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‘What was this “domestic” matter?’ he went on, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘Couldn’t you get him to leave?’
Emmie lost it. ‘Don’t judge me by your own criteria!’ she flew. Oh, grief, he looked ready to throttle her. All too obviously he hadn’t cared for that. She wanted to back down, wanted to regret her words—but she found she couldn’t. Oh, what was the matter with her? She had pushed her luck yesterday, and the day before—she couldn’t hope to be so lucky again, and she needed this job! ‘Er—has Dawn gone for an early lunch?’ She attempted to cool both her temper and his. Fat chance!
‘I’ve given her the day off!’ he gritted. ‘When she, despite how off-colour she’s feeling, managed to get to a phone—’ sarcastic swine! ‘—I decided we’d cope without her.’
Bully for you! Emmie, hoping, since she was still there, that she hadn’t received her marching orders, offered, ‘I’ll make up my time off. I’ll work late tonight and—’
‘You’re damned right you will,’ Barden cut in bluntly. ‘I want those minutes finished and in my hands before this day is over!’
Emmie stared at him. He had to be joking! Pride—she guessed that was what it was—wouldn’t allow her to tell him she couldn’t do it. She was supposed to be cooking a meal for Adrian Payne that night. ‘Do I take it that you’ll be staying late too?’ she enquired, as evenly as she could.
He smiled then, an insincere smile. And she, who had never hated anyone in her life, well and truly hated Barden Cunningham then. She hated him particularly when, his tone again silky, he replied, ‘No way. I was here before seven this morning. I’m just about to leave for a weekend party.’
Fuming, while trying to hold her temper down, Emmie stared belligerently at him. ‘You’re saying that you want me to cancel my date tonight, to work until I’m ready to drop, in order to lock those minutes away in a drawer for your attention on Monday?’
He didn’t smile, but his tone stayed pleasant as he admonished, ‘You weren’t listening, Emily. I said I want those completed minutes in my hands today.’
‘But—but you’re going—er—partying!’
‘True,’ he answered, and, reaching for a sheet of office stationery, swiftly wrote down an address and some directions. ‘I don’t doubt the party will still be thrashing gone midnight. I’m sure you won’t mind dropping off the minutes on your way home.’
Emmie took the paper from him and stared at it. Then, her eyes widening, she stared at him. The address—Neville and Roberta Short’s address—lay in an entirely different direction from where she lived. And she was positive the vile Cunningham knew it! She flicked her glance past him to the window, where the first flakes of snow had started to fall. A glance back at her employer showed he’d followed her eyes.
He looked back to her—and smiled. Then she hated him afresh! He knew full well that she would be slaving away until at least eight o’clock that night. And after that it would take her an hour to drive to his lady-love’s home!
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