Lovestruck

The morning after... About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

The morning after...

When Natalie had first begun working for Sam Erskine, he had tried to date her and she had turned him down cold. Sam had accepted that—Natalie was far too good at her job for him to risk seducing her.

But when Sam, a little worse for wear, proposed to Natalie at a party, she decided to play him along and pretend she believed that he meant it. The next morning, Sam had a giant headache; the last thing he wanted to be was engaged! Natalie wasn’t herself, either. However, this dizzy, weak feeling she got whenever Sam was near was no hangover—she was lovestruck!

CHARLOTTE LAMB was born in London, England, in time for World War II, and spent most of the war moving from relative to relative to escape bombing. Educated at a convent, she married a journalist and now has five children. The family lives on the Isle of Man. Charlotte Lamb has written over a hundred books for Harlequin Presents.

Lovestruck

Charlotte Lamb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

NATALIE walked in through the swing doors to find the reception lobby already crowded. Waiting fans buzzed with interest, staring at her slender figure, smooth dark hair and quiet, restrained clothes before deciding she was nobody famous or important and taking no more notice of her. They were mostly hanging around to catch one of the radio station’s biggest stars, Johnny Linklater, whose blown-up, grainy photograph stared down from the -walls on either side of the reception desk.

A tall, rangy, carelessly graceful man in his midthirties, Johnny had a charm that hid a multitude of sins. His fans were oblivious of his flaws, of course; for them Johnny was perfect.

They should have seen him last night! thought Natalie, signing in for work. He had been incandescent, knee-deep in pretty girls, looking terrific in black leather jeans and matching knee-length boots, a scarlet silk shirt open at his tanned neck. Pure Hollywood. But all that glitter hadn’t hidden from those who knew him really well a hectic desire to forget that the party celebrated his birthday, a day Johnny always dreaded.

Its arrival meant that another year had flashed past and he was one more year further on towards middle age. His birthday parties were acts of defiance. Behind his brilliant smile and light-hearted charm, Johnny was desperate, terrified of getting old, and although he could sometimes be irritating Natalie could forgive him a great deal for that secret vulnerability. It made him so much more human.

‘Lovely morning out there, Susie,’ Natalie said, exchanging smiles with the girl sitting behind the reception desk, a pretty blonde of about twenty, with round, saucer-like hazel eyes, who had only been working there for a few months and was still unable to believe her luck in getting the job. Natalie could remember how that felt. She, herself, had been over the moon at getting a job at the radio station when she’d started, but that had been three years ago; she was no longer starry-eyed these days—she had discovered that stars were just human beings under all the glitter.

Checking the time Natalie had written beside her name, Susie looked at her watch, then said, in disbelief, ‘You’re late!’

‘So I am,’ Natalie said cheerfully, amused by Susie’s incredulity. Okay, she was normally one of the first to arrive, but why shouldn’t she be late once in a blue moon? Nobody was perfect.

Adding two and two and reaching the obvious conclusion, Susie enviously asked, ‘Good party last night?’

Natalie’s blue eyes gleamed with reminiscence. ‘I had a lot of fun, thank you.’

‘Who with? Not Johnny?’ Susie at once asked, eyes brimming with curiosity, but Natalie was not being drawn.

Laughing, she walked off to the lifts, knowing that Susie would soon hear about it; the news would be all round the radio station in an hour or two. Gossip spread like wildfire here, and a lot of the staff had been at Johnny Linklater’s party last night. He had invited everyone who worked on his show, from the production staff to the girls in the programme office, as well as all the executives, including the head of the station, Sam Erskine, and Natalie, who was Sam’s secretary.

Once the others got to work this morning they would talk of nothing else, but Natalie had no intention of joining in. Discretion was an important part of her job; she knew a lot of secrets and never let a single one slip. She would never have held down her job so long otherwise.

Her office was on the top floor with a view across the town to the sea. A hush hung over the entire corridor this morning, although normally phones were ringing and voices arguing from one end to the other. Most people on this executive floor had been at the party and would still be struggling in to work.

As she’d expected there was no sign of her boss yet, although Sam Erskine was usually there when she arrived each morning; he seemed to come to work at crack of dawn. He worked a twelve-hour day five days a week, and often on Saturdays, too, and he expected his secretary to work almost as hard—to get there early and go home late, like himself. This morning, though, she had been certain he would be late. He must have the hangover of the century, and serve him right.

Natalie began her usual morning routine at once: switched on her word processor, collected the mail from the in-tray, where it had been delivered by the boy from the mail room, and began opening letters, reading through them, sorting them into various piles in order of importance and urgency. The telephone began to ring a few minutes later and the fax machine chattered away from time to time.

The calls were all for her boss, of course; she scribbled messages on her pad, answered questions, fielded enquiries deftly without admitting that Sam wasn’t yet at work. He expected the utmost discretion from her and she knew he would not want anyone to know he was in late that morning.

At a quarter past ten Natalie got a call from a friend in the advertising department who hadn’t been at the party last night. Gaynor’s voice was breathless with excitement.

‘Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’ hedged Natalie, although she knew exactly what Gaynor was talking about and couldn’t help smiling. But as Gaynor couldn’t see her that didn’t matter.

‘Oh, come off it, Nat, you know what I’m talking about...the party last night? I just saw Johnny’s producer, and she told me Sam had...’

Natalie heard a sound outside her office and hurriedly said, ‘Sorry, Gaynor, somebody coming in...can’t talk now, see you later.’

She hung up, but it wasn’t Sam, it was only one of the producers, who hurried in asking urgently, ‘Where’s Sam?’

‘He isn’t around at the moment, Red,’ fenced Natalie.

‘Hangover?’ She should have remembered that James Moor had been at the party last night. He was not much taller than she was, a cheerful, energy-burning man in his early thirties, with eyes the colour of chestnuts and a shock of bright red hair, hence his nickname.

She shrugged, not answering.

‘Poor Sam. I wonder how much he remembers?’ Red said, grinning at her. ‘Well, get him to give me a buzz, will you, when he does show?’

He had no sooner gone than the phone began to ring again. Natalie glanced at her watch. It was half-past ten now, but Sam still hadn’t shown up. Was he coming in to work at all today? Or was he hiding under his duvet wondering how to get himself out of trouble?

‘Mr Erskine’s office,’ Natalie said, picking up the receiver, and heard a high-pitched female voice she instantly recognised.

‘I want to talk to him!’ it shrilled.

I bet you do, thought Natalie, but said in a blank, polite voice, ‘I’m sorry, he isn’t in the office at the moment. Can I take a message?’

Furiously, the voice shrieked, ‘You mean he doesn’t want to talk to me!’

‘Who shall I tell him called?’ Natalie said in her creamiest tone, smiling to herself as she pictured the other woman’s expression. Helen West was a singer, a vibrant redhead, whose career had never quite got anywhere but who always behaved as if she were a big star. She had a temper as hot as her hair.

‘You know damned well who it is!’ Helen West yelled. ‘And you can tell him from me he isn’t getting out of it by hiding behind you. He’s going to regret doing this to me! And so are you—don’t worry!’

The phone slammed down and Natalie winced. Replacing the receiver, she looked at the clock. Twenty to eleven—where was he? Probably Helen West was right and Sam was hiding. From both of them. As well he might!

But he had a couple of really important appointments—he would have to show up sooner or later. Unless he had fled the country? No, he wouldn’t do that. He would be here sooner or later.

She couldn’t wait.

On going to bed the night before, Sam Erskine had automatically set his alarm for seven o’clock, as usual, but had slept through the peremptory ringing, which had finally died away leaving him to sleep on and on. It was well after ten when he finally stirred and turned over, yawning.

Opening one eye, he hurriedly shut it again as light blazed into it. ‘Ohhhh...’ he groaned, putting a hand to his thudding head.

After a moment he cautiously opened his eye again and looked at the clock, letting out a grunt of disbelief—what on earth was he doing, still in bed at this hour? It wasn’t Sunday, was it? Warily he opened his other eye and sat up, groaning again as the movement increased the thudding in his head; he felt as if someone was heating a gong inside his scalp, sending shock waves through the rest of him.

Vague memories of the night before slowly began to come back. Of course. The party. Johnny’s party. It must have been quite a night. Thank heavens Johnny only had a birthday once a year; too many parties like that could be life-destroying.

Pushing back the bedclothes, Sam swung his long legs out of bed and stood up, a hand over his dazzled eyes. Why was the sunlight so bright this morning? Why couldn’t it have been one of those dark and rainy days, when the sky was like old grey flannel and there was barely enough light to see by?

Naked, he walked across the room to the bathroom. Sam never wore pyjamas; he preferred to sleep naked, especially in summer. It saved on washing. He paid a cleaner to come in once a week to clean his flat but she did not do his washing; Sam had to do it himself.

He had a routine of stuffing his dirty clothes into the washing machine every Saturday and ironing them on Sunday afternoons while he listened to rival radio stations and got ideas from any programmes he enjoyed, or made derisive notes on what he considered their failures. He quite enjoyed the hours he spent that way; he had come to like ironing, it was a soothingly boring occupation, kept his hands busy and left his mind available for a free-flow of ideas. Some of his best projects had come out of an afternoon ironing.

After turning on the shower he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and saw uneasiness in his grey eyes, but couldn’t think why it should be there. What was preying on his subconscious? He knew something was—if only he could remember what!

He hadn’t crashed his car, had he? Hit someone? He stepped under the shower and gave a yelp of shock as his warm flesh came into contact with the cool jets of water.

At least this should wake him up! He showered rapidly, checking himself as he did—but there were no marks on his strong, angular face or the lean, muscular body below it. If there had been a fight he had not been injured in any way.

Maybe it was the other guy who had come off badly? he thought, grinning, not displeased with that idea. He hoped it hadn’t been Johnny—the last thing he needed was a feud with his top star. But Johnny wasn’t the fighting type. He was too afraid of damage to his face.

Something had happened, though. He just knew it. Ever since he woke up something had been hovering at the back of his mind just out of sight, never going away but never letting him see it clearly.

What on earth was it?

As he towelled himself, and dressed in a red-striped shirt and dark grey suit, he chased the memory. Something had definitely happened last night and Sam couldn’t shake off a growing uneasiness. Knotting his dark red silk tie, he stared into the dressing table mirror, not seeing himself at all, calling up memories of the party.

He had taken a taxi, which had stopped to pick up Helen who had been wearing pleated black satin which left a lot of her visible—bare white shoulders, half her high, creamy breasts, all her arms and even some of her thighs, glimpsed through slits in the long skirt.

She had looked sensational, and when Johnny had met them at his front door, he had gazed, open-mouthed. ‘Wow, you sexy thing!’ he’d breathed, arms flung wide. ‘Give me a kiss!’

Johnny had been lit up, the life and soul of the party, as always, loving being the centre of attention, and Helen hadn’t exactly struggled to escape his clutches.

She had been in one of her moods last night. All the way to the party she had been coaxing and badgering Sam on the usual subject. They had been arguing about it for weeks. Helen wanted to get married. Sam didn’t.

He had good reasons for not wanting to get married. He had explained them all over again, he had been patience itself—but Helen had refused to accept them. In fact, she’d refused to listen at all. By the time they’d got to the party she’d been in a sulky, glowering mood.

She had given him a defiant look as she’d put both arms round Johnny’s neck and dehberately leaned her sexy little body against him.

She hoped to make him jealous, he’d realised, watching her wryly. Well, she wasn’t going to win at that game, he remembered thinking. He wasn’t the jealous type. If she wanted to flirt with Johnny, let her. So he had wandered off to get a drink from the bar, leaving them together. Let them get on with it!

Bad move! he thought now, running a brush over his thick black hair. He shouldn’t have started drinking so early. He rarely drank much; it slowed the responses, made thinking difficult, and Sam needed his brain in good working order all the time. His job required it; you couldn’t run a radio station part-time—you had to be on the ball twenty-four hours a day because you never knew when a problem might come up. It was different for the broadcasters themselves; when they had finished their show they came off air and could go home and do as they pleased—they worked a fixed number of hours a day. Lucky old them.

If he hadn’t started drinking as soon as he’d arrived he wouldn’t have this headache now!

As he put his hairbrush down on the dressing table he stopped, staring at his hand fixedly. His signet ring was missing.

His heart thudded in shock. He almost never took it off. But maybe he had taken it off in the shower? He didn’t remember doing it—why should he have done? But he hurried back to the bathroom and looked everywhere. No sign of the ring there.

Returning to his bedroom, he searched that, growing increasingly worried, but he didn’t find the ring anywhere. He had worn it to the party, hadn’t he? He must have done. He never took it off. It was very old and immensely valuable. Of massive gold, it bore his family crest. Sam was very proud of it and had worn it day and night since he first inherited it.

The Erskines were an old family from the Strathclyde area of Scotland; their surname was believed to be the Celtic word for a green hill and their crest represented that.

The shield it bore was divided into four, with the symbol for a green hill in two opposing sections while the other two carried a broken sword, no doubt because they had been a war-like collection, his ancestors, always fighting, although why the sword in their shield was broken Sam had no idea.

The ring had been in Sam’s family for generations. It was always given to the eldest son on his twenty-first birthday, but in Sam’s case his father had been dead by then and the ring had been kept locked in a bank vault for some years. The ring had been handed over during Sam’s birthday party, by his mother. Sam could remember the weight of it as it first slid onto his finger; it had been far too big, and he had had to have it altered to fit, but he had felt far more than the weight of the ring that evening.

His mother had wept. ‘His finger was much bigger than yours.’ She still mourned his father, who had been a massive man, six feet six and broad of shoulders, deep of chest, with large, powerful hands. Sam had been scared of him but had loved him very much; he still missed his father, too.

Jack Erskine had died in the Himalayas during a British climbing expedition; the weather had turned against them overnight, arctic conditions had driven them back down the mountain and in a blizzard Jack had missed his footing and fallen to his death.

Sam had been sixteen, too old to cry; if he had cried he might not have taken the shock so hard. The bruise of it was still buried deep inside his mind. Putting on his father’s ring had been a terrifying experience.

He had felt the weight of his entire family as he’d put on the ring—aware of his mother, watching him with pride and sadness, aware of his two younger sisters, Jeanie, who was ten, and eight-year-old Marie, all of them now his responsibility, which he knew already wasn’t going to be an easy one. He had been aware, too, of the other Erskine eyes watching him. Dozens of relatives had been at his twenty-first party—and beyond them Sam had felt the centuries of family history stretching back to the fifteenth century, when their branch of the Erskines had first appeared.

He felt their shadowy presence now and shivered. If he had lost the ring, his mother, the family, would never forgive him—he would never forgive himself. It was priceless and irreplaceable. His finger felt bare without it.

He must have lost it at Johnny’s party—but how? Maybe Johnny had found it by now. Sam walked over to the phone, which was still switched onto the answering machine. He flicked the switch to play back any calls and Helen’s voice shrieked.

‘I hate you. Do you hear? I’ll never forgive you. Never.’

The machine clicked off. Sam put a hand to his head, flinching. There was a whirring noise and Helen’s voice shrieked again.

‘I suppose you thought that was really clever, didn’t you? You did it to make me look stupid. Well, you’re going to look pretty stupid when I’ve finished with you. I’m going to make you wish you were dead.’

Sam already wished he was dead. His head was hammering and his mouth was as dry as a desert.

Another whirr, then Helen’s voice began again. Sam couldn’t stand any more; he switched the recording off and hurriedly dialled Johnny’s number, but got no reply. Johnny was probably fast asleep and would be for most of the day. Heaven only knew what time he had got to sleep last night.

Sam decided to try again later. Without bothering to have any breakfast, he left his top-floor flat in an apartment block on the promenade, with its breathtaking view of the coast, took the lift down to the underground car park, climbed into his little red MG, which he loved passionately, and drove off to work.

He needed some black coffee before he could think clearly; he would get Natalie to make him some when he got to the office. A frown pulled his black brows together. Natalie. Now why had her name given him another stab of uneasiness?

What had happened last night?

Fishing dark glasses out of his glove compartment, he drove along the promenade and up the short hill on which the radio station sat. The drive only took a few minutes. Sam often walked it, but today he wasn’t up to the walk. Parking behind the building, he walked in through Reception, past the hovering mob of Johnny’s fans.

The girl behind the desk gave him a lopsided, excited grin as soon as he came through the doors. ‘Good morning, Mr Erskine! How are you this morning?’

Why was she smiling like that? Sam gave her a curt nod. ‘Fine, thanks.’ Stupid girl—what was so funny? That he was late for once? That he was wearing dark glasses? Okay, he had a hangover. So what?

‘Cong...’ she began, but he was already out of earshot, striding to the lift, passing a couple of secretaries who were chattering to each other on their way through the lobby. As they saw Sam they stopped talking quickly, only to begin giggling.

‘Good morning, Mr Erskine,’ they chanted as he strode past, and he got two more of those knowing, grinning looks.

He was glad to get into the lift and have the doors close on them all. When he got to his office he must ring Johnny first, and if there was no reply send someone over to wake him up, put him under a shower, sober him up and get him here in time for his show at noon. Dead or alive, Johnny had to do his show.

Sam walked into his office and found Natalie just placing a pile of opened letters on his desk.

She looked round, her sleek dark hair falling against her cheek, her blue eyes faintly amused, which irritated him. This morning Natalie was as cool and elegant and together as ever. No hangover for Natalie, who only drank orange juice or mineral water, or a single glass of white wine, or champagne on very special occasions.

‘No morning after the night before for you, I suppose?’ Sam muttered. ‘You’re too perfect to live.’ It annoyed him just to look at her; she wasn’t human—had she no ordinary weaknesses? He wished she had his head this morning. She should have agony stabbing away inside her temples.

She merely smiled. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Black,’ he said. He caught the sideways lift of her brows and added, ‘Please,’ knowing what that silent glance meant.

They had been working together for a long time. She knew him very well. Too well, he thought, glowering. What was she looking at him like that for?

Natalie went out and Sam absently watched her go. She was a slender girl, who wore much the same outfit every day: a white shirt, with small, pearly buttons, tucked into a smooth-fitting skirt—a black one today—discreet, demure, the hem just around the knee. She was only five feet four or so—a good eight inches shorter than Sam. Her legs were worth looking at—he looked at them until she vanished. There was something about the way she moved that had always got his attention. Beautifully shaped ankles, too. There wasn’t much of her, but what there was Sam found very pleasurable to look at. Pity she was one of the touch-me-not brigade. He had never yet managed to get her closer than a foot or so away, let alone into his bed.

Sam sat down behind his desk to check on the pile of telephone messages, the neat pile of faxes. He read quickly, absorbing them all, and had finished by the time Natalie came back with the black coffee. She hadn’t reached his desk when the door crashed open and Helen erupted into the room, her red hair windblown, her green eyes Hashing.

‘Oh, so you are here! I knew she was lying!’ she yelled, then glared at Natalie. ‘I knew you were lying! You’ve never fooled me. I knew what you were after all along, with your sweet pussycat smiles and your demure office kit—the perfect secretary, ha ha. The minute I set eyes on you I knew the sort of operator you are!’

Natalie took no notice of her at all. She quietly moved to put Sam’s cup of coffee on his desk, but Helen tried to charge past her and knocked the cup flying, splashing everything within reach with scalding black coffee.

Some of it went over Sam, some of it over Natalie; Helen got splashed herself and that seemed to send her into a positive frenzy.