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Chesnie had to laugh. ‘Tomorrow,’ she agreed, then chatted for another few minutes and rang off—to have Joel Davenport back in her head. He thought she was a treasure. She found she was smiling—and quickly cancelled that. Soft soap!
As anticipated, she was less busy on Thursday, and was extremely pleased that she seemed to coast through her work that day. True, there wasn’t the same buzz about the office with Joel not there, but at least it looked as if she would be leaving on time that night. Which would suit her quite nicely. Time to go home, have a relaxing bath and get ready to go out with Philip Pomeroy.
At five past four she glanced at her watch, assessed the work she still had to do and knew for certain that she would be leaving at five. The best-laid plans…
At four-thirty her phone rang. ‘Joel Davenport’s office,’ she answered pleasantly.
‘Hello, Chesnie,’ the man himself answered, and her insides went all kind of crumbly. Ridiculous, she told herself stoutly. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ he began, not sounding sorry at all, ‘but I’ve arranged an early meeting in London tomorrow. Do you think you can have some paperwork ready for me?’
‘Of course,’ she answered automatically, and had her notepad in hand. ‘Fire away.’
She was getting writer’s cramp before he was halfway finished. Was he joking? It would take her hours to complete this little lot! She almost stopped him then and there, to remind him that she had a date that night. But remembered in time how at her job interview he had asked her supposing she had a date but he needed her to accompany him at short notice. Without hesitation she’d indicated it would not be a problem—that she would change her plans for the evening. This wasn’t accompanying him anywhere, but it amounted to the same thing.
‘I haven’t given you too much to do there, have I?’ he asked, when he eventually came to an end.
‘What are treasures for?’ she found she had answered, before she could think about it.
‘I knew I could rely on you,’ he commented charmingly, and rang off.
Chesnie was busying herself making a start, collecting information together, before she realised that there was no way she could get everything sorted, no way she could type up reams and reams of confidential matter, and keep her date with Philip Pomeroy.
Her hand went to the phone, but before she could carry out her intention to put a call through to Symington Technology she had another thought. How about if she got all the paperwork already to hand checked over, then typed as much as she could of the new stuff before she went home? Then, with her computer installed at home in that apology for a second bedroom, she could work as late as she had to after her dinner with Philip. Brilliant, or what?
Having gone over the notion, Chesnie couldn’t fault the idea. She’d have to get up early to have everything ready on Joel’s desk for when he came in—she wished she knew what time that was—but couldn’t see any problem. If this was what being a senior PA was all about, then she would prove she was very much up to the job.
She was glad to make herself comfortable in Philip Pomeroy’s car on the way to the restaurant. It was the first chance she’d had to sit and relax since that half past four phone call. She had rushed from the office at five past six, laden with folders and stationery. She had taken the quickest of showers and had selected a short-sleeved, straight-skirted black dress. Although her wardrobe was not extensive it was of good quality. She had been ready and, anxious not to waste a minute, had been busy typing when the outer door buzzer had sounded, announcing the arrival of her escort.
The Linton, the restaurant Philip had chosen, was elegant, discreet, and, she didn’t doubt, pricey. Chesnie found Philip Pomeroy a pleasant companion, too sophisticated to be obvious or pushy, and she began to relax more and more.
‘I had no idea you worked for Joel Davenport,’ Philip remarked as they began their meal. ‘You can’t have been at Yeatman Trading long or I’m sure I’d have heard.’
That surprised her. Then she wondered if it should have. Being a business rival, would Joel know the name of Philip’s PA? Very probably he did, she mused.
‘I’ve worked for Joel for almost two months now,’ she saw no harm in admitting.
‘You changed jobs around the same time you moved into your new flat,’ Philip documented. ‘How do you find working for Davenport? Is he—?’
‘Hmm, I’m sorry, Philip, would you mind very much if neither of us talked about our work?’
He stared at her, plainly liked what he saw, and agreed. ‘It’s a pact. Business if off the agenda. But—’ he smiled ‘—you can tell Davenport from me that he’s a lucky devil, able to look at you every day. Now, tell me how you’re settling in to your new flat?’
During their second course Chesnie learned that Philip had been married and divorced. That didn’t worry her—who hadn’t? She was growing to like him very much, even though she knew that it would never be more than that. He was amusing, and had just said something that made her laugh when, glancing from him, laughter still on her curving lips, she was startled to find she was looking into the steel-blue eyes of someone several tables away. The glint in those eyes warned her she was in trouble over something.
With a coolness she was suddenly far from feeling Chesnie turned back to her dinner companion. She offered some light comment, she knew not what, her mind busy with the fact that Joel Davenport had flown back from Scotland and all too plainly, if her answers at the job interview meant anything, fully expected her to still be slaving away at the office.
It annoyed her that he should think she had fallen down on the job. And that annoyance caused her to smile more, perhaps laugh a little more, at Philip’s amusingly light conversation than she would otherwise.
At any rate Philip seemed pleased, and she didn’t give a button what Davenport thought. She knew what he didn’t—that she was going home to do his work so he should have it on his desk for eight in the morning. So he could go and take a running jump.
‘More coffee?’ Philip asked.
‘No, thank you,’ she refused pleasantly. ‘It’s been a super evening, but…’
‘But you’re a working girl?’
‘Something like that,’ she answered with a smile, and smiled again when, having to pass Davenport’s table—curse it—Philip civilly paused to say hello.
‘Pomeroy,’ Joel acknowledged, getting to his feet. ‘Chesnie.’ He included her, and introduced his sultry, if terrific-looking companion. ‘Do you know Imogen?’
Brief introductions followed, where Joel did not mention that Chesnie was his PA and that he was saving a few short and sharp words for her. After the way she slaved for him! Let him try! Then she and Philip were moving on.
Philip came to the outer door of her apartment building with her. ‘I hope you’re going to allow me to see you again, Chesnie?’ he asked.
She liked him, he was good company—and she had an idea it annoyed Joel Davenport that she went out with the opposition. ‘I’d like that,’ she answered. But, thinking he might have this coming Saturday in mind, added, ‘I’ll give you my phone number. Perhaps next week some time?’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he said, and when he had her phone number he leaned forward. Though, perhaps sensing her instant withdrawal, he satisfied himself to kiss her cheek, and stood back to wait while she went indoors.
Despite the fact that her home had been cobbled together with pieces of furniture given to her by her parents, grandparents and her sisters, and the few additions she had contributed herself, Chesnie had to admit everything blended in well to give her apartment a very homely feel.
But there was no time to make herself comfortable in it now. Time only to rinse her hands and head for that tiny second bedroom now laughingly called a study.
She had been at work for forty-five minutes when someone rang the outer buzzer. Philip? Why would he come back? She left her work and went into her small hall to take up the telephone that was connected to the outer front door.
‘Who is it?’ she enquired, and felt faintly staggered at the reply she received.
‘Davenport,’ he informed her crisply.
Davenport! Surely he hadn’t left the lovely Imogen to have those few short and sharp words with his PA that had been brewing? At this hour? She didn’t believe it—though he wasn’t sounding too affable.
‘You’d better come up!’ she replied, equally crisply, while wondering—had she done anything that could be called grounds for dismissal? She didn’t think so, and surely Joel Davenport wouldn’t call at her home to sack her! Or would he?
She stayed in the hall to wait the minute or so it would take him to reach her door, and mentally braced herself for whatever he had called to see her about. At his first ring she had the door open. For several seconds, like warring adversaries, they stood coldly eyeing each other. He was the first to speak.
‘You’re still dressed!’ he stated hostilely, his glance going over her black dress, drawn for a second to the delicate contours of her cleavage, which had never before been on view.
Feeling very much like holding her hands protectively in front of her bosom, Chesnie instead turned from him. ‘Come in,’ she invited, and led the way into her sitting room, realising that it would have been just the same to him if she had gone to bed—he would still have rung her apartment buzzer.
In her sitting room she turned to face him. But before she could ask him why he had called, he was telling her, ‘You knew I needed that paperwork for the morning!’ Clearly he had stopped by the office from the airport and discovered that the paperwork he’d ordered wasn’t locked away in his drawer. ‘Yet you deliberately—’ He began to sort her out. But she’d had enough before he started.
‘I’m glad you called,’ she cut in calmly, inwardly boiling. ‘There are one or two queries I need your help with. If you’re not too tired after your busy day, I wonder if you’d help me?’ He was looking at her with narrowed eyes, as if wondering what her game was. Oh, joy; oh, bliss. ‘Have you a moment to come to my study?’ Study? Pretentious or what? ‘I’m working on your paperwork now.’
There was a definite glint in his eyes now, she saw. He had called looking for a fight. She had disarmed him—and he didn’t like it. Tough.
Whether he was impressed or not that she’d had no intention of letting him down, she had no idea. But he followed her to her ‘study’, where she had already printed off some of the matter she had typed.
Swiftly he dealt with the queries which she had been going to make a note of, but from the unsmiling look of him she suspected he didn’t care at all to have his cause for righteous anger taken away from him, and was still looking for a fight.
‘Naturally, I intend to have everything completed and on your desk by eight in the morning.’ She nicely rubbed it in.
A hostile look was the thanks she received for her trouble. She was almost purring as they left her workroom and she accompanied him out to the hall. He soon put an end to any lofty feelings, however.
Joel Davenport had his hand on the door latch when he looked down on her from his superior height, paused, and then commented shortly, ‘After our discussion yesterday, I hardly expected you to be out with Pomeroy tonight!’
What discussion was that? Her memory of it was that Joel had enlightened her to the fact that Philip Pomeroy was head of the opposition. And she felt incensed again that Davenport, for a second time, felt he had to remind her of the confidentiality of her position!
‘Do you honestly believe that Philip would have telephoned me at the office and told you who he was if he was after sensitive information from me?’ she flared. And, her cool image suddenly in tatters around her, ‘Do you honestly think, when I’ve worked for you for almost two months now, that I would part with any information, confidential or otherwise?’ she erupted—and came the closest yet to setting about him when, infuriatingly, he stared at her, seemed again to enjoy seeing her lose her cool front, and then had the sheer audacity—to smile!
‘It seems a shame that, because of pressure of work, you sent him from your first date without even a goodnight kiss,’ he commented charmingly.
Oh, to kick his shin! Chesnie strove hard for control. ‘It rather looks as if you’re going to bed kissless too,’ she answered sweetly—and was on the receiving end of a look that very clearly stated ‘Fat chance’. Though he made no comment with regard to whether the delectable Imogen was waiting for him somewhere.
Instead, he opened the door, and was on his way out when he bade her silkily, ‘Don’t work too late.’
Chesnie glared at his departing back. Pig!
CHAPTER THREE
OVER the month that followed Chesnie grew more and more comfortable with her job, and now found the work well within her capabilities. It was hard work, many late evenings, and once, when there had been a big boardroom pow-wow, she had worked a whole weekend. But she loved it, thrived on it, and couldn’t think of ever doing anything else. It was as though she had found her niche in life, as though working for Joel was what she was meant to be doing.
Ever since that night when he had called at her flat and found, contrary to his expectations, that she had not fallen down on the job and that his paperwork would be ready for him for the next day, as required, they had settled down to a good, mutually respectful, harmonious working relationship.
Since that night too, the night she had given Philip Pomeroy her home number, Philip had made frequent use of it—but had not again telephoned her at her office. She sometimes went out with him, but he knew by then—or she hoped he did—that she was only interested in being friends. True, he always kissed her cheek on parting—but friends did that sort of thing. She was seeing Philip again tomorrow evening.
But Philip Pomeroy was far from her thoughts that Friday morning when the phone on her desk suddenly called for attention. ‘Joel Davenport’s office,’ she answered automatically.
‘That has to be the delightful Chesnie,’ said a mature voice she took a moment or two to place.
‘Magnus!’ she exclaimed, a smile in her voice. ‘I’m afraid Joel’s out for the rest of the morning, and part of this afternoon. Did you want him for anything in particular? Or is there something I can help you with?’
‘I haven’t had a chat to you in a long while,’ he replied.
That was true. It must be all of five, maybe six weeks since she’d taken Joel’s father to lunch. ‘How are you?’ she asked, sensing he wanted to chat a little.
Several seconds of silence met her enquiry, then, his voice sounding frail and elderly all of a sudden, he answered at last. ‘To tell you the truth, Chesnie, there have been days when I’ve felt better.’
‘You’re unwell?’ she questioned, starting to feel worried. From his earlier bright tone—clearly a front—he had gone to sound alarmingly shaky.
‘I’ll—be all right,’ he replied bravely.
That wasn’t good enough. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’ she asked, not feeling at all as calm as she was pretending to be.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he repeated, which she took to mean that he hadn’t.
‘Do you think you should?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, which she just knew meant he had no intention of seeing a doctor.
‘Do you have anybody with you?’ she asked.
‘Who wants to keep company with an old codger like me?’ he answered, plainly not feeling his best.
Chesnie chatted to him for about another five minutes, trying to find out what the exact trouble was. He wasn’t saying. She gave up when she realised it might be something he was a little embarrassed about.
She was still feeling worried when Magnus rang off. It could be something; it could be nothing. She knew where she could contact Joel—but what if it was nothing? What would Joel do, anyway? Leave his meeting to go and check on his father? From what she’d gleaned, Joel wasn’t over-struck on his father anyhow.
For the next half-hour thoughts of Magnus Davenport being unwell and on his own chewed at her. It was a quarter to one when she couldn’t stand it any longer. She liked him. She decided to contact the switchboard, ask them to take messages for her and go for an early lunch. She had his card somewhere—she’d drive over to see him.
It took her three quarters of an hour to get to Magnus Davenport’s address, and, having pulled up at the very nice-looking house, Chesnie hoped he would be fit enough to come to the door. It might be that he hadn’t moved from where he’d been sitting when he had telephoned her.
She was, she discovered, wrong in a lot of her assumptions. Her ring at the doorbell was answered immediately, and, standing there smiling, Magnus Davenport looked as sprightly as ever.
She opened her mouth—he spoke first. ‘I thought you’d never get here!’ he exclaimed cheerfully.
He had been expecting her? ‘You’re—not ill?’ she questioned. He looked and sounded in the best of health!
‘I’m lonely,’ he answered.
And Chesnie just stared at him. There was nothing wrong with him, and she was going to have to work late tonight to make up for her earlier lack of concentration and the time she’d taken out when she should have been working. ‘You want me to take you to lunch?’ she guessed—he was dressed as smart as new paint.
‘I’ve had a few winners lately.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll pay.’
She wanted to be cross with him—he had conned her into driving to see him. But how could she be cross? He was grinning like a mischievous schoolboy, and had admitted to being lonely.
He was his usual indiscreet chatty self over lunch, with tales that most often began with, ‘When Dorothea threw me out…’ This way Chesnie learned he had been on his uppers with nowhere to go when Joel had come to the rescue and had bought him his house. Joel, it seemed, also gave him a monthly allowance.
‘I’d rather have had a lump sum, but Joel said I’d be bound to spend it all in one go on the gee-gees. He knows me too well,’ Magnus complained wryly. ‘Arlene Yeatman’s still after him, I suppose?’
Arlene Enderby, née Yeatman. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘She was after him even before she ditched her husband and got her divorce. She—’
‘I don’t think you should tell me…’
‘Not you as well!’ He laughed. ‘Dorothea always used to accuse me of being worse than some gossipy old washerwoman.’
Chesnie smiled a gentle smile. ‘You still care for her, don’t you?’
‘Dorothea? Adore the old battleaxe,’ he admitted, and Chesnie’s smile turned into a laugh. He really was incorrigible.
She was very late getting back to her office. It had gone three when she hurried in—Lord knew what time she’d be working until that night. And Joel was back, the door between the two offices open.
First dropping her bag down on her desk, she went in to see him. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she apologised, out of courtesy. ‘I hope you didn’t need me for anything?’
‘Been shopping?’ he enquired mildly, his glance going over her sage-green short-jacketed suit, its just-above-the-knee skirt showing the long, slender length of her legs and trim ankles.
‘I’ve been out to lunch,’ she answered.
‘The time you put in you’re entitled to more than an extended lunch,’ he replied, and she knew she was right; their working relationship really was harmonious. Or she’d thought she was right, until all at once his relaxed manner vanished and, ‘Who with?’ he demanded.
