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‘I’m perfectly capable of getting my own things,’ she hissed at him in the lift, her eyes studiously avoiding his scowling features.
‘Are you?’
‘Yes! And I—’ She broke off with a squeak of protest as she was virtually shoved through the lift doors before they had finished opening. ‘Stop treating me like this!’ she raged, trying in vain to twist free of his grasp as he marched her towards the general typing offices. ‘I was perfectly happy here until you spoiled it all by turning up.’ She glanced up at his glacial features as he marched her relentlessly on, her heart sinking as she realised she was going to have to humiliate herself by pleading with him. ‘Mark—even you must realise how odd people are going to find this,’ she wailed.
‘Find what odd?’ he demanded.
‘For heaven’s sake—you’re practically God around here! People are bound to—’
She gave a strangled gasp as he halted unexpectedly and spun her round to face him.
‘OK, Lucy, spit it out—what exactly is your problem?’
‘I...well, if you must know, no one knows you’re my stepbrother...well, no one apart from the executives, as far as I know,’ she stammered, then added venomously, ‘I certainly haven’t told anyone!’
Her eyes widened in total disbelief as he began chuckling softly to himself.
‘Don’t tell me you’re actually worried what it might do to your reputation, being seen hob-nobbing with the—”alley-catting” was the term I believe you used—boss. My, that is a problem, sweetheart.’
‘Don’t you dare call me sweetheart!’ she shrieked, then clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes flying with stricken concern to the door near by and finding it mercifully closed.
‘You know,’ he murmured with gloating relish, ‘I’m sure we could give them a lot to talk about—if I really put my mind to it.’
‘Mark...please,’ she begged.
There was nothing she wouldn’t put past him, and the thought of having to live it down with her colleagues was something that didn’t even bear contemplating—especially Sarah Mitson, her closest friend, to whom she still hadn’t got around to divulging her complicated relationship to Mark.
‘Why, Lucy, sweetheart, I do believe you’re grovelling,’ he murmured complacently, releasing her and flashing her a wickedly taunting look as he stepped forward and held the door open for her.
Her eyes trained on the rich green carpeting beneath her feet, Lucy entered.
As with all the Waterford London offices, this general typing complex was magnificently equipped and almost lavishly appointed. Though she had no other work experience with which to make comparisons, Lucy had learned from the comments of staff from several of the departments within the company that Waterford’s wholly deserved their envied international reputation where staff pay, conditions and, most of all, job satisfaction were concerned. To refer to where she worked, as most did, as a ‘typing pool’ she knew was a complete misnomer. And it was too to refer to her colleagues simply as typists. Of the six of them, three were graduates, attracted by the company’s liberal internal promotion policies and lack of sex discrimination. Two current heads of department had started their careers in this very office. And she was the duffer among them, thought Lucy resignedly as she trudged, head bowed, towards her desk—acutely conscious of Mark close on her heels and the palpably loaded atmosphere permeating the suddenly hushed office.
‘My, my—and what have we been up to?’ teased Sarah wickedly beneath her breath as Lucy, now scarlet-faced, passed her and halted at her own desk.
She loved Sarah dearly, she thought resignedly, noticing how her friend had openly abandoned all idea of work to gaze with wide-eyed interest on what was going on around her, but there were times, such as right now, when she could happily throttle her.
She dug a large plastic bag out of one of the drawers and then proceded to tip the entire contents of all the drawers into it.
‘Heck, Lucy—you haven’t been fired, have you?’ exclaimed Sarah, her look turning to one of horrified suspicion.
Lucy glanced pleadingly over at her friend, now on her feet and regarding her with a look of shocked indignation, then towards Mark, standing impassively by her desk.
‘Of course not—but I’ll have to explain later,’ she muttered in Sarah’s direction, then flashed her an imploring look—when it came to defending her friends, Sarah’s normally placid nature could become startlingly aggressive.
‘Is that it?’ enquired Mark, glancing with open disdain at the overflowing carrier bag Lucy was now hoisting precariously in her arms.
She nodded and, casting what she hoped was a reassuring look in her stunned friend’s direction, followed him as he began marching out of the office.
‘Hang on a minute, Mark,’ she exclaimed when they had almost reached the door, and could have bitten off her tongue for her carelessness in speaking in what, to her colleagues, must have sounded an astounding familiar way to address the supreme boss. ‘I’ve forgotten my coat.’
He turned and faced her, his expression long-suffering. ‘OK—wait there while I get it,’ he muttered, striding back past her. ‘Where is it?’
‘I’ll get it,’ offered one of the other girls, having difficulty keeping her face straight as she raced off, then returned and handed Lucy’s coat to a deceptively patient-looking Mark.
‘Is that it?’ he asked Lucy, in tones of equally deceptive patience as he slung her coat nonchalantly over his shoulder.
She nodded, deciding she could collect her scarf and boots, which she had just that moment remembered, later.
‘Come on, then,’ he snapped, striding past her, ‘we haven’t got all day.’
Gritting her teeth, she followed him down the corridor and into the lift, where she maintained a frigid silence which her companion showed no inclination to break on their journey back to his suite of offices.
No wonder she hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell even Sarah about her unfortunate connection with the Waterford family, especially not this monster, she fumed resentfully to herself as she entered the office that was to be hers—her pride simply hadn’t the stomach for it.
She placed the carrier bag on the desk and tipped its contents on to it.
‘Right—now that you’ve reduced this place to the sort of mess only you would feel at home in, perhaps we can go and eat,’ drawled Mark from the doorway, flinging her coat across the room at her as he left to get his own.
Clutching her coat to her, she raced out after him.
‘I’ll not last five minutes here—so what’s the point of my bothering?’ she demanded. ‘And as for having lunch with you, it’s an ordeal I’ve decided to skip!’
‘Damn it, Lucy,’ he exclaimed, striding threateningly towards her, ‘stop behaving like a spoiled brat—I’ve told you there are things I need to discuss with you!’
‘Perhaps if you stopped treating me like a child I’d—’ She broke off in consternation as the memory of how much a woman she had felt in his arms seared suddenly through her.
‘You were saying?’ he mocked softly, both his words and the disconcertingly predatory gleam in his eyes leaving her in no doubt that he sensed what was going through her mind. ‘Lucy, I think we ought to go—before I’m tempted to give you further proof that I no longer regard you as a child.’
CHAPTER TWO
BY THE time they were seated in the restaurant, Lucy was feeling as miserable physically as she was mentally. Without her scarf, a voluminous cashmere wrap which had been a birthday present from her mother and James, she was frozen; and without her boots her feet had been soaked in the rain.
‘No wonder you’re cold,’ said Mark unsympathetically, catching her shiver, despite the warmth surrounding them, as he finished giving their order. ‘You’re not exactly dressed for December weather.’
‘Only because you didn’t give me time to get changed into something suitable,’ snapped Lucy, acutely conscious of a completely new dimension to the edgy tension she generally experienced in his company, yet unable to pinpoint its cause.
‘As your coat was all you claimed to have with you,’ he replied in innocent tones, ‘I can only assume you’re complaining I didn’t give you time to go home and change—and that’s hardly a reasonable complaint.’
‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ she demanded wearily. She knew this patronisingly innocent mood of his of old, and it was one that more often than not reduced her to gibbering rage.
‘Perhaps I should have ordered you a brandy to warm you up,’ he murmured, disregarding her words totally. ‘You have, I take it, learned to hold your liquor by now?’
Lucy was mortified to feel her cheeks flame.
‘Ha, ha,’ she ground out, inwardly squirming. At sixteen she had, quite by accident, managed to get herself well and truly drunk on an innocuous-tasting punch she had unfortunately assumed to be a concoction of nothing but fruit juices.
‘How old were you at the time?’ enquired Mark, once again displaying that disconcerting knack of reading her mind.
‘Sixteen,’ snapped Lucy, then rounded on him bitterly. ‘And if you hadn’t dragged me along to that wretched do, only to dump me in a corner and order me to blend in with the wallpaper, I wouldn’t have spent the entire evening drinking in order to relieve the boredom!’
‘Is there nothing you’ve ever done that hasn’t been someone else’s fault?’ he asked, his tone as icy as the eyes contemptuously holding hers across the table as the waiters arrived. ‘And just in case you were thinking of replying, don’t bother,’ he informed her, once they had been served. ‘In fact, I’d be grateful if you didn’t utter another word until I’ve finished my entire meal. I’ve no intention of risking an ulcer by subjecting myself to your petulant outbursts while I’m eating.’
There was something different about him, thought Lucy nervously, feeling like a severely reprimanded child. It was around two years since she had spent any time in his company, she mused, and also since his father had handed the entire business empire over to him. And before that there had been a similar gap between their meetings.
She picked at her food half-heartedly, startled to realise how long those gaps had been—not that time had ever lessened the intensity of the all-out war that had always existed between them. She frowned, giving an imperceptible shake of her head as she remembered that it hadn’t always been total war between them. From around the time she was seventeen and well into her eighteenth year, they had almost got on well, she realised with a sharp pang of nostalgia—admittedly they had still argued, but not with the venom of the earlier years and certainly not as they were to in the years that followed. And that strange period, almost of truce, had taken place during the time when his father had been reassessing the London offices and when he and her mother had, for the first time since their marriage, actually lived for a while in London.
Mark had still been a student, and younger than she was now, when he had been forced into the role of virtual guardian to a stroppy fifteen-year-old, and how bitterly he had resented it, she thought with a curiously tender pang of understanding. Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence that the only time they had almost got on was when her mother and his father had been around to relieve him of that onerous burden they themselves had placed on him. It was definitely when James and her mother left England again that hostilities had flared up between them with renewed intensity...even though she was old enough to stand on her own two feet—well, almost—by then.
Her mind still wrestling with such thoughts, she gazed furtively across the table at her silent companion and in that instant her mind blanked, only to be filled by sudden, searing memories of his lips on hers.
For heaven’s sake, all he’d done was kiss her, she remonstrated frantically with herself—except that it was so out of character that it had obviously thrown even him. But one thing she could be sure of—if ever he got any inkling of the effect that kiss had had on her, he would use it as a weapon against her without the slightest compunction!
‘Would you like coffee?’ he asked, finally breaking the silence.
Lucy nodded, her mind still resisting her efforts to clear it of the memories it seemed determined to dwell on.
He summoned a waiter, then didn’t speak again until the table was cleared and the coffee served.
‘About two and a half years ago, my father underwent major surgery for a stomach disorder,’ he then stated quietly.
Lucy looked at him in shocked disbelief.
‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ she asked hoarsely.
‘Probably because they felt you had enough to contend with at the time—that is, being plastered all over the Press as a gangster’s moll.’
‘Mark, you know you’re not being fair.’ As she was still stunned by his disclosure, her protest was mild. ‘I hardly knew the man—I just happened to be having lunch with him when he was arrested. And as for it being plastered all over the—’
‘Perhaps not here; but it was in the States, where the man was wanted on several charges,’ he muttered. ‘And you can imagine how it must have speeded my father’s recovery once the American Press dug up your link with him and brought his name into it all.’
He wasn’t being in the least fair, but Lucy was still too preoccupied by thoughts of her stepfather, of whom she had gradually grown very fond, to react.
‘Lucy, you’re right—I wasn’t being fair,’ he sighed. ‘But to get back to Dad’s operation; by all medical expectations it should have returned him to his old self—but unfortunately it didn’t.’
Lucy gazed at him aghast. ‘That rumpus I was involved in...are you saying it affected him that badly?’
‘Of course I’m not,’ he exclaimed, then startled her by giving her a wry grin. ‘Though I’d be lying if I said the thought never entered my mind.’ His expression reverted to one of seriousness. ‘Lucy, don’t tell me you didn’t find it odd that he should hand over the company to me, and opt out of all involvement with it, so early. It was something he had always intended doing eventually, but certainly not in his early fifties!’
Lucy hoped her expression wasn’t betraying her thoughts. She had had one or two thoughts on the subject of James handing over his empire lock, stock and barrel to his son—and none of them in the least charitable towards Mark—but the idea of poor health having any bearing on it simply hadn’t entered her head.
‘He did it because he realised he lacked the physical stamina to continue. It got so that a full round of golf was more than he could handle—and you know how he is about his golf.’
‘This is dreadful,’ whispered Lucy, feeling suddenly limp and trembly. ‘If only someone had had the sense to tell me. The things I’ve said to them! I virtually accused them of acting like a couple of couch potatoes! I spent last Christmas with them—at that place they suddenly bought in the Seychelles. I just couldn’t understand how they could sit around all day playing cards when there was so much to do there...I feel terrible!’
He gave a small shrug. ‘You weren’t to know—and anyway, it doesn’t matter. Give him a while and he’ll be back to his old energetic self.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One of the reasons he bought that place in the Seychelles was that he’d had enough of being treated like some sort of medical specimen by the team that had originally operated on him. I suppose you couldn’t blame them really. When such relatively routine surgery produces unheard-of results like that, they’re bound to want to know why. But after the last extensive going-over they gave him, he’d had enough.’
‘Has the climate there cured him or something?’ asked Lucy tentatively.
He laughed as he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. But with what they had from the last batch of tests, his doctors have finally cracked it—and it took some doing. I’ve no idea what the medical jargon is, but it appears Dad’s innards aren’t quite as they should be according to the textbooks. It’s a minor deviation which, ironically, wouldn’t have affected him a jot had he not had to have precisely the surgery he did have a couple of years ago.’
‘But they can cure it now they know?’
He nodded. ‘Unfortunately it involves another hefty bout of surgery. But once he’s over that, he really will be back to normal this time.’
‘When will he have the operation?’
‘In the New Year. In fact, they’re flying back to the States the day after New Year and he’ll be operated on a day or two later.’
‘Mark...I’m so glad,’ whispered Lucy almost shyly. ‘I know I used to say how much I hated him when they were first married...I suppose it was a confused sort of loyalty to my own father. But over the years I’ve grown very fond of him.’
‘Loyalty such as that is perfectly understandable,’ he muttered. ‘It took a long time for me to admit it even to myself, but your mother’s the best thing that could have happened to him. After my mother died, he just went to pieces.’ He broke off and shifted slightly in his chair, the movement uncharacteristically tense and awkward. ‘It was in that state that he ended up married—briefly, thank God—to an archetypal gold-digger. It was unfortunate but inevitable that I should regard your mother as being a similar type.’
It was only when he glanced around and motioned to a waiter to bring more coffee that Lucy realised he had said all he intended. No apology; no admission of any feelings even approaching warmth for the woman who had borne his open hostility with such fortitude—only that grudging statement.
‘So why are you telling me all this now?’ she asked, anger and resentment simmering within her. ‘I’m amazed I haven’t been left in total ignorance as usual.’
‘This time I intend making sure you stay out of trouble—and with your full co-operation. I don’t want anything—and I mean not the slightest thing—causing him any unwarranted stress while he’s going through this.’
‘And you really expect me to believe you don’t blame me for his failure to recover last time?’ exploded Lucy bitterly, unable to believe she was being treated like this.
‘Your infantile sensibilities aren’t of the slightest interest to me,’ he drawled, the boredom in his tone complemented by his eyes, which then left her to follow the progress of the extremely attractive woman walking past their table. ‘The only thing I’m interested in,’ he continued, though apparently having difficulty dragging his eyes temporarily back to Lucy, ‘is the next couple of months being as stress-free as possible for my father.’
‘Oh, dear,’ drawled Lucy, the blood boiling in her as she suspected he had succeeded in making some sort of eye-contact with the woman who, with her companion, had taken a table not quite in her line of vision somewhere to the left of theirs. ‘It looks as though I’m going to have to say goodbye to my dishy drug baron boyfriend—what a shame.’
The look he gave her was such that for an instant she was scared he was going to lunge across the table and throttle her.
‘You come out with remarks like that,’ he rasped, controlling himself with patent difficulty, ‘and yet you wonder why I feel the need to make sure I’ve got you right where I can keep close watch on you.’
‘I take it you’re referring to my new secretarial position,’ exclaimed Lucy with a dismissive laugh. ‘I hope you realise that any day now you’ll be kicking yourself for not having hung on to one of those you so rashly discarded.’
‘There was never any question of any one of them remaining with me,’ he informed her coldly. ‘I certainly don’t expect you to have the first idea about how this consortium runs—and I don’t simply mean the London offices, I mean the whole shebang worldwide; but that’s what I’ve been spending the past two years familiarising myself with. I don’t just look around the companies, or the various sections of the larger ones. Where feasible, and where the executives concerned are in agreement, I actually go in and run the particular section myself for a short period. That’s the only way to gain in-depth knowledge of what’s involved. And when I do that it’s only logical that I should borrow the secretary to the chief executive of the particular area concerned.’
‘Oh—I see,’ murmured Lucy with venomous sweetness. ‘I’d better put all those gossip-mongers straight by pointing out to them that all those secretaries they claim you’ve wined and dined out of office hours were working overtime to bring you up to date with your own business—and it was only coincidental that they happened to be the most attractive of the bunch.’ She glanced across at him smugly, only to find his attention had yet again strayed to the nearby table. ‘Mark, why don’t you simply draw up a chair and join them?’ she hissed viciously. ‘I’m sure her companion won’t object when you explain that all you’re interested in is familiarising yourself with wherever it is she works!’
The instant her words were out his eyes met hers, their goading mockery telling her he had been flirting for no other reason than to see how, if at all, she would react—and she had reacted all right, she accused herself angrily.
‘You sound almost jealous, sweetheart,’ he drawled, obviously determined to rub as much salt as he could into her wound.
‘I’ve told you not to call me sweetheart,’ she snapped in a vain attempt to divert to him some of her fury with herself for having fallen so easily into his trap.
‘So you did—but you don’t deny you were jealous,’ he murmured mockingly. ‘Tell me, Lucy, isn’t it about time you were thinking of finding some poor unfortunate to settle down with?’
‘Perhaps you’d like me to draw up a list so that you can have them thoroughly vetted,’ she retorted hotly. ‘I mean, that’s what you’d do, isn’t it?’
