little half-smile as if she were secretly amused by his less than flattering description of her boss, but she refused to join in. ‘How did you get to be one of the famous Garlands Girls?’ he prompted.
She’d been born to it, that was how. Garland had been her mother’s maiden name and she’d suggested that Amanda use it when she started the agency, rather than the family name of Fleming, just in case it had all gone pear-shaped. She’d been irritated at the time by this apparent lack of faith, but then a journalist doing a feature on secretarial agencies had coined the phrase ‘Garland Girls’ to describe her particular brand of educated, classy temps and it had stuck—become a brand-name almost. She was seriously thinking of trademarking it.
But she wasn’t about to tell this flirtatious chauffeur any of that. No matter how attractive his mouth, or uncommon his eyes. Or wicked his smile. ‘I took a secretarial course so that I could help my father. When he didn’t need me any more, I looked around for something else to do.’ Well, it was the truth, as far as it went.
‘I suppose if you’re going to be a temp, you might as well work for the best,’ he agreed.
‘Even if the boss is a bad-tempered old tartar?’ She saw his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. He was looking straight at her and for just a moment she thought he knew, that he had simply been teasing her. Then the traffic began to move and he looked away as he eased the car forward.
‘Don’t you have any ambitions beyond temping?’
More than ambitions. Plans. Business plans and personal plans. And today she had put them into action. ‘Is all you ever wanted to be a driver?’ she countered.
Well, he’d asked for that, Daniel reflected. And when you came right down to it they both worked for other people by the hour. ‘I get to meet some interesting people that way,’ he said. And meant it.
‘So do I.’
There was something about that voice, something soft and warm that curled around his gut and settled there like a warm puppy. He looked again in the mirror, couldn’t stop himself, but all he could see was her mouth, full and shining and very kissable.
Kissable? This was getting out of hand. He readjusted the mirror, slipped on a pair of dark glasses and decided it would be a whole lot more sensible to keep his entire attention fixed on the rear of the car in front. His mouth couldn’t have been wired up to the sensible part of his brain, though. ‘Sometimes I even get to know their names,’ he said, encouragingly.
‘Do you?’ Amanda had wondered how long it would be before he got around to asking her name and she had looked forward to telling him. Looked forward to saying, I’m Amanda Garland. The old tartar. How d’you do? Watch him flinch. Instead she found herself saying, ‘I’m Mandy Fleming.’
Well, so she was. Her father had called her Mandy. Her brother still did. And Garland, after all, was just her professional name. Her company name. The old tartar’s name.
‘Isn’t that the old tartar’s name?’
His words echoed the ones in her head, mocking her. He had known all along … Who was going to look the idiot now?
‘Isn’t that your boss’s name?’ he repeated, when she didn’t reply. ‘Amanda Garland? Mandy’s short for Amanda isn’t it?’
Amanda released the breath she had been holding a touch too long. Why else would she feel breathless? ‘No one ever calls her anything but Miss Garland when I’m around,’ she said, with feeling. Except Beth, but they had been together since the beginning. She’d been the first temp she taken on her books and within a week had been running the office for her.
‘Definitely not a Mandy, eh?’
He had put on a pair of dark glasses and his eyes were hidden. ‘Not in the office,’ she agreed.
He stopped talking then, as the traffic began to move, and gave the business of getting out of London his full attention. For a moment she watched his hands as he manoeuvred the big car through the busy morning streets, then with a start she dragged her attention away, opened her laptop, switched it on, began to make some notes. But she found concentration tougher than usual. It had been so long since her heart-rate had picked up for anything except a workout at the gym that she’d almost forgotten how it felt.
She glanced out of the window at the relentless tedium of grey concrete office buildings as they sped along the Chiswick flyover. Nothing to distract her there, so she gave up trying to avoid staring at the back of Daniel Redford’s neck. He didn’t wear a cap, or uniform of any kind. The car hire company he worked for apparently dressed their drivers in wellcut grey double-breasted suits, a white shirt and burgundy tie with the company logo. Smart but unobtrusive. She made a note to think about what Garland nannies might wear.
Daniel’s bulk filled his suit to perfection. His light brown hair was skilfully cut, not too short, layered into his neck and brightened by the sun. Nice profile, too, what she could see of it from this angle. He had a good jaw line, hard cheekbones, and she remembered the kind of nose that looked as if it had lived life head-on. Not particularly pretty, but strong, like his big hands, with their long, square-tipped fingers, neatly trimmed nails. They held the wheel lightly, but he was a man in complete control of his environment, a man who would be in complete control of anything he touched …
‘Have you worked for Capitol Cars for long?’ she asked, distracting herself from the disturbing direction in which her thoughts were heading.
‘Twenty years.’
‘Really?’ His cheeks had moved so that she knew he was smiling, and even though he’d adjusted his mirror so that she could no longer see his mouth she remembered the lazy lift to one corner, the deep crease that had appeared like magic down his cheek as he had swept open the door for her. He was a heartbreaker and no mistake. And undoubtedly married; his kind always were. Forget it, Amanda, she told herself firmly. Stick to the plan. ‘You must enjoy the work, then.’
‘I suppose I must.’ She saw him glance at the mirror. Was he looking at her, or the traffic behind them? With his eyes hidden behind dark glasses it was impossible to tell. ‘The tips are good, too. I was given a couple of theatre tickets the other day.’ He mentioned the new musical that had opened to rave reviews a few weeks earlier.
‘That’s quite some tip. I’ve heard the tickets are like gold dust.’ Then she realised that he might think she was angling for an invitation. Maybe she was … ‘What was it like?’ she asked, quickly.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You don’t like the theatre?’ Or maybe his wife didn’t like the theatre. Not that he was wearing a ring. But then, these days it didn’t have to be marriage. A good-looking man in his late thirties, early forties was scarcely likely to be living alone. Not if he was straight. Oh, please let him be straight!
‘They’re for next week. What about you?’
‘What? Oh, the theatre.’ She swallowed. ‘Love it,’ she said, her heart leaping into overdrive as she anticipated his next question. He didn’t ask it. Definitely spoken for, she told herself as he mentioned a couple of plays he’d seen. Not that it mattered. Right now she needed to keep her life as simple as possible. Complications in the form of a sexy chauffeur were not in the plan. ‘I saw that,’ she interrupted. ‘It was incredible. Did you see …?’
Their tastes seemed to have a pleasant syncronicity. He might have been a dockland brat but he obviously appreciated good theatre. ‘I went to Pavarotti-in-the-Park, a couple of years ago,’ he said, after a while. ‘It rained all through, but it was worth it. Do you like that sort of stuff?’
Amanda had avoided mentioning opera, which would teach her to be such a damned snob, she thought. ‘Yes. I was there under my umbrella.’ Then, in for a penny, she thought. ‘I like the ballet, too.’
He wrinkled up his battered nose. ‘No. Sorry. There’s passion in opera. Ballet …’ He left her to fill in the blank.
‘Maybe you just haven’t seen the right ballet,’ she persisted.
‘Maybe.’ He sounded doubtful. ‘I like football, though.’
‘I think I’ll stick to ballet, thanks all the same.’
She saw his jaw lift in a smile. ‘Maybe you should try it before you judge.’
Touché. ‘What about your wife?’
Damn! She hadn’t meant to say that. Now he would know she was fishing.
‘My wife?’ He paused as they approached road-works, concentrated on dealing with a busy contra-flow of traffic.
‘Does she like football?’ Amanda held her breath. Her heart stopped beating.
‘I’ve never met a woman who does,’ he said. So? What did that mean? As if she didn’t know. ‘We’re almost there,’ he said, as they threaded through the cones and down the sliproad. ‘It looks like you’ll be on time after all.’
‘Wonderful.’ Fine. Perfect. Her head continued to churn out adjectives, none of which were wonderful, or fine, or perfect. In fact every one of them would have had Beth’s eyebrows glued to the ceiling.
For some minutes they sped through thickly wooded lanes, conversation at an end. Amanda, finding it essential to do something with her hands, reknotted the silk scarf at her throat, closed her laptop, gathered her case. By the time Daniel stopped in front of the portico of one of the most expensive hotels in England, she was ready to step out of the car and walk away. It was only determination to prove to herself that she was not desperate to escape that kept her in her seat, waiting for him to open the door for her.
Daniel slipped off the dark glasses, tucked them into his breast pocket, then walked around to open the door. High heels and gravel were a treacherous mix, and he offered his hand as she swung her legs out of the car. She placed her cool fingers on his without hesitation and straightened with all the poise of a model. All part of the ‘Garland Girls’ training, no doubt. ‘We’ve made it with two minutes to spare. You won’t get your wrist slapped by the dragon lady, after all,’ he said.
Only a man could be that patronising, Amanda decided, then amended the thought to a married man. A married man whose strong, work-hardened fingers were curled protectively about her own.
She very carefully removed her hand from his and glanced at her wristwatch to check the time. ‘Thank you, Daniel,’ she said, formally.
‘My pleasure, Miss Fleming.’ He moved to close the car door. ‘I’ll see you this evening.’
‘Will you?’ Her breath stilled in expectation.
‘At five.’
Of course. Why else would he see her? He had a wife. It was just as well. It wasn’t as if she needed him. Not for hard-to-get theatre tickets, not for anything. She could get her own tickets for any show in town, and all she had to do was click her fingers and half a dozen men would be fighting to lend her an arm, and anything else she wanted, for the evening.
Unfortunately she had never been able to work up much enthusiasm for any man who could be brought to heel like an eager puppy with his tongue hanging out, which was why she was making her own arrangements for the ‘anything else’.
But right now she was the one with her tongue dragging on the floor and it was definitely time to haul it back in.
‘I’ll try not to keep you waiting again,’ she said briskly, and walked into the hotel without a backward glance.
Daniel watched Mandy Fleming walk away from him. It wasn’t exactly a hardship. Those long legs moved her body along in the way a woman should be moved, slow and sexy. A woman’s walk said a lot about her. Mandy Fleming’s said confidence, style. But that straight back told him something else. She was feeling decidedly put out that he hadn’t asked her to go to the theatre with him. She’d have said no, but she’d expected to be asked. And he smiled to himself. How did that old saying go? Make ‘em laugh, make ‘em cry, make ‘em wait? He didn’t have much time for men who made women cry, but the other two … His smile broadened as he drove towards the gates of the hotel. Like riding a bicycle.
The morning dragged, endlessly. The afternoon was, if anything, worse, and Amanda had a hard time keeping herself focused as she gave her own presentation on the benefits of employing temporary staff. Just the slightest lapse in concentration and her mind was wandering off to dwell on smoky blue eyes and broad shoulders, good hands and a sexy smile, all carried on two well-muscled legs.
Two well-muscled, married legs.
CHAPTER TWO (#ucd1ec027-8da8-5ac5-adf6-6ff4148f08e7)
DANIEL headed for the airport, picked up his passenger, delivered him to his hotel in Piccadilly and drove back to the garage. The traffic was a nightmare but he was working on automatic, his head full of Mandy Fleming.
How long had it been since a woman had stayed in his head for more than five minutes? How long had it been since he couldn’t wait to renew the acquaintance? But then Miss Fleming was one stylish lady. Those legs. That mouth.
His brows drew together as his thoughts strayed to the way she dressed. She had expensive tastes for a secretary. Even a top-of-the-range, seriously expensive Garland Agency secretary who merited a chauffeur-driven car.
Yet there had been something in her voice, something in her smile that had made his skin prickle with excitment. And the air had positively crackled with electricity when she’d put her hand on his for that briefest of touches. Oh, she’d been cool, her back ramrod-straight, but he knew she’d felt it too. The care with which she had removed her fingers from his had been too studied for anything else.
Then he pulled a face. Mandy Fleming wasn’t the kind of woman to be interested in a chauffeur. Well-educated, lovely to look at, she was the kind of secretary who would have her eyes firmly fixed on the boss rather than one of the bit-players. The thought brought an ironic smile to his lips, a smile that quickly faded.
Things had been so straightforward when he had been struggling to make a living with a one-car business. If a girl had smiled at him then he’d been sure that it wasn’t his money she was smiling at. All that had changed the day he’d bought a second car and taken on his first employee.
He pulled into the valeting area. ‘Any news from the hospital, Bob?’
‘It’s a girl, boss. Mother and baby doing well.’ There was nothing wrong with the words, just something about the way Bob said them that alerted him to trouble.
‘So what’s the problem?’ he asked.
Bob didn’t lift his gaze from the coach-built body-work he was stroking to an eye-dazzling shine; he simply jerked his grey head in the direction of the office. ‘Sadie arrived about half an hour ago. She’s in the office.’
Dan said something short and scatological.
‘It’s not half-term is it?’
‘No.’
The older man straightened, wadded his duster, squinted along the gleaming bonnet. ‘Thought not.’
No one was eager to meet his eye as he strode through the yard and into the office. As he set eyes on his daughter, he could see why.
She was sitting in his chair with her knee-high Doc Martens propped defiantly upon his desk. Her clothes, black to a stitch, could only have come from some charity shop, and her hair, shoulder-length and gleaming chestnut the last time he had seen her, had been cropped and dyed the kind of black from which no light escaped. Her face, in contrast, was dead white, her eyes rimmed with heavy black lines, her nails painted to match. She looked as if she was auditioning for the role of Morticia Addams but had forgotten the glamour, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from flinching. Since that was undoubtedly the effect she was striving to achieve, he made the effort.
He’d hoped that this was simply a day-trip, an excursion, a little French leave from the boarding school that charged a queen’s ransom to turn the daughters of those who could afford the fees into the very best they could be, academically and socially—and, in his daughter’s case, were fighting a losing battle. One look was all it had taken to quell any such notion.
‘Mercedes,’ he murmured, acknowledging her presence as he helped himself to coffee from the machine his secretary kept permanently on the go. Sadie hated being called that. She knew as well as he did that her name had been Vickie’s idea of a joke, a constant reminder that he’d had to cancel the Mercedes he’d had on order when he’d discovered that he was about to become a father. But right now he wasn’t in the mood to indulge his daughter with pet names. ‘I didn’t realise you had a holiday.’ He lifted her boot-clad feet from his desk and dropped them to the floor before turning his diary round to check the entries against the date. ‘No, you’re not here. It’s not like Karen to make a mistake—’
‘I didn’t think I had to make an appointment to see my own father.’ Sadie pushed the chair back and stood up. Dear God, she seemed to grow six inches each time he saw her. Guilt suggested that was because he didn’t see her often enough. But that was her choice. Apart from a grudging week at the cottage, she’d spent the entire summer with school-friends.
‘You don’t. Just lately it’s been the other way around.’
‘Yes, well, that’s all about to change. I’ve been suspended from school,’ she declared defiantly. ‘And you might as well know, I’ve no intention of going back.’ He made no comment. ‘You can’t make me.’
He was well aware of that fact. She was sixteen, and if she refused to go back to school there was precious little he could do about it except point out the pitfalls of cutting short her education.
‘You’ve re-sits in November,’ he reminded her calmly. The expletive that told him what he could with his re-sits would have earned him boxed ears from his mother at that age. But then Sadie didn’t have a mother, at least not one who cared to be reminded that she had a daughter rapidly approaching womanhood, so he ignored the bad language, as he had ignored her appearance. She was doing her level best to shock him, make him angry. He was both, but he knew better than to show it. ‘You won’t be able to do anything without English and maths.’
‘You didn’t bother about exams—’
‘Nobody cared what I did, Sadie. Does Mrs Warburton know where you are?’ He mentioned her headmistress before she could point out that her mother didn’t care much about her own firstborn, either.
‘No. I was sent to my room to wait until someone could spare the time to bring me home. They probably think I’m still there.’ She threw back her head and laughed. ‘They’ll be running around like headless chickens when they realise I’ve gone.’
He pressed the intercom. ‘Karen, call Mrs Warburton at Dower House and let her know that Sadie is with me.’
