“You’re my boss.”

“Not anymore,” Conrad said with a satisfaction that started Sephy’s heart thumping.

There was suddenly no doubt in Sephy’s mind. He was propositioning her. “What…what are you saying exactly?” she asked at last.

“I want you, Sephy. I want you very badly. Is that clear enough? I would like to start seeing you—out of work. You’ve got under my skin in a way I can’t explain.”

“You are talking about a cheap affair, aren’t you?” she said quietly.

“No, I am not.”

HELEN BROOKS lives in Northamptonshire, England, and is married with three children. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife and mother, her spare time is at a premium, but her hobbies include reading, swimming, gardening and walking her two energetic, inquisitive and very endearing young dogs. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty, and sent the result off to Harlequin.

The Mistress Contract
Helen Brooks

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘ME?’ SEPHY stared at Mrs Williams—the company secretary’s assistant—in horror, her velvet-brown eyes opening wide as she said again, ‘Me? Stand in for Mr Quentin’s secretary? I don’t think I could, Pat. I mean—’

‘Of course you could,’ Pat Williams interrupted briskly, her sharp voice, which matched her sharp face and thin, angular body, signalling that the matter was not open for discussion. ‘You’re as bright as a button, Seraphina, even if you do insist on hiding your light under a bushel most of the time, and after six years at Quentin Dynamics you know as much as me about the firm and its operating procedures. More, probably, after working for Mr Harper in Customer Support and Service for four years.’

Sephy smiled weakly. The Customer Support and Services department was, by its very nature, a fast-moving and hectic environment within Quentin Dynamics, and in her position as assistant to Mr Harper—who was small and plump and genial, but the sort of boss who arrived late, left early and had three-hour lunch breaks most days—she was used to dealing with the hundred and one panics that erupted daily on her own initiative. But Mr Harper and Customer Service was one thing; Conrad Quentin, the millionaire entrepreneur and tycoon founder of the firm, was quite another!

Sephy took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea, Pat. I’m sorry, but I’m sure there must be someone else more suitable? What about Jenny Brown, Mr Eddleston’s secretary? Or Suzy Dodds? Or…or you?’

The other woman waved a dismissive bony hand. ‘Those two girls would last ten minutes with Mr Quentin and you know it, and with the end of year accounts to pull together I can’t desert Mr Meadows. No, you’re ideal. You know the ins and outs of the business, you’ve got a level head on your shoulders, and you’re used to dealing with awkward customers every day of the week so Mr Quentin won’t throw you. We can get a good temp to fill in for you until Mr Quentin’s secretary is back—’

‘Can’t Mr Quentin have the good temp?’ Sephy interjected desperately.

‘He’d eat her alive!’ Pat’s beady black eyes held Sephy’s golden-brown ones. ‘You know how impatient he is. He hasn’t got time for someone who doesn’t know the ropes, besides which he expects his secretary to practically live here, and most girls have got—’ She stopped abruptly, suddenly aware she was being tactless as Sephy’s small heart-shaped face flushed hotly.

‘Most girls have got boyfriends or husbands or whatever,’ Sephy finished flatly.

Sephy had never hidden the fact that she rarely dated and that her social diary wasn’t exactly the most riveting reading, but it wasn’t particularly warming to think that Pat Williams—along with everyone else, most probably—thought she had nothing better to do than work twenty-four hours a day.

‘Well, yes,’ Pat murmured uncomfortably.

‘What about Marilyn?’

‘Tried her first, lasted an hour.’

‘Philippa?’

‘Howled her eyes out in the ladies’ cloakroom all lunchtime and has gone home with a migraine,’ Pat said triumphantly. ‘She’s not used to men snapping and snarling at her like Mr Quentin did.’

Sephy thought of the beautiful ash-blonde who was the marketing manager’s secretary, and who had different men in flash, expensive sports cars waiting outside the building for her every night of the week and nodded. ‘No, I can imagine,’ she agreed drily. ‘And you think I am, is that it?’

‘Seraphina, please. Try it for this afternoon at least.’ In spite of the ‘please’ it was more of an order than a request, and Sephy stared at the other woman exasperatedly.

Pat Williams was the only person she knew—apart from her mother—who insisted on giving her her full Christian name when she knew full well Sephy loathed it, but it went with the brusque, army-style manner of the company secretary’s assistant, and the utilitarian haircut and severely practical clothes.

For her first two years at Quentin Dynamics, Sephy—along with the other secretaries and personnel of the hugely successful software firm that majored in specialist packages for different types of companies—had thoroughly disliked Pat Williams, but there had come a day when she and the other woman had been working late and she had found Pat in the ladies’ cloakroom in tears.

All Pat’s defences had been down, and when Sephy had discovered her history—an upbringing in a children’s home where she’d met the husband she adored, only for him to develop multiple sclerosis just after they married, which now confined him to a wheelchair and made Pat the bread-winner—her friendship with the older woman had begun.

And it was that which made Sephy sigh loudly, narrow her eyes and nod her dark head resignedly. ‘One afternoon,’ she agreed quietly. ‘But I can’t see me lasting any better than the others, Pat. It’s a well-known fact Madge Watkins is so devoted to him she puts up with anything, and she’s been his secretary for decades! How can anyone step into her shoes?’

‘She’s been his secretary for thirteen years,’ Pat corrected cheerfully, allowing herself a smile now Sephy had agreed to help her out of what had become a very tight spot. ‘And I’m not asking you to step into her shoes; they wouldn’t fit you.’

They both thought of the elderly spinster, who looked like a tiny shrivelled up prune but was excellent at her job, and absolutely ruthless when it came to ensuring that her esteemed boss’s life ran like clockwork with lesser mortals kept very firmly in their place. ‘How long is she expected to be in hospital?’ Sephy asked flatly.

‘Not sure.’ Pat eyed her carefully. ‘She was rushed in in the middle of the night with stomach pains and they’re talking about doing an exploratory op today or tomorrow.’

Wonderful. Sephy sighed long and loudly and left it to Pat to inform Ted Harper that his secretary and right-hand man—or woman, in this case—had been commandeered for the foreseeable future. He wouldn’t like it—he might have to start working for that sizeable salary he picked up each month—but he wouldn’t argue. Everyone fell down and worshipped at the feet of the illustrious head of Quentin Dynamics, and it wouldn’t occur to any of Conrad Quentin’s staff to deny him anything, Sephy thought wryly.

Not that she had had anything to do with him, to be fair, but it was common knowledge that thirteen years ago, at the age of twenty-five, Conrad Quentin had had a meteoric rise in the business world, and his power and wealth were legendary. As was his taste for beautiful women. He was the original love ’em and leave ’em type, but, judging by the number of times his picture appeared in the paper with a different glittering female hanging adoringly on his arm at some spectacular function or other, one had to assume his attraction outshone his reputation.

Or perhaps the sort of women Conrad Quentin chose thought they were beautiful and desirable enough to tame the wolf? Sephy’s clear brow wrinkled. Maybe they even relished the challenge? Whatever, in spite of his well-publicised affairs over the years, with some of the precious darlings of the jet-set, no one had managed to snare him yet.

Oh, what was she doing wasting time thinking about Mr Quentin’s love-life? Sephy shook herself irritably and then quickly fixed her face in a purposely blank expression as Pat sailed out of Ted Harper’s office and said cheerfully, ‘Right, that’s settled, then. I’ve told him I’ll get a temp here for tomorrow morning and he can manage for one afternoon. Are you ready?’

For Conrad Quentin? Absolutely not. ‘Yes, I’m ready,’ Sephy said, with what she considered admirable calm in the circumstances, resisting the temptation to nip to the ladies’ cloakroom. All the titivating in the world wouldn’t make any difference to the medium height, gentle-eyed, dark-haired girl who would stare back at her from the long rectangular mirror above the three basins.

She wasn’t plain, she knew that, but she was…nondescript, she admitted silently as she followed Pat out of the office and along the corridor towards the lift for the exalted top floor. Her honey-brown eyes, shoulder-length thick brown hair and small neat nose were all pleasant, but unremarkable, and to cap it all she had an abundance of freckles scattered across her smooth, creamy skin that made her look heaps younger than her twenty-six years.

‘Here we are, then.’ They had emerged from the lift and Pat was being deliberately hearty as she led Sephy past her own office and that of the company secretary and financial director. Conrad Quentin’s vast suite took up all the rest of the top floor, and to say the opulence was intimidating was putting it mildly. ‘Your home from home for the next little while.’

‘I said an afternoon, Pat,’ Sephy hissed quietly as the other woman opened the door in front of them. Sephy had visited the top floor a few times—rapid calls which had lasted as long as the delivery of files or whatever had necessitated—and she found the lavish surroundings somewhat surreal. ‘He’s bound to treat me the same as the rest.’

‘And how, exactly, did I treat the rest, Miss…?’

Sephy heard Pat’s sudden intake of breath, but all her senses were focused on the tall, dark man who had obviously been about to leave the room when they had opened the door. She had spoken to Conrad Quentin a few times in the six years she had been working at the firm—brief, polite words at the obligatory Christmas party and on the rare occasions their paths had crossed in the lift—but she had always been overcome with nerves at the prospect of saying the wrong thing and had escaped at the earliest opportunity. But now she certainly had said the wrong thing, and there was no retreat possible.

She stared desperately into the hard, chiselled face; the piercing blue of his eyes threw his tanned skin into even more prominence, picking up the ebony sheen in his jet-black hair, and she saw his straight black eyebrows were lifted in mockingly cruel enquiry.

And it did something to her, causing anger to slice through her body and tighten her stomach, and before she knew she had spoken she said, her voice tight and very controlled, ‘You know that better than me, Mr Quentin,’ and held his glance.

Pat looked as if she was going to faint at the side of her, and for the first time ever Sephy heard the company secretary’s cool dragon of a secretary babbling as she said, ‘This is Seraphina, Mr Quentin, from Customer Services. She’s been with us six years and I thought she would be suitable for temporarily standing in for Miss Watkins. Of course, if you think—’

The man in front of them raised an authoritative hand and immediately Pat’s voice was cut off. ‘You think I treat my staff unfairly, Seraphina?’ he asked silkily.

All sorts of things were racing through Sephy’s frantic mind. She couldn’t believe she had spoken to Conrad Quentin like that, and her heart was pounding like a drum even as tiny pinpricks of sheer, unmitigated panic hit every nerve and sinew. This could be the end of her extremely well-paid and interesting job. And the end of her job could threaten the new flat she had just moved into, the flat it had taken so long to find. And if she left with a black mark over her, if he refused to allow Mr Harper to give her a good reference, how soon could she get other work?

Conrad Quentin was the ultimate in ruthlessness—everyone, everyone knew that—and people didn’t talk back to him! People didn’t even breathe without his say-so. She must have had a brainstorm; it was the only explanation. Maybe if she grovelled low enough he’d overlook the matter?

And then something in the icy sapphire gaze told her he knew exactly what she was thinking and that he was fully expecting her to abase herself.

In the split second it took for the decision to be made Sephy heard herself saying, ‘If everything I have heard is true it would appear so, Mr Quentin, but not having worked for you personally I can’t be positive, of course.’ And she raised her small chin a notch higher as she waited for the storm to break over her head.

As he stared at her she was aware that the hard, masculine face—which just missed being handsome and instead held a magnetic attractiveness that was a thousand times more compelling than any pretty-boy good looks—was betraying nothing of what he was feeling. It was unnerving. Very unnerving. And she would dare bet her life he was fully aware of just that very thing.

‘Then we had better rectify that small point so that you can make a judgement based on fact rather than hearsay,’ he said smoothly, inclining his head towards Pat as he added, ‘Thank you, Pat. I’m sure Seraphina is capable of managing on her own.’ The tone was not complimentary.

‘Yes, of course. I was just going to show her where everything is…the filing cabinets and so on… But, yes, of course…’ Pat had backed out of the doorway as she had spoken, her one glance at Sephy saying quite clearly, You rather than me, kid, but you asked for it! before she shut the door behind her, leaving Sephy standing in front of the brilliant and eminent head of Quentin Dynamics.

He was very tall. The observation came from nowhere and it didn’t help Sephy’s confidence. And big—muscle-type big—with a leanness that suggested regular workouts and a passion for fitness.

‘So you have worked for Quentin Dynamics for six years?’

His voice was deep, with an edge of huskiness that took it out of the ordinary and into the unforgettable. Sephy took several steadying breaths until she was sure her voice was under control, and then she said quietly, ‘Yes, that’s right. That’s one of the reasons Pat thought you would prefer me to a temp.’

‘I don’t use temps.’

The laser-blue eyes hadn’t left hers for a moment, and Sephy was finding it incredibly difficult not to give in to the temptation to drop her gaze. ‘Oh…’ She didn’t know what else to say.

‘My secretary always aligns her holidays with mine and she is rarely ill,’ he continued coolly. ‘It doesn’t fit in with my schedule.’

The sweeping pretension brought her thickly lashed eyes widening, before she saw the mocking glint in his own and said weakly, ‘You’re joking.’

‘Many a true word is spoken in jest, Seraphina.’

They were standing in the outer office, part of which was kitted out as a small reception area. Deep easy seats were clustered around a couple of wood tables laden with glossy magazines, to the side of which were lush potted palms and a water chiller. Now he turned and walked past the sitting area to where his secretary’s huge desk and chair stood, just in front of the interconnecting door to his office.

There was a row of superior filing cabinets in an alcove at the back of the desk, and he flicked one tanned wrist as he passed, saying, ‘Acquaint yourself with those immediately. The more confidential files are kept in my office, along with data and documents relating to my other interests outside Quentin Dynamics. There are two sets of keys.’ He turned in the doorway to his rooms and again the blue gaze raked her face with its cold perusal. ‘I have one set and Miss Watkins has the other. Hopefully it will not be necessary to retrieve those from her; I am anticipating she will soon be back at her desk again.’

Not as much as she was, Sephy thought with a faint touch of hysteria. Suddenly Mr Harper and her battered little desk in Customer Services took on the poignancy of an oasis in the desert and she felt positively homesick.

Mr Harper might be work-shy and somewhat somnolent most of the time, and his personal hygiene was distinctly iffy on occasion, but he was rotund and genial and utterly devoted to his wife and children, and their ever-expanding family of grandchildren.

Conrad Quentin, on the other hand, was like a brilliant black star that kept all the lesser planets orbiting it in a perpetual state of fermenting unrest. It wasn’t just the knowledge that he was a multimillionaire with a well-deserved reputation for ruthless arrogance, who demanded one hundred per cent commitment from his employees—it was him, the man himself. The harsh, flagrantly male features and muscular physique had a sensualness about them that was overwhelming.

His virile maleness was emphasised rather than concealed by the wildly expensive clothes he wore, and the unmistakable aura of wealth and power was so real she could taste it. He was everything she disliked in a man.

Still, she didn’t have to like him, she reminded herself sharply, as she became aware he was waiting for her reply. She managed a careful, impersonal smile and said politely, ‘I’m sure she will, Mr Quentin.’ No, she didn’t have to like him, and with any luck the resilient Madge, who was about four-foot-ten and looked as if a breath of wind would blow her away but must have the toughness of a pair of old boots to have lasted this long with her high-powered, vigorous boss, would be back at her desk within the week.

Not that she had much chance of lasting a week—half a day would be doing pretty good, Sephy thought ruefully.

He nodded abruptly, closing the interconnecting door as he said, ‘Twenty minutes, Seraphina, and then I’d like you in here with the Breedon file, the Einhorn file and notebook and pencil.’

Pat, Pat, Pat… As the door closed Sephy leant limply against Madge’s desk for a moment. How could you blackmail me with friendship into this position?

And then she straightened sharply as the door opened again and he poked his head round to say, ‘Why haven’t I seen you before if you’ve worked here for six years?’ as though she had purposely been hiding in a cupboard all that time.

It was on the tip of her tongue to answer tartly, Because I’m not a model-type femme fatale with long blonde hair and the sort of figure that drives men wild—the type of woman Conrad Quentin usually went for if the newspaper pictures were to be believed—but a very ordinary, brown-haired, brown-eyed, slightly plump little nobody. But she felt that would be pushing her luck too far. Instead she gritted her teeth, forced a smile, and said quietly, ‘You have seen me, Mr Quentin. We have spoken on at least two or three occasions.’

‘Have we?’ He frowned darkly. ‘I don’t remember.’

He clearly considered it her fault, and she was prompted to retort, with an asperity it was difficult to temper, ‘There’s no reason why you should, is there? You’re a very busy man, after all.’ He was often abroad on business, and Quentin Dynamics was only one of his many enterprises, all of which seemed to have the Midas touch, and it was to this Sephy referred as she added quickly, ‘You can’t know everyone who works for you, and the way you’ve expanded over the years…’

‘I trust that is a reference to my business acumen and not my waistline?’ And he smiled. Just a quick flash of white teeth as he closed the door again, but it was enough to leave her standing in stunned silence for some long moments. The difference it had made to his hard cold face, the way his piercing blue eyes had crinkled and mellowed and his uncompromising jawline softened, had been…well, devastating, she admitted unsteadily. And it bothered her more than anything else that had happened that day.

But she couldn’t think of it now. She seized on the thought like a lifeline and took a deep, shuddering breath as she glanced towards the filing cabinets. She was here to stand in for the formidable Madge and she had to make some sort of reasonable stab at it. She had been used to looking after Mr Harper for four years and virtually carrying that office at times; she could do this. She could.

Twenty minutes later to the dot she knocked at the interconnecting door, the files and her notebook and pencil tucked under one arm.

She wished she had worn something newer and smarter than the plain white blouse and straight black skirt she had pulled on that morning, but it was too late now. They were serviceable enough, but distinctly utilitarian, and because she had overslept she hadn’t bothered to put her hair up, as normal, or apply any eye make-up.

Oh, stop fussing! The admonition came just as she heard the deep ‘Come in’ from inside the room. Conrad Quentin wouldn’t be looking at her, Sephy Vincent. He wanted an efficient working machine, and as long as she met that criterion all would be well.

She opened the door and walked briskly into the vast expanse in front of her. The far wall of the room, in front of which Conrad Quentin had his enormous desk and chair, was all glass. Before she reached the chair he gestured at, Sephy was conscious of a breathtaking view of half of London coupled with a spacious luxury that made Mr Harper’s little office seem like a broom cupboard.

‘Sit down, Seraphina.’

That was the fourth or fifth time; she’d have to say something. ‘It’s Sephy, actually,’ she said steadily as she sat in the plushly upholstered armless chair in front of the walnut desk, crossing her legs and then forcing herself to look at him. ‘I never use my full name.’

‘Why not?’ He had been sitting bent over piles of papers he’d been scrutinising, but now he raised his head and sat back in the enormous leather chair, clasping his hands behind his head as he surveyed her through narrowed blue eyes. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

The pose had brought powerful chest muscles into play beneath the thin grey silk of the shirt he was wearing, and at some time in the last twenty minutes he had loosened his tie and undone the top buttons of his shirt, exposing the shadow of dark body hair at the base of his throat.

Sephy cleared her dry throat. ‘It doesn’t suit me. Even my mother had to agree she’d made a mistake, but I was born on the twelfth of March, and on the calendar of saints Seraphina is the only woman for that day.’

He said nothing, merely shifted position slightly in the black chair, and now she was horrified to find herself beginning to waffle as she said, ‘Mind, it could have been worse. There’s a Gertrude and a Euphemia in the next few days, so perhaps I ought to be thankful for small mercies. But Seraphina suggests an ethereal, will-o’-the-wisp type creature, and I’m certainly not that.’

He leant forward again, the glittering sapphire gaze moving over her creamy skin, soft mouth and wide honey-brown eyes, and he stared at her a moment before he said, his tone expressionless, ‘I think Seraphina suits you and I certainly don’t intend to call you by such a ridiculous abbreviation as Sephy. It’s the sort of name one would bestow on a pet poodle. Have you a second Christian name?’

‘No.’ It was something of a snap.

‘Pity,’ he said laconically.

She didn’t believe this. How dared he ride roughshod over her wishes? she asked herself silently. She was searching her mind for an adequately curt response when he switched to sharp business mode, his eyes turning to the papers spread out over his desk as he said, his tone keen and focused, ‘How familiar are you with the Einhorn project?’

As luck would have it she had been dealing with the problems associated with this particular package over the last weeks, and she had just spent ten of the last twenty minutes delving into the file to see if there were any confidential complications Customer Services hadn’t been privy to. ‘Quite familiar,’ she answered smartly.

‘Really?’ He raised his dark head and the hard sapphire gaze homed in. ‘Tell me what you know.’

She considered for a moment or two, trying to pull her thoughts into concise order, and then spoke quietly and fluently as she outlined what had been a disastrous endeavour from the start, due to a series of mistakes which Sephy felt could be laid fair and square at Quentin Dynamics’ door.

He looked down at his desk as she began talking, a frown creasing his brow as he listened intently without glancing at her once. As she finished speaking the frown became a quizzical ruffle, and he raised his head and said, ‘Brains and beauty! Well, well, well. Have I found myself a treasure, here?’ And then, before she could respond in any way, ‘So, you think we should take the full hit on this? Reimburse for engineering call-out charges as well as a free upgrade for the software?’

It probably wasn’t very clever to tell him his company had made a sow’s ear out of what should have been a silk purse within the first half an hour of working with him, but Sephy took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘Yes, I do.’

‘And Mr Ransome’s report, that recommends we merely reduce the cost for the new software?’

Mr Ransome was trying to cover his own shortcomings with regard to the whole sorry mess, but Sephy didn’t feel she could be that blunt.

She didn’t answer immediately, and the blue eyes narrowed before she said quietly, ‘He’s wrong, in my opinion, and although the firm might save a good deal of money in the short term, I don’t think it will do Quentin Dynamics’ reputation any good in the long term.’

He gave her a long hard look. ‘Right. And you think that is important?’

‘Very.’ Now it was her turn to hold his eyes. ‘Don’t you?’

He folded his arms over his chest, settling back in his seat again as he surveyed her thoughtfully. The white sunlight streaming in through the plate glass at the back of him was picking up what was almost a blue sheen in his jetblack hair, and Sephy was aware of the unusual thickness of the black lashes shading the vivid blue eyes as she looked back at him.

He had something. The thought popped into her consciousness with a nervous quiver. Male magnetism; a dark fascination; good old-fashioned sex appeal—call it what you will, it was there and it was powerful. Oh, boy, was it powerful!

‘Yes, I do,’ he said quietly. He stared at her a moment more and then snapped forward, speaking swiftly and softly as he outlined various procedures he wanted put into place. ‘Internal memos to Customer Services, Marketing and Research,’ he added shortly. ‘You can see to those, I presume? And a letter to Einhorn stating what we have decided. And I want a complete breakdown from Accounts of all costs.’

‘You want me to write the memos and the letter?’ Sephy asked quickly as he paused for breath.

‘Certainly.’ The piercing gaze flashed upwards from the papers on the desk. ‘That’s not a problem, is it? I need my secretary to work on her own initiative most of the time, once I’ve made any overall decisions. I can’t be bothered with trivialities.’

Sephy nodded somewhat dazedly. She could see Madge earnt every penny of her salary.

He continued to fire instructions and brief guidelines on a whole host of matters for some few minutes more, and by the time Sephy rose to walk back to Madge’s desk she felt as though she had been run over by a steamroller.

She had enough work to last her two or three days and she had only been in there a matter of minutes, she told herself weakly as she plopped down on her chair. He was amazing. Intelligent—acutely intelligent—and with a razor-sharp grasp of what was at the heart of any matter that cut straight through incidentals and exposed the kernel in the nut.

And he scared her to death.

She worked solidly for the rest of the afternoon, her fingers flying over the keys of the word processor as the pile of papers for signature grew. Apart from telephone calls and a brief stop for coffee—delivered on a silver tray from the small canteen at the basement of the building by one of the staff and drunk at her desk—she didn’t raise her head from the screen, and it came as something of a shock when she glanced at her wristwatch just after half past five.

She quickly gathered up all the correspondence awaiting signature and knocked at the interconnecting door, hearing the deep ‘Come in’ as butterflies began to flutter in her stomach.

He glanced up from his hand-held dictating machine as she entered, his expression preoccupied. He had been running his hand through his hair, if the ruffled black crop was anything to go by, and the tie had gone altogether now, along with a couple more buttons being undone, which exposed a V of tanned flesh and dark curling body hair.

The butterflies joined together in an explosive tarantella, and Sephy forced herself to concentrate very hard on a point just over his left shoulder as she smiled brightly and walked across to his desk. ‘Correspondence for signature,’ she squeaked, clearing her throat before adding, ‘The post goes at six, so if you could look at them now, please? I didn’t realise what the time was.’

He glanced at the gold Rolex on his wrist. ‘Hell!’

‘What’s the matter?’ Sephy asked guardedly.

‘I’ve a dinner engagement at seven,’ he muttered abstractedly. ‘Look, ring her, would you? Explain about Madge, and that things are out of kilter here, and say I’ll be half an hour late. She won’t like it—’ he grimaced slightly ‘—but don’t stand any nonsense.’

‘Ring who?’

‘What?’ He clearly expected her to be a mind-reader, as no doubt the faithful Madge was. ‘Oh, Caroline de Menthe; the number’s in here.’

He threw the obligatory little black book which he’d fetched out of a drawer across the desk.

‘Right.’ She took a deep breath and let it out evenly. She had heard of Caroline de Menthe. Everyone in the world had heard of the statuesque French model, who had the body of a goddess and the face of an angel and who was the toast of London and every other capital city besides. And she was his date. Of course she was. She was the latest prize on the circuit so she’d be bound to be, wouldn’t she? Sephy thought with a shrewishness that surprised her.

Once back at her desk she thumbed through the book, trying to ignore the reams of female names, and then, once she had found Caroline de Menthe, dialled the London number—there were several international numbers under the same name. She spoke politely into the receiver when she got through to the Savoy switchboard.

It was a moment or two before Reception connected her, and then a sultry, heavily accented voice said lazily, ‘Caroline de Menthe.’

‘Good afternoon, Miss de Menthe,’ Sephy said quickly. ‘Mr Quentin has asked me to call you to say he is sorry but he’ll be half an hour late this evening. His secretary has been taken ill and he is running a little behind schedule. He will pick you up at about half past seven if that is all right?’

‘And you are what? An office girl?’ The seductive sultriness was gone; the other woman’s tone was distinctly vinegary now.

‘I am standing in for Mr Quentin’s secretary,’ Sephy stated quietly, forcing herself not to react to the overt rudeness.

There was a moment’s silence, and then the model said curtly, ‘Tell Mr Quentin I will be waiting for him,’ and the phone went dead.

Charming. Sephy stared at the receiver in her hand for a moment before slowly replacing it. Caroline de Menthe might be beautiful and famous and have the world at her feet, but she didn’t have the manners of an alley cat. She glanced at the interconnecting door as she wrinkled her small nose. And that was the sort of woman he liked? Still, it was absolutely nothing to do with her. She was just his temporary secretary—very temporary.

The telephone rang, cutting off further deliberations, and when she realised it was the hospital asking for Mr Quentin she put the call through to him immediately.

It was a minute or two before the call ended and he buzzed her at once. She opened the door to see him sitting back in his chair with a stunned look on his dark face. ‘It’s cancer,’ he said slowly. ‘The poor old girl’s got cancer.’

‘Oh, no. Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Sephy said helplessly. He looked poleaxed and positively grey, and she was amazed how much he obviously cared.

‘They think it’s operable and that she’ll be okay in the long run, but it’ll be a long job,’ he said flatly, after taking a hard pull of air. And then he made Sephy jump a mile as he drove his fist down on to the desk with enough force to make the papers rise an inch or two. ‘Damn stupid woman,’ he ground out through clenched teeth. ‘Why didn’t she say something? The consultant said she must have been in pain for some weeks.’

‘She probably thought it was viral, something like that,’ Sephy pointed out sensibly. ‘No one likes to think the worst.’

‘Spare me the benefit of inane female logic,’ he bit back with cutting coldness.

She swallowed hard. Okay, so he was obviously upset about Madge, and she would ignore his rudeness this time, but if he thought she was going to be a doormat he’d got another think coming! She wouldn’t take that from anyone.

‘Hell!’ It was an angry bark. ‘This is going to hit her hard. Her job is her life, it’s what makes her tick, and she’s been with me from the start. She’ll hate the idea of being laid low, and she’s got no friends, just a sister somewhere or other.’

Sephy remained silent. This was awful for Madge, and difficult for him, but once bitten, twice shy. She was saying nothing.

‘So…’ He rose from the desk and turned to the window so his back was towards her. ‘She’s covered by the company’s private health plan, but make sure she’s in the best room available; any additional costs will be covered by me personally. And send her some flowers and chocolates and a selection of magazines. Is there anything else you, as another woman, would think she’d like?’ he asked, turning to face her with characteristic abruptness.

She stared at him. ‘A visit?’ she suggested pointedly.

His eyes narrowed into blue slits and he was grimly silent for a full ten seconds before he said expressionlessly, ‘I don’t like hospitals,’ as though that was the end of the matter.

‘If she’s as lacking in friends as you said she’d still like a visit,’ Sephy said stolidly. ‘She must be feeling very vulnerable tonight, and probably a bit frightened.’

She saw his square jaw move as his teeth clenched hard and then he sighed irritably, a scowl crossing his harsh attractive face. ‘She’s probably exhausted right now,’ he snapped tightly. ‘It doesn’t have to be tonight, does it?’

Sephy thought of the ravishing Caroline de Menthe waiting at the Savoy and smiled sweetly. ‘That’s up to you, of course, but a little bit of reassurance at a time like this goes a long way,’ she said with saccharine gentleness.

She gathered up the pile of correspondence, now duly signed, as she spoke, and then felt awful about the covert bitchiness when he said, his tone distracted, ‘That’s excellent work by the way, Seraphina. I trust you’ve no objection to standing in for Madge for the next few weeks?’

She hesitated for a moment, his big, broad-shouldered body and rugged face swimming into focus as she raised her head from the papers in her hands, and then, as he raised enquiring black eyebrows she forced herself to smile coolly. ‘Of course not,’ she lied with careful composure. ‘If you think I’m up to the job, that is.’

‘I don’t think there is any doubt about that,’ he returned drily, the deep-blue eyes which resembled a cold summer sea watching her intently. ‘No doubt at all.’

And this time he didn’t smile.

CHAPTER TWO

QUENTIN DYNAMICS occupied a smart, four-storey building in Islington and Sephy’s new flat was just a ten-minute walk away, which was wonderful after years of battling on the train from Twickenham.

The late September evening was mellow and balmy as she trod the crowded London pavements, and the chairs and tables outside most of the pubs and cafés were full as Londoners enjoyed an alfresco drink in the Indian summer the country was enjoying.

Everyone seemed relaxed and easy now the working day was finished, but Sephy was conscious that she felt somewhat stunned as she walked along in the warm, traffic-scented air, and more tired than she had felt in a long, long time.

Mind you, that wasn’t surprising, she reassured herself silently in the next moment. She always worked hard—as Mr Harper’s secretary she was used to working on her own initiative and dealing with one panic after another most days—but being around Conrad Quentin was something else again! The man wasn’t human—he was a machine that consumed facts and figures with spectacular single-mindedness and with a swiftness that was frightening.

No wonder he had risen so dramatically fast to the top of his field, she thought ruefully as she neared the row of shops over which her flat—and ten others—were situated. Other men might have his astute business sense and brilliance, but they were lacking the almost monomaniacal drive of the head of Quentin Dynamics.

Was he like that in all areas of his life? A sudden picture of Caroline de Menthe was there on the screen on her mind, along with the long list of women’s names in the little black book he had tossed to her. It was an answer in itself and it made Sephy go hot inside.

He would be an incredible lover; of course he would! He had lush beauties absolutely panting after him, and inevitably they were reduced to purring pussycats by the magnetism that surrounded him like a dark aura, if all the society photographs and office gossip were anything to go by.

He was king of the small kingdom he had created, an invincible being who had only to click his fingers to see his minions falling over themselves to please him. And he knew it.

She didn’t know why it bothered her so much but it did. Sephy was frowning as she delved in her shoulder bag for her keys to unlock the outside door, behind which were stairs leading to the front door of her flat, and the frown deepened as she heard Jerry’s voice call her name.

Jerry was the young owner of the menswear shop, and nice enough, even good-looking in a floppy-haired kind of way, but although Sephy liked him she knew she could never think of him in a romantic sense. He was too…boyish.

Jerry, on the other hand, seemed determined to pursue her, even after she had told him—politely but firmly—that there was no chance of a date. It made her feel uncomfortable, even guilty, when he was so likeable and friendly, as though she was smacking down a big amiable puppy with dirty feet who wanted to play.

She raised her eyes, her hand still in her bag, and turned her head to see Jerry just behind her, the very epitome of public school Britain in his immaculate flannels and well-pressed shirt.

‘Just wanted to remind you about Maisie’s party tonight,’ he said earnestly. ‘You hadn’t forgotten?’

She had. Maisie occupied the flat two doors along, above her own boutique, and her psychedelic hair—dyed several vivid colours and gelled to stick up in dangerous-looking spikes—and enthusiastic body-piercing hid a very intelligent and shrewd mind. And Maisie’s parties were legendary. The trouble was—Sephy’s eyes narrowed just the slightest as her mind raced—Maisie and all of Jerry’s other friends knew how he felt about her and, ever since she had moved into the flat, some eight weeks ago, had been trying to pair them off.

She had just opened her mouth to give voice to the weakest excuse of all—a blinding headache, which had every likelihood of being perfectly true the way her head was thumping after the hectic day—when a deep cold voice cut through the balmy evening air like a knife through butter.

‘It would have been quicker to walk here with this damn traffic.’

‘Mr Quentin!’ She had whirled right round to face the road at the sound of his voice and her heart seemed to stop, and then race on like a greyhound.

Conrad Quentin was sitting at the wheel of a silver Mercedes, the driver’s window down and his arm resting on the ledge as he surveyed her lazily from narrowed blue eyes in the fading light. The big beautiful car, the dark, brooding quality of its inhabitant and the utter surprise of it all robbed Sephy of all coherent thought, and it was a few moments before the mocking sapphire gaze told her she was looking at him with her mouth open.

She shut her lips so suddenly her teeth jarred, and then made a superhuman effort to pull herself together as she muttered in a soft aside to Jerry, ‘It’s my boss from work,’ before walking quickly across the pavement to the side of the waiting vehicle.

‘One set of keys.’ He spoke before she could say anything. ‘I noticed them on the floor as I was leaving and thought they might be important?’ he added quietly as he handed her the keyring.

She stared at the keys for a moment before raising her burning face to his cool perusal. Her flat keys, the keys to her mother’s house and car, as well as those for Mr Harper’s office and the filing cabinets. What must he be thinking? she asked herself hotly. It wasn’t exactly reassuring to think one’s temporary secretary was in the habit of mislaying such items. Ex-temporary secretary!

‘I dropped my bag earlier.’ It was a monotone, but all she could manage. ‘They must have fallen out.’

‘Undoubtedly.’ It was very dry.

‘Tha…thank you.’ Oh, don’t stutter! Whatever else, don’t stutter, she told herself heatedly.

‘My pleasure.’ He eyed her sardonically.

‘It was when the fax from Einhorn came through,’ she said quickly. ‘I knew you were waiting for it and I knocked my bag off the desk as I went to reach for it. I must have missed the keys…’ Her voice trailed away weakly. It could have been his keys she’d dropped, the keys to his confidential papers and so on, if he had retrieved Madge’s set. Which he hadn’t yet. And when he did, he was hardly likely to give them to her now, was he? she belaboured herself miserably. He must think she was a featherbrain! And she’d never done anything like this with Mr Harper.

‘No one is perfect, Seraphina.’ And then he further surprised her when he added, the brilliant blue eyes holding hers, ‘It’s a relief, actually. I was beginning to think I’d have my work cut out to keep up with you.’

Her mouth was open again but she couldn’t help it.

‘So…’ His dark husky voice was soft and low. ‘Is that the boyfriend?’ The blue eyes looked past her and they were mocking.

‘What?’ She was still recovering from being let off the hook.

‘The guy who is glaring at me.’ It was a slow, amused drawl. ‘Is he your boyfriend?’

Belatedly she remembered Jerry, and as she turned her head, following the direction of Conrad Quentin’s eyes, she saw Jerry was indeed glaring. ‘No, no of course not,’ she said distractedly. ‘He’s just a neighbour, a friend.’

The black eyebrows went a notch higher. ‘Really?’ It was cryptic.

‘Yes, really,’ she snapped back, before she remembered this was Conrad Quentin she was talking to. ‘He…he owns the shop below my flat,’ she said more circumspectly. ‘That’s all.’ And then she added, as the vivid blue gaze became distinctly uncomfortable, ‘Thank you so much for bringing the keys, and I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble.’

‘How sorry?’ he asked smoothly.

‘What?’ It was becoming a habit, this ‘what?’, but then she might have known he wouldn’t react like ninety-nine per cent of people would to her gracious little speech, she told herself silently.

‘I said, how sorry?’ he drawled lazily, the sapphire eyes as sharp as blue glass. ‘Sorry enough to accompany me to the hospital tonight?’

She almost said ‘The hospital?’ before she managed to bite back the fatuous words and say instead, ‘Why would you want me to do that, Mr Quentin?’ with some modicum of composure.

‘I told you, I don’t like hospitals,’ he said easily as he settled back in the leather seat. ‘Besides, I’m sure Madge would feel more comfortable with another woman around.’

‘I thought you had a date for tonight? I’m sure Miss de Menthe would be pleased to accompany you.’ She hadn’t meant to say it but it had just sort of popped out on its own.

‘Caroline is not the sort of woman you take to the hospital to visit your aged secretary,’ he said drily.

No, she’d just bet she wasn’t! Sephy thought nastily. No doubt he had something else entirely in mind for the voluptuous model.

‘But of course if you have other plans…’

She stared at him, her mind racing. If she stayed at home she would have to go to the party, and that would mean a night of further embarrassment with Jerry, because one thing was for sure—he’d made up his mind he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Which would have been nice and flattering if she’d even the slightest inkling of ever fancying him. As it was…

‘When are you thinking of going?’ she asked carefully, her voice low.

‘Now seems as good a time as any.’ And then he smiled slowly, a fascinatingly breath-stopping smile, as he added, ‘Does that mean you are considering taking pity on me?’

Sephy stood as though glued to the hot pavement and swallowed twice before she managed to say, ‘I’ll have to go and change first. I’ll be about five minutes?’

‘Fine.’ He glanced over her shoulder. ‘The guy who isn’t the boyfriend looks like he wants a word with you,’ he drawled laconically before the sapphire gaze homed in again on her warm face.

‘Yes, right…’ She was backing away as she spoke, suddenly overwhelmed by what she had agreed to.

She must be mad, she told herself silently as she walked back to Jerry, who was waiting in the doorway of his shop, his pleasant, attractive face straight and his brown eyes fixed on her face. If it was a choice of an evening fending off Jerry as kindly as she could or choosing to spend an hour or so in Conrad Quentin’s company there was no contest! The amiable puppy had it every time. But it was too late now.

‘You told me your boss was small and fat and had eight grandchildren,’ Jerry accused her as she reached his side.

‘He is and he does,’ Sephy said weakly. ‘That’s the owner of the business, Mr Quentin, and I’m standing in for his secretary for a while. There…there’s an emergency and I’ve got to go with him.’ She was terribly conscious of the parked car behind them.

‘Now?’ Jerry made no effort to lower his voice.

‘I’m afraid so.’ She nodded firmly and inserted the key in the lock as she added, ‘So it looks like the party is off for me, Jerry. Make my apologies to Maisie, would you? Tell her I’ll see her at the weekend. For a coffee or something.’

‘How long do you think you will be?’ He was nothing if not hopeful, his voice holding a pleading note which increased her guilt.

‘Ages,’ she answered briskly as the door swung wide. ‘Bye, Jerry.’ This was definitely a case of being cruel to be kind.

She ran quickly up the stairs to the flat, but once inside in the small neat hall she stopped still, staring at her reflection in the charming antique mirror her mother had bought her for a housewarming present.

Anxious honey-brown eyes stared back at her, and it was their expression she answered as she said, ‘You might well be worried! As though working with him isn’t bad enough you have to agree to go with him tonight.’ He obviously wouldn’t have dreamt asking the beautiful Caroline to do anything so mundane, but Sephy Vincent? Well, she was just part of the office machine, there to serve and obey. She grimaced at her reflection irritably.

What had he said? Oh, yes—Caroline de Menthe was not the sort of woman you took to a hospital to visit your secretary. She—clearly—was. Which said it all, really.

The soft liquid eyes narrowed and hardened and her mouth became tight. Okay, so she wasn’t an oil painting and she never would be, and she could do with losing a few pounds too, but no one had ever suggested she walk round with a paper bag over her head! And Jerry fancied her.

The last thought brought her back to earth with a bump. What was she doing feeling sorry for herself? she asked the dark-haired girl in the mirror with something akin to amazement in her face now. This wasn’t like her. But then she hadn’t felt like herself all afternoon if it came to it. It was him, Conrad Quentin. He was…disturbing. And he was also waiting outside, she reminded herself sharply, diving through to the bedroom in the same instant.

She threw off her crumpled work clothes and grabbed a pretty knee-length flowered skirt she had bought the week before, teaming it with a little white top and matching waist-length cardigan. She didn’t have time to shower, she decided feverishly, but she quickly bundled her hair in a high knot on top of her head, teasing her fringe and several tendrils loose, and then applied a touch of eyeshadow and a layer of mascara to widen her eyes.

The whole procedure had taken no more than five minutes and she was out in the street again in six, to find him lying back indolently in the seat with his eyes shut and his hands behind his head as he listened to Frank Sinatra singing about doing it his way.

Very appropriate, she thought a trifle caustically. If only half the stories about Conrad Quentin were true he certainly lived his life by that principle.

His eyes opened as she reached the car and he straightened, glancing at his watch as he murmured, ‘When you say five minutes you really mean five minutes, don’t you?’ before leaning across and opening the passenger door for her to slide in.

‘You find that surprising?’ she asked unevenly as the closeness of him registered and all her senses went into hyperdrive.

‘For a woman to say what she means?’ He half turned in his seat, the brilliant blue gaze raking her hot face. ‘More of a minor miracle,’ he drawled cynically, one black eyebrow quirking mockingly as he started the engine.

Sephy would have liked to come back with a sharp, clever retort, but the truth of the matter was that she was floundering. She’d never ridden in a Mercedes before for a start, and the big beautiful car was truly gorgeous, but it was the man at the wheel who was really taking her breath away.

The office—with plenty of air space, not to mention desks, chairs and all the other paraphernalia—was one thing; the close confines of the car were quite another. They emphasised his dominating masculinity a hundredfold, and underlined the dark, dangerous quality of his attractiveness enough to have her sitting as rigid as a piece of wood.

She tried telling herself she was stupid and pathetic and ridiculous, but with the faint smell of his aftershave teasing her senses and his body warmth all about her it didn’t do any good. This was Conrad Quentin—Conrad Quentin—and she still couldn’t quite believe the whole afternoon had happened, or that she was actually sitting here with him like this.

She felt a momentary thrill that she didn’t understand and that was entirely inappropriate in the circumstances, and reminded herself—sharply now—that she had to keep her wits about her after the episode of the keys if he wasn’t going to think she was utterly dense. She was a useful office item as far as he was concerned—like the fax or the computer—and he expected cool, efficient service.

He was a very exacting employer, and it was well known that he suffered fools badly—in fact he didn’t suffer them at all! And that was fair enough, she told herself silently, when you considered he paid top salaries with manifold perks like private health insurance and so on.

He was the original work hard and play hard business tycoon, and until today she had never so much as exchanged more than half a dozen words with him, so it wasn’t surprising she was feeling a bit…tense. Well, more than a bit, she admitted ruefully.

And then, as though he had read her mind, she was conscious of the hard profile turning her way for an instant before he said softly, ‘Relax, Seraphina. I’m not going to eat you.’

Her head shot round, but he was looking straight ahead at the road again and the imperturbable face was expressionless.

It took her a second or two, but then she was able to say, her voice verging on the icy, ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Quentin,’ even as she knew her face was burning with hot colour.

‘The suggestion that you accompany me to the hospital was purely spontaneous,’ he said mildly, without looking at her again. ‘I’m not about to leap on you and have my wicked way, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘Nothing is worrying me,’ she bit back immediately, horrified beyond measure, ‘and I wouldn’t dream of thinking you intended…that you would even think of—’ She stopped abruptly, aware that she was about to burst into flames, and took a deep breath before she said, ‘I’m quite sure you are not that sort of man, Mr Quentin.’

There was a moment of blank silence, when Sephy felt the temperature drop about thirty degrees, and then he said, his dark voice silky-soft, ‘I do like women, Miss Vincent.’

This was getting worse! ‘I know you do,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course I know that; everyone does. I just meant—’ She wasn’t improving matters, she realised suddenly, as she risked a sidelong glance at the cold rugged face.

‘Please, do continue.’ It was curt and clipped. “‘Everyone” takes an interest in my love life, do they?’

Oh, blow it! He was the one prancing about with a different woman each week! What did he expect for goodness’ sake? ‘I was just trying to say I know you like women, that’s all,’ Sephy said primly, her face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and disquiet.

‘Right. So my sexual persuasion is not in question.’ There was liquid ice in his deep voice. ‘That taken as read, why would it be so unlikely that I might have ulterior motives in asking you to spend the evening with me?’

The evening? They were going to visit poor Madge Watkins, that was all! Afterwards she would realise she could have answered in a host of ways to defuse what had become an electric moment: he was not the sort of man to mix business and pleasure would have been a good one; she was aware he was dating someone at the moment could have been another. What she did say, the words tumbling out of her mouth, was, ‘There has to be some sort of a spark between a man and a woman, doesn’t there? And I’m not your type.’

‘My type?’ If she had accused him of a gross obscenity he couldn’t have sounded more offended. There was another chilling pause, and then he said, ‘What, exactly, do you consider my “type”, Miss Vincent?’ as he viciously cut up a harmless, peaceable family saloon that had been sailing along minding its own business.

She couldn’t make it any worse. She might as well be honest, Sephy told herself silently as the two ‘Miss Vincents’ after all the ‘Seraphinas’ of the day registered like the kiss of death on her career. ‘Women like Miss de Menthe, I suppose,’ she said shakily.

‘Meaning?’ he queried testily.

He didn’t intend to make this easy. ‘Beautiful, successful, rich…’ Spoilt, selfish, bitchy…

The grooves that splayed out from either side of his nose to his mouth deepened, as though she had actually voiced the last three words, but he remained silent, although it was a silence that vibrated with painful tension. Finally, he said coldly, ‘So, we’ve ascertained my type. What is your type, Seraphina?’

At least the Seraphina was back, although she didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing, Sephy thought feverishly as she clasped her hands together so tightly the knuckles showed white. And her type? That was funny if he did but know it. In the age of the Pill and condoms being bought as casually as bunches of flowers, she must be the only girl in the whole of London whose sexual experience was minimal to say the least. But that was the last thing she could say to a man of the world like Conrad Quentin. He’d laugh his head off.

The thought brought the door in her mind behind which she kept the caustic memories of the past slightly ajar, and as the image of David intruded for a second her stomach turned over. And then she had slammed it shut again, her mouth tightening as she willed the humiliation and pain to die.

She forced herself to shrug easily and kept her voice light as she said, ‘I guess I’m not fussy on looks; dark or fair, tall or short, it doesn’t matter as long as the guy is a nice person.’

‘A nice person?’ he returned mockingly, with a lift of one dark eyebrow, his large capable hands firmly on the wheel as he executed a manoeuvre that Sephy knew wasn’t exactly legal, and which caused a medley of car horns to blare behind them as the Mercedes dived off into a side-street to avoid the traffic jam which had been ahead. ‘And how would you define a nice person?’

A man who could accept that one-night stands and casual sex weren’t obligatory on the first date? Someone who could understand that some women—or certainly this one at least—needed to be in love before they would allow full intimacy, and who was prepared to think with his head and hopefully his heart rather than that other vital organ some inches lower. Someone who cared about her just a little more than their own ego, who didn’t mind that she hadn’t got a perfect thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six figure, with fluffy blonde hair and big blue eyes, someone…someone from her dreams.

Sephy twisted in the seat, knowing she had to say something, and then managed, ‘A man who is kind and funny and gentle, I suppose,’ and then cringed inside as he snorted mockingly.

‘And that’s it?’ he asked scathingly. ‘You don’t want a man, Seraphina. Your average cocker spaniel would do just as well. And the lovelorn guy back at your flat, does he fit all the criteria?’ he added before she could react to the acidic sarcasm.

‘Jerry?’ she asked with a stiffness that should have warned him.

‘Is that his name?’ He couldn’t have sounded more derisory if she’d said Donald Duck. ‘Well, it’s clear Jerry’s got it bad, and he looked a fine, upstanding pillar of the establishment and impossibly kind and gentle, or am I wrong?’

She didn’t often get angry, but around this man she seemed to be little else, and now the words were on her tongue without her even having to think about them. ‘I wasn’t aware that my job description necessitated talking about my friends,’ she said with savage coldness, ‘but if it does you had better accept my resignation here and now, Mr Quentin.’

There was absolute silence for a screaming moment, but as Sephy glared at him the cool profile was magnificently indifferent. He’d make a fantastic poker player, she thought irrelevantly. No wonder he was so formidable in business.

‘The name’s Conrad.’

‘What?’ If he had taken all his clothes off and danced stark naked on the Mercedes’ beautiful leather seats she couldn’t have been more taken aback.

‘I said, the name is Conrad,’ he said evenly, without taking his eyes from the view beyond the car’s bonnet. ‘If we are going to be working together for some weeks I can’t be doing with Mr Quentin this and Mr Quentin that; it’s irritating in the extreme.’

She wanted—she did so want—to be able to match him for cool aplomb and control, but it was a lost cause, she acknowledged weakly as she sank back in her seat without saying another word. Game, set and match to him, the insensitive, cold-blooded, arrogant so-and-so.

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