“I don’t know why, Mr. Ryecart. It’s not as if I could fire you.”

Lucas made an exasperated sound. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it! Can’t you forget our respective positions for a single moment?”

“No, since you ask, I can’t forget. Neither would you, I imagine, if you were in my position.”

“Underneath me?” he suggested.

“Yes!” She’d walked right into it.

“If only you were.” His eyes made a leisurely trip down her body and back again. The elevator arrived and Lucas stepped in with her. Tory wanted to step out again, but it seemed an act of cowardice. What could he do in the five seconds it took for the elevator to reach the ground floor?

He could hit the emergency button. Tory didn’t realize that was what he’d done until the elevator lurched to a halt.

“You can’t do that!”

He grinned. “For now, let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

He drawled, “Fair enough. Let’s not talk.” And with one step he closed the distance between them….

The Boss’s Secret Mistress
Alison Fraser

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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 ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘LUCAS RYECART?’ Tory repeated the name, but it meant nothing to her.

‘You must have heard of him,’ Simon Dixon insisted. ‘American entrepreneur, bought up Howard Productions and Chelton TV last year.’

‘I think I’d remember a name like that,’ Tory told her fellow production assistant. ‘Anyway, I’m not interested in the wheeling and dealing of money men. If Eastwich needs an injection of cash, does it matter where it comes from?’

‘If it means one of us ending up at the local job centre,’ Simon warned dramatically, ‘then, yes, I’d say it matters.’

‘That’s only rumour.’ Tory knew from personal experience that rumours bore little relationship to the truth.

‘Don’t be so sure. Do you know what they called him at Howard Productions?’ It was a rhetoric question as Simon took lugubrious pleasure in announcing, ‘The Grim Reaper.’

This time Tory laughed in disbelief. After a year in Documentary Affairs at Eastwich Productions, she knew Simon well enough. If there wasn’t drama already in a situation, he would do his best to inject it. He was such a stirrer people called him The Chef.

‘Simon, are you aware of your nickname?’ she couldn’t resist asking now.

‘Of course.’ He smiled as he countered, ‘Are you?’

Tory shrugged. She wasn’t, but supposed she had one.

‘The Ice Maiden.’ It was scarcely original. ‘Because of your cool personality, do you think?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Tory, well aware of the real reason.

‘Still, it’s unlikely that you’ll fall victim to staff cuts,’ Simon continued to muse. ‘I mean, what man can resist Shirley Temple hair, eyes like Bambi and more than a passing resemblance to what’s-her-name in Pretty Woman?’

Tory pulled a face at Simon’s tongue-in-cheek assessment of her looks. ‘Anyone who prefers blonde supermodel types…Not to mention those of an entirely different persuasion.’

‘I should be so lucky,’ he acknowledged in camp fashion, before disclaiming, ‘No, this one’s definitely straight. In fact, he has been described as God’s gift to women.’

‘Really.’ Tory remained unimpressed. ‘I thought that was some rock singer.’

‘I’m sure God is capable of bestowing more than one gift to womankind,’ Simon declared, ‘if only to make up for the many disadvantages he’s given you.’

Tory laughed, unaffected by Simon’s anti-women remarks. Simon was anti most things.

‘Anyway, I think we can safely assume, with a little judicious eyelash-batting, you’ll achieve job security,’ he ran on glibly, ‘so that leaves myself or our beloved leader, Alexander the Not-so-Great. Who would you put your money on, Tory dearest?’

‘I have no idea.’ Tory began to grow impatient with Simon and his speculations. ‘But if you’re that worried, perhaps you should apply yourself to some work on the remote chance this Ryecart character comes to survey his latest acquisition.’

This was said in the hope that Simon would allow her to get on with her own work. Oblivious, Simon remained seated on the edge of her desk, dangling an elegantly shod foot over one side.

‘Not so remote,’ he warned. ‘The grapevine has him due at eleven hundred hours to inspect the troops.’

‘Oh.’ Tory began to wonder how reliable the rest of his information was. Would Eastwich Productions be subject to some downsizing?

‘Bound to be Alex,’ Simon resumed smugly. ‘He’s been over the hill and far away for some months now.’

Tory was really annoyed this time. ‘That’s not true. He’s just had a few problems to sort out.’

‘A few!’ Simon scoffed at this understatement. ‘His wife runs off to Scotland. His house is repossessed. And his breath smells like an advert for Polo mints… We do know what that means, Goldilocks?’

At times Tory found Simon amusing. This wasn’t one of them. She was quite aware Alex, their boss, had a drink problem. She just didn’t believe in kicking people when they were down.

‘You’re not going to do the dirty on Alex, are you, Simon?’

‘Moi? Would I do something like that?’

‘Yes.’ She was certain of it.

‘You’ve cut me to the quick.’ He clasped his heart in theatrical fashion. ‘Why should I do down Alex…especially when he can do it so much better himself, don’t you think?’

True enough, Tory supposed. Alex was sliding downhill so fast he could have won a place on an Olympic bobsleigh team.

‘Anyway, I’ll toddle off back to my desk—’ Simon suited actions to his words ‘—and sharpen wits and pencil before our American friend arrives.’

Tory frowned. ‘Has Alex come in yet?’

‘Is the Pope a Muslim?’ he answered flippantly, then shook his head as Tory picked up the phone. ‘I shouldn’t bother if I were you.’

But Tory felt some loyalty to Alex. He had given her her job at Eastwich.

She rang his mistress’s flat, then every other number she could possibly think of, in the vain hope of finding Alex before Eastwich’s new boss descended on them.

‘Too late, ma petite,’ Simon announced with satisfaction as Colin Mathieson, the senior production executive, appeared at the glass door of their office. He gave a brief courtesy knock before entering. A stranger who had to be the American followed him.

He wasn’t at all what Tory had expected. She’d been prepared for a sharp-suited, forty something year old with a sun-bed tan and a roving eye.

That was why she stared. Well, that was what she told herself later. At the time she just stared.

Tall. Very tall. Six feet two or three. Almost casual in khaki trousers and an open-necked shirt. Dark hair, straight and slicked back, and a long angular face. Blue eyes, a quite startling hue. A mouth slanted with either humour or cynicism. In short, the best-looking man Tory had ever seen in her life.

Tory had never felt it before, an instant overwhelming attraction. She wasn’t ready for it. She was transfixed. She was reduced to gaping stupidity.

The newcomer met her gaze and smiled as if he knew. No doubt it happened all the time. No doubt, being God’s gift, he was used to it.

Colin Mathieson introduced her, ‘Tory Lloyd, Production Assistant,’ and she recovered sufficiently to raise a hand to the one stretched out to her. ‘Lucas Ryecart, the new chief executive of Eastwich.’

Her hand disappeared in the warm dry clasp of his. He towered above her. She fought a feeling of insignificance. She couldn’t think of a sane, sensible thing to say.

‘Tory’s worked for us for about a year,’ Colin continued. ‘Shows great promise. Had quite an input to the documentary on single mothers you mentioned seeing.’

Lucas Ryecart nodded and, finally dropping Tory’s hand, commented succinctly, ‘Well-made programme, Miss Lloyd…or is it Mrs?’

‘Miss,’ Colin supplied at her silence.

The American smiled in acknowledgement. ‘Though perhaps a shade too controversial in intention.’

It took Tory a moment to realise he was still talking about the documentary and another to understand the criticism, before she at last emerged from brainless-guppy mode to point out, ‘It’s a controversial subject.’

Lucas Ryecart looked surprised by the retaliation but not unduly put out. ‘True, and the slant was certainly a departure from the usual socialist dogma. Scarcely sympathetic.’

‘We had no bias.’ Tory remained on the defensive.

‘Of course not,’ he appeared to placate her, then added, ‘You just gave the mothers free speech and let them condemn themselves.’

‘We let them preview it,’ she claimed. ‘None of them complained.’

‘Too busy enjoying their five minutes’ fame, I expect,’ he drawled back.

His tone was more dry than accusing, and he smiled again.

Tory didn’t smile back. She was struggling with a mixture of temper and guilt, because, of course, he was right.

The single mothers in question had been all too ready to talk and it hadn’t taken much editing to make them sound at best ignorant, at worst uncaring. Away from the camera and the lights, they had merely seemed lonely and vulnerable.

Tory had realised the interviews had been neither fair nor particularly representative and had suggested Alex tone them down. But Alex had been in no mood to listen. His wife had just left him, taking their two young children, and single mothers hadn’t been flavour of the month.

Lucas Ryecart caught her brooding expression and ran on, ‘Never mind…Tory, is it?’

Tory nodded silently, wishing he’d stuck to Miss Lloyd. Or did he feel he had to be on first-name terms with someone before he put the boot in?

‘Tory,’ he repeated, ‘in documentary television it’s always difficult to judge where to draw the line. Interview the mass murderer and are you explaining or glorifying his crimes? Interview the victims’ families and do you redress the balance or simply make television out of people’s grief?’

‘I would refuse to do either,’ Tory stated unequivocally at this mini-lecture.

‘Really?’ He raised a dark, straight brow and looked at her as if he were now assessing her as trouble.

It was Simon who came to her rescue, though not intentionally. ‘I wouldn’t. I’d do anything for a good story.’

Having been virtually ignored, Simon thought it time to draw attention to himself.

Ryecart’s eyes switched from Tory to Simon and Colin Mathieson performed the introductions. ‘This is Simon Dixon. Alex’s number two.’

‘Simon.’ The American nodded.

‘Mr Ryecart.’ Simon smiled confidently. ‘Or do you wish us to call you Lucas? Being American, you must find English formality so outmoded.’

Tory had to give credit where credit was due: Simon had nerve.

Lucas Ryecart, however, scarcely blinked as he replied smoothly, ‘Mr Ryecart will do for now.’

Simon was left a little red-faced, muttering, ‘Well, you’re the boss.’

‘Quite,’ Ryecart agreed succinctly, but didn’t labour the point as he offered a conciliatory smile and hand to Simon.

Simon—the creep—accepted both.

It was Colin Mathieson who directed at them, ‘Do you know where we might find Alex? He isn’t in his office.’

‘He never is,’ muttered Simon in an undertone designed to be just audible.

Tory shot him a silencing look before saying, ‘I think he’s checking out locations for a programme.’

‘Which programme?’ Colin enquired. ‘The one on ward closures? I thought we’d abandoned it.’

‘Um…no.’ Tory decided to keep the lies general. ‘It’s something at the conception stage, about…’ She paused for inspiration and flushed as she felt the American’s eyes on her once more.

‘Alcoholism and the effects on work performance,’ Simon volunteered for her.

She could have been grateful. She wasn’t. She understood it for what it was—a snide reference to Alex’s drinking.

Colin didn’t seem to pick up on it, but Tory wasn’t so sure about Lucas Ryecart. His glance switched to the mocking smile on Simon’s face, then back to hers. He read the suppressed anger that made her mouth a tight line, but refrained from comment.

‘Well, get Alex to give me a bell when he gets in.’ Colin turned towards the door, ready to continue the guided tour.

Ryecart lingered, his eyes resting on Tory. ‘Have we met before?’

Tory frowned. Where could they have met? They were unlikely to move in the same social circles.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied at length.

He seemed unconvinced but then shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. We probably haven’t. I’m sure I would have remembered you.’

He smiled a hundred-watt smile, just for her, and the word handsome didn’t cover it.

Tory’s heart did an odd sort of somersault thing.

‘I—I…’ Normally so articulate, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

It was at least better than saying anything foolish.

He smiled again, a flash of white in his tanned face, then he was gone.

Tory took a deep, steadying breath and sat back down on her chair. Men like that should carry around a Government Health Warning.

“‘I’m sure I would have remembered you.’” Simon mimicked the American’s words. ‘My God, where does he get his lines? B movies from the thirties? Still, good news for you, ducks.’

‘What?’ Tory looked blank.

‘Come on, darling—’ Simon thought she was being purposely obtuse ‘—you and the big chief. Has he got the hots for you or what?’

‘You’re being ridiculous!’ she snapped in reply.

‘Am I?’ Simon gave her a mocking smile. ‘Talk about long, lingering looks. And not just from our transatlantic cousin. Me think the Ice Maiden melteth.’

Tory clenched her teeth at this attempt at humour and confined herself to a glare. It seemed wiser than protesting, especially when she could recall staring overlong at the American.

Of course it hadn’t lasted, the impact of his looks. The moment he had talked—or patronised might be closer to the mark—she had recovered rapidly.

‘Well, who’s to blame you?’ Simon ran on. ‘He has at least one irresistible quality: he’s rich. As in hugely, obscenely, embarrassingly—’

‘Shut up, Simon,’ she cut in, exasperated. ‘Even if I was interested in his money, which I’m not, he definitely isn’t my type.’

‘If you say so.’ He was clearly unconvinced. ‘Probably as well. Rumour has it that he’s still carrying a torch for his wife.’

‘Wife?’ she echoed. ‘He’s married?’

‘Was,’ he corrected. ‘Wife died in a car accident a few years ago. Collided with a tanker lorry. Seemingly, she was pregnant at the time.’

The details struck a chord with Tory, and her stomach hit the floor. She shook her head in denial. No, it couldn’t be.

Or could it?

Lucas could shorten to Luc. He was American. He did work in the media, albeit a quite different area.

‘Was he ever a foreign correspondent?’

She willed Simon to ridicule the idea.

Instead he looked at her in surprise. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, my sources tell me he worked for Reuters in the Middle East for several years before marrying into money. I can’t remember the name of the family but they’ve Fleet Street connections.’

The Wainwrights. Tory knew it, though she could scarcely believe it. He’d been married to Jessica Wainwright. Tory knew this because she’d almost married into the same family.

How had she not recognised him immediately? She’d seen a photograph. It had pride of place on the grand piano—Jessica radiant in white marrying her handsome war reporter. Of course, it had been taken more than a decade earlier.

‘Do you know him from some place, then?’ Simon didn’t hide his curiosity.

Tory shook her head. Telling Simon would be like telling the world.

‘I remember reading about him in a magazine.’ She hoped to kill the subject dead.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked, watching her pick up her handbag and jacket.

‘Lunch,’ she snapped back.

‘It’s not noon yet,’ he pointed out, suddenly the model employee.

‘It’s either that or stay and murder you,’ Tory retorted darkly.

‘In that case,’ Simon did his best to look contrite, ‘bon appetit!’

It deflated some of Tory’s anger, but she still departed, needing fresh air and her own company. She made for the back staircase, expecting to meet no one on it. Most people used the lift.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she cannoned right into a motionless figure on the landing, bounced back off and, with a quick, ‘Sorry,’ would have kept on moving if a hand hadn’t detained her. She looked up to find Lucas Ryecart staring down at her. Two meetings in half an hour was too much!

The American, however, didn’t seem to think so. His face creased into a smile, transforming hard lines into undeniable charm. ‘We meet again…Tory, isn’t it?’

‘I—I…yes.’ Tory was reduced to monosyllables once more.

‘Is everything all right?’ He noted her agitation. He could hardly miss it. She must resemble a nervous rabbit caught in headlights.

She gathered her wits together, fast. ‘Yes. Fine. I’m just going to the…dentist,’ she lied unnecessarily. She could have easily said she was going to do some research.

‘Well, at least it’s not me,’ he drawled in response.

Tory blinked. ‘What’s not?’

‘Giving you that mildly terrified look,’ he explained and slanted her a slow, amused smile.

Tory’s brain went to mush again. ‘I…no.’

‘Check-up, filling or extraction?’

‘Extraction.’

Tory decided an extraction might account for her flaky behaviour.

‘I’ll be back later,’ she added, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl.

‘Don’t bother,’ Lucas Ryecart dismissed. ‘I’m sure Colin won’t mind if you take the rest of the day off.’

He said this as Colin Mathieson appeared on the stairwell, holding up a file. ‘Sorry I was so long, but it took some finding.’

‘Good…Colin, Tory has to go to the dentist.’ The American made a show of consulting him. ‘Do you think we could manage without her this afternoon?’

Colin recognised the question for what it was—a token gesture. Lucas Ryecart called the shots now.

‘Certainly, if she’s under the weather,’ Colin conceded, but he wasn’t happy about it.

There were deadlines to be met and Alex was seldom around these days to meet them. Colin was well aware Tory and Simon were taking up the slack.

‘I’ll come in tomorrow,’ she assured him quietly.

He gave her a grateful smile.

‘Tory is a real workaholic,’ he claimed, catching the frown settling between Lucas Ryecart’s dark brows.

‘Well, better than the other variety, I guess.’ The American’s eyes rested on Tory. He had a very direct, intense way of looking at a person.

Tory felt herself blush again. Could he possibly know why they were covering for Alex?

‘I have to go.’ She didn’t wait for permission but took to her heels, flying down the stairs to exit Eastwich’s impressive glass façade.

Having no dental appointment, she went straight back to her flat to hide out. It was on the ground floor of a large Victorian house on the outskirts of Norwich. She’d decided to rent rather than buy, as any career move would dictate a physical move. Maybe it would be sooner rather than later now Lucas Ryecart had descended on Eastwich.

Tory took out an album of old photographs and found one from five years ago. She felt relief, sure she’d changed almost out of recognition, her face thinner, her hair shorter, and her make-up considerably more sophisticated. She was no longer that dreamy-eyed girl who’d thought herself in love with Charlie Wainwright.

Coupled with a different name—Charlie had always preferred Victoria or Vicki to the Tory friends had called her—it was not surprising Lucas Ryecart had failed to make the connection. Chances were that all he’d seen of her was a snapshot, leaving the vaguest of memories, and all he’d heard was about a girl called Vicki who was at college with Charlie. Nobody special. A nice ordinary girl.

She could imagine Charlie’s elegant mother using those exact words. Then, afterwards, Vicki had probably undergone a personality change from ordinary to common, and from nice to not very nice at all. What else, when the girl had broken her son’s heart?

It was what Charlie had claimed at the time. Forget the fact that it had been his decision to end the engagement.

She took out another photograph, this one of Charlie’s handsome, boyish face. She didn’t know why she kept it. If she’d ever loved him, she certainly didn’t now. It had all gone. Not even pain left.

Life had moved on. Charlie had the family he’d wanted and she had her career. She still had the occasional relationship but strictly on her terms with her in control.

She pulled a slight face. Well, normally. But where had been that control when she’d met Lucas Ryecart that morning? Lagging way behind the rest of her, that was where.

It had been like a scent, bypassing the brain and going straight for the senses. For a few moments it had been almost overpowering, as if she were drowning and had forgotten how to swim.

It hadn’t lasted, of course. She’d surfaced pretty damn quickly when he’d begun to talk. She still bristled at his criticism on the single mothers documentary, regardless of whether it might be fair, and regardless of the fact that he’d bought Eastwich and along with it the right to express such opinions. She just had to recall what he’d said in that deep American drawl and she should be safe enough.

The question floated into her head. ‘Safe from what?’

Tory, however, resolutely ignored it. Some things were better left well alone.

CHAPTER TWO

BY MORNING Tory had rationalised away any threat presented by Lucas Ryecart.

It could have been a simple chat-up line when he’d asked if they’d met before. Even if he’d seen a photograph of her, it would have left only the vaguest of impressions. And why should he make the connection between a girl student named Vicki and the Tory Lloyd who worked for him? She hadn’t between Luc and Lucas until Simon had talked about his past and no one in Eastwich really knew about hers.

No, chances were he’d already forgotten her. He’d be like all the other chief executives before him—remote and faceless to someone in her junior position.

Reassured, Tory did as promised and went in to work, dressed casually in white T-shirt and cotton chinos. As it was Saturday, there were no calls to answer and, within an hour, she had dealt with most outstanding correspondence on her desk. The rest she took down the corridor for her boss’s personal attention.

She didn’t expect to find Alex Simpson there, not on a Saturday, and was initially pleased when she did. She imagined he’d come in to catch up on his own work.

That was before she noticed his appearance. There was several days’ growth of beard on his chin and his eyes were bleary with sleep. His clothes were equally dishevelled and a quilt was draped along what he called his ‘thinking’ sofa, transforming it into a bed.

At thirty Alex Simpson had been hailed as a dynamic young programme-maker, destined for the highest awards. He had gone on to win several. Now he was pushing forty and, somewhere along the way, he had lost it.

‘It’s not how it looks.’ He grimaced but was obviously relieved it was Tory and no one else. ‘It’s just that Sue’s husband is home on leave and I’ve had no time to make other arrangements.’

Tory held in a sigh but she couldn’t do anything about the disapproving look on her face. Officially Alex was lodging with Sue Baxter, a secretary at Eastwich, while he fixed himself up with more permanent accommodation. Unofficially he was sleeping with her while her Naval Engineer husband was on tour of duty. Tory knew this because indiscretion was Sue Baxter’s middle name.

She was a shallow, slightly vacuous woman, and what attraction Sue held for Alex was hard to fathom, but Tory kept her opinion to herself. Alex seemed intent on pushing his own self-destruct button and Tory felt ill-qualified to prevent him.

‘You won’t say anything, will you?’ He smiled a little boyishly at Tory, already knowing the answer.

She shook her head, her loyalty guaranteed. She didn’t fancy Alex, though many women did. Nor was she sure if she liked him at times. But he had a vulnerable quality that brought out a protective streak in her.

‘You’d better not hang round here, looking like that,’ she said with some frankness.

‘I suppose not.’ Alex made another face. ‘I hear the new chief exec appeared in person yesterday.’

Tory nodded. ‘I said you were out researching a programme.’

‘I was, sort of,’ he claimed. It was as unconvincing as his rider of, ‘Pity I missed him.’

Tory looked at him sceptically, but refrained from pointing out that, had Lucas Ryecart met Alex while he was in this condition, Alex might not still be on the Eastwich payroll.

‘Tory, I was wondering—’ he gave her an appealing look ‘—if I could go to your place. Just to clean up. And maybe get my head down for an hour or two.’

Tory’s heart sank. She told herself to refuse point-blank, but it came out as a less definite, ‘I’m not sure, Alex. You know how tongues wag round here and if anyone saw you—’

‘They won’t,’ he promised. ‘ I’ll be the soul of discretion.’

‘Yes, but—’ Tory didn’t get the chance to finish before Alex smiled in gratitude at her.

‘You’re a great girl.’ He jumped up from his desk with some of his old enthusiasm. ‘A wash and brush-up, that’s all I need, and I’ll be a new man.’

‘All right.’ Tory was already regretting it as she relayed, ‘I have a spare key in my desk.’

Alex picked up the quilt from the couch and stuffed it into a cupboard, before following her back down the corridor to her office.

‘You’ll need the address.’ She wrote it down on her telephone pad. ‘You can use the phone to find a hotel or something.’

‘Kind of you, Tory darling—’ he looked rueful ‘—but I’m afraid hotels are out till pay day. My credit rating is zero and the bank is refusing to increase my overdraft.’

‘What will you do? You can’t keep dossing down in the office,’ Tory warned.

‘No, you’re right. I don’t suppose you could…’ he began hopefully, then answered for himself, ‘No, forget it. I’ll find somewhere.’

Tory realised what he’d been about to ask. She also understood he was still asking, by not asking. His eyes were focused on her like a homeless stray.

She tried to harden her heart. She reminded herself that Alex earned a great deal more than her for doing a great deal less. Was it her problem that he couldn’t manage his money?

‘Never mind.’ He forced a brave smile. ‘I’ll be back on my feet soon. I’m due my annual bonus from Eastwich next month—that’s assuming this American chappie doesn’t cancel it.’

Or cancel him, Tory thought as she looked at Alex through Lucas Ryecart’s eyes. He was a shambolic figure whose past awards would be just history.

‘Look, you can use my couch,’ Tory found herself offering, ‘until pay-day.’

‘Darling Tory, you’re a life-saver.’ A delighted Alex made to give her a hug but she fended him off.

‘And strictly on a keep-your-hands-to-yourself basis,’ she added bluntly.

‘Of course.’ Alex took a step from her and held up his hands in compliance. ‘No problem. I know you’re not interested.’

He should do. Tory had made it clear enough in the beginning and Alex, philanderer though he undoubtedly was, respected the fact. He was also lazy; mostly he ended up with women who chased him. Being handsome in a slightly effete way, he drew a certain type of woman. Tory wasn’t included in their category.

‘Five days.’ Tory calculated when their next salary should appear in the bank.

‘Fine.’ Alex gave her another grateful smile before turning to go.

‘Alex,’ Tory called him back at the door, ‘try and stay sober, please.’

For a moment Alex looked resentful, ready to protest his innocence. Tory’s expression stopped him. It wasn’t critical or superior or contemptuous. It was simply appealing.

He nodded, then, acknowledging his growing problem, said, ‘If I don’t, I’ll crash somewhere else. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ Tory hoped his promise was sincere. He wasn’t a violent drunk but she still didn’t want him round her place in that state.

After Alex had gone, she wondered just how big a mistake she’d made. She knew it was one. She trusted it would turn out to be of the minor variety.

Rather than dwell on it, she returned to her work, but was interrupted minutes later. Her door opened and she looked up, expecting to see Alex again. She stared wordlessly at the man in the doorway.

Overnight she’d decided it was a passing attraction she’d felt towards Lucas Ryecart. Only it hadn’t yet. Passed, that was. Dressed in black jeans, white shirt and dark glasses, he was just as devastating.

‘How’s the tooth?’ he asked.

‘The tooth?’ she repeated stupidly.

‘Gone but not forgotten?’ he suggested.

The tooth. Tory clicked. She’d have to acquire a better memory if she were going to take up lying to this man.

‘It’s fine,’ she assured. ‘Actually, I had forgotten all about it.’

‘Good.’ His eyes ran over her, making her feel her T-shirt outlined her body too clearly. ‘You didn’t have to come in. How do you usually spend your Saturdays?’

The same way, Tory could have admitted, but somehow she didn’t think he’d be impressed, even if he now owned most of Eastwich. More like he’d think she had nothing better to do with her time.

‘It varies.’ She shrugged noncommittally, then glanced down at her work, as if anxious to get on with it.

He noted the gesture, and switched to asking, ‘Has Simpson gone?’

‘Simpson?’ Tory stalled.

‘Alex Simpson.’ He leaned on the doorframe, eyes inscrutable behind the dark glasses. ‘At least I assume it was Simpson and not some passing bum, making himself at home in his office.’

‘Alex was here, yes,’ she confirmed and went on inventively, ‘He came in to catch up on his paperwork.’

‘He was catching up on some sleep when I saw him,’ countered Ryecart.

‘Really?’ Tory faked surprise quite well. ‘He did say he’d been in very early. Perhaps he nodded off without realising.’

‘Slept it off, is my guess,’ the American drawled back, and, pushing away from the door, crossed to sit on the edge of her desk. He removed the glasses and appraised her for a moment or two before adding, ‘Are you two an item? Is that it?’

‘An item?’ Tory was slow on the uptake.

‘You and Simpson, are you romantically involved?’ He spelt out his meaning.

‘No, of course not!’ Tory denied most vehemently.

It had little impact, as the American smiled at her flash of temper. ‘No need to go nuclear. I was only asking. I hear Simpson has something of a reputation with women,’ he remarked, getting Tory’s back up further.

‘And from that you concluded that he and I…that we are…’ She was unwilling to put it into words.

He did it for her. ‘Lovers?’

Tory found herself blushing. He had that effect.

He studied her, as if she were an interesting species, and her blush deepened. ‘I didn’t think women did that any more.’

‘Possibly not the women you know,’ Tory shot back before she could stop herself.

He understood the insult. He could easily have sacked her for it. Instead he laughed.

‘True,’ he conceded. ‘I tend to prefer the more experienced kind. Less hassle. Lower expectations. And fewer recriminations at the end…Still, who knows? I could be reformed.’

And pigs might fly, Tory thought as she wondered if he was flirting with her or just making fun.

‘What about you?’ he said with the same lazy smile.

‘Me?’ she asked. ‘Oh, I prefer the invisible kind. Much less hassle. Zero expectations. And absolutely no recriminations.’

It took the American an instant to interpret. ‘You don’t date?’

‘I don’t date,’ Tory repeated but without his tone of disbelief, ‘and I don’t need reforming, either.’

He looked puzzled rather than annoyed, his eyes doubting her seriousness.

‘Is that a targeted response,’ he finally asked, ‘or a general declaration of intent?’

‘Come again?’ Tory squinted at him.

‘Are you just telling me to take a hike,’ he translated, ‘or are all men off the agenda?’

Tory debated how much she wanted to keep her job. Just enough to show some restraint, she decided, so she said nothing. Her eyes, however, said much more.

‘Me, I guess,’ he concluded with a confidence barely dented. ‘Well, never mind, I can live in hope.’

He was laughing at her. He had to be. He wasn’t really interested in her. It was all a joke to him.

He straightened from the edge of her desk, saying, ‘Would you have some idea how I might contact Simpson? ‘

‘I…I’m not sure.’ Having denied any relationship with Alex, Tory could hardly reveal the fact he was holed up at her place. ‘I might be able to get a message to him.’

‘Fine. I’ve asked all senior department heads to meet me, nine a.m. Monday, for a briefing,’ he explained. ‘It would be advisable for Simpson to attend.’

Tory nodded. ‘I’ll tell him…I mean, if I get hold of him,’ she qualified, anxious to dispel the notion she and Alex had anything other than a business relationship.

‘Well, if you can’t, don’t worry about it,’ he ran on. ‘It’s Simpson’s problem if he can’t give Personnel a current telephone number.’

Tory frowned. ‘But you saw him this morning.’

‘So why didn’t I wake him up?’ he asked the question that was clearly in her mind. ‘Let’s just say I thought the morning after wouldn’t be the best time to meet a new boss. What do you think?’

Tory thought that remarkably fair of the American—to give Alex the chance to redeem himself. Of course, he might simply prefer to sack him when he was stone-cold sober.

‘Alex is a very good programme-maker,’ she declared staunchly. ‘He won a BAFTA three years ago.’

‘Simpson was a very good programme-maker,’ Lucas Ryecart corrected her, ‘and, in this business, you’re only as good as your last show. Simpson should know that.’

Tory said nothing. Speaking up for Alex had cut no ice with this man.

He also suspected her motives. ‘Why so concerned about Simpson? If he goes, it might do your own career some good.’

‘I doubt it.’ Tory wondered who he was trying to fool. ‘Simon is more experienced than me.’

He frowned, making the connection only when she glanced towards the second desk in the room. ‘More willing to promote his cause, too, as I recall. Is he the reason you’re loyal to Simpson?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You don’t want to work for this Simon guy?’

No, Tory certainly didn’t, but she didn’t want to do Simon down either.

‘You’re not homophobic, are you?’ he surmised at her uneasy silence.

‘What?’ Tory was startled by his directness.

‘Homophobic,’ he repeated, ‘Anti-gay, against homo—’

‘I know what it means!’ Tory cut in angrily, and, forgetting—or, at least, no longer caring—who he was, informed him, ‘It might be hard for an American to understand, but reticence isn’t always an indication of stupidity.’

‘Being brash, loud-mouth colonials, you mean.’ He had no problem deciphering the insult. He just wasn’t bothered by it.

Tory wondered what you had to do to dent this man’s confidence. Use a sledgehammer, perhaps.

‘Simon’s sexual preference is a matter of complete disinterest to me,’ she declared in heavy tones.

‘If you say so,’ he responded, as if he didn’t quite believe her.

‘I am not homophobic!’ she insisted angrily. ‘Whether I’d want to work for Simon doesn’t hinge on that.’

‘Okay.’ He conceded the point, then immediately lost interest in it as he looked at his watch, saying, ‘I have to go. I have a meeting in London. I’ll give you my number.’

He picked up her Biro and, tearing out a slip of paper from her notepad, leaned on her desk to write his name and two telephone numbers.

‘The top one is my mobile,’ he informed her. ‘The other’s Abbey Lodge. I’m staying there in the short term.’

Abbey Lodge was the most exclusive hotel locally, favoured by high-powered businessmen and visiting celebrities.

He held out the piece of paper and for a moment Tory just stared at it as if it were contaminated. Why was he giving her his telephone number? Did he imagine she’d want to call him?

‘In case you have a problem tracking down Alex Simpson,’ he explained, patently amused at her wary expression.

‘Of course.’ Now she almost snatched the paper from him.

‘Still, if you want to call me, regardless—’ his mouth slanted ‘—feel free. I’m sure we can find something to talk about…’

‘I…’ On the contrary Tory couldn’t think of a sensible thing to say. She’d been so presumptuous it was embarrassing.

‘Meanwhile—’ his smile became less mocking ‘—it’s a beautiful day. Why not play hooky for once?’

The suggestion sounded genuine but Tory felt even more uncomfortable, recalling the fact she’d played hooky yesterday.

‘I have some stuff to finish,’ she claimed, sober-faced.

‘Well, you know what they say: all work and no play,’ he misquoted dryly, ‘makes for a dull television producer.’

Tory realised he was joking but wondered, nonetheless, if that was how she seemed to him. Dull. What an indictment.

It put her on the defensive. ‘I’m not the one travelling down to London for a business meeting on a Saturday.’

‘Did I say business?’ He raised a dark brow.

Tory frowned up at him. He had, hadn’t he?

He shook his head, adding, ‘No, this one’s strictly personal.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Tory denied any intention to pry.

But he continued, ‘In a way, it involves you. I’m having dinner with the woman I was dating until recently…a farewell dinner,’ he stressed.

Tory met his eyes briefly, then looked away once more. There was nothing subtle about his interest in her.

‘This really is none of my business, Mr Ryecart,’ she replied on an officious note.

‘Not now, maybe—’ he got to his feet ‘—but who knows what the future might hold?’

He afforded her another smile. Perfect white teeth in a tanned face. Too handsome for anyone else’s good.

Tory tried again. ‘I shouldn’t think we’ll meet very often, Mr Ryecart,’ she said repressively, ‘in view of your considerably senior position, but I’m sure I’ll endeavour to be polite when we do.’

This time her message couldn’t be missed. ‘In short, you’d like me to take a hike.’

Tory’s nails curled into her palms. The man had no idea of the conventions that governed normal conversation.

‘I didn’t say that,’ she replied, through gritted teeth. ‘I was just pointing out—’

‘That you’d touch your forelock but nothing else,’ he summed up with breath-taking accuracy.

Tory felt a curious desire to hit him. It took a huge effort to stop herself, to remind herself he was her boss.

He held up a pacifying hand, having clearly read her thoughts. He might be brash, but he wasn’t stupid.

‘Tell you what, let’s agree to dispense with the forelock-tugging, too,’ he suggested and finally walked towards the door.

Tory’s heart sank. What did that mean?

‘Mr Ryecart—’ she called after him.

He turned, his expression now remote. Had he already dispensed with her, altogether?

She didn’t intend waiting to find out. She asked point-blank, ‘Should I be looking for another job?’

‘What?’ Such an idea had obviously been far from his mind. He considered it briefly before answering, ‘If you’re asking me will Eastwich survive, then I don’t know that yet. It’s no secret that it’s operating at a loss, but I wouldn’t have bought it if I didn’t feel turn-around was viable.’

It was a straight, businesslike response that left Tory feeling decidedly silly. She had imagined rejecting Lucas Ryecart might be a sackable offence but obviously he didn’t work that way.

‘That isn’t what you meant, is it?’ He read her changing expression.

‘No,’ Tory admitted reluctantly. ‘I thought…’

‘That I’d fire you for not responding to my advances,’ he concluded for himself, and now displeasure thinned his sensual mouth. ‘God, you have a low opinion of me…or is it all men?’

Tory bit on her lip before muttering, ‘I—I…if I misjudged you—’

‘In spades,’ he confirmed. ‘I may be the loud, overbearing American you’ve already written me off as—’

‘That’s not—’ Tory tried to deny it.

He overrode her. ‘And I may let what’s in my pants overrule good sense occasionally,’ he continued crudely, ‘but desperate I’m not, or vindictive. If you leave Eastwich, it won’t be on my account.’

Tory wanted the ground to swallow her up. She started to say, ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—’ and was left talking to thin air.

Lucas Ryecart might not be vindictive but he had a temper. She experienced its full force as the door slammed hard behind him.

And that’s me told, she thought, feeling wrung out and foolish, and wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.

He’d been flirting with her. Nothing more. Perhaps he flirted with all personable women under the assumption that most would enjoy it. He’d be right, too. Most would.

They’d know how to take Lucas Ryecart, realise that anyone that handsome, and rich, and successful, would scarcely be interested in ordinary mortals. They’d be slightly flattered by his appreciative gaze, a little charmed by his slow, easy smile, but they certainly wouldn’t be crazy enough to take him seriously.

She glanced out of the window in time to see him striding across the car park. She didn’t worry that he’d look up. She was already forgotten.

She watched him get into a dark green four-by-four. It was a surprisingly unflash vehicle. She’d have expected him to drive something fast and conspicuous—a low-slung sports car, perhaps. But what did she really know about Lucas Ryecart? Next to nothing.

She tried to remember what Charlie, her ex-fiancé, had said. He hadn’t talked much of his dead sister but he’d mentioned her husband a few times. He’d obviously admired the older man who’d spent his early career reporting from the trouble spots of the world. Charlie’s mother had also alluded to her American son-in-law with some fondness and Tory had formed various images: faithful husband, dedicated journalist, fine human being.

None fitted the Lucas Ryecart she’d met, but then it had been years since Jessica Wainwright’s death and time changed everybody. It had certainly changed his circumstances if Eastwich was only one of the television companies he owned. He was also no longer the marrying kind, a fact he’d made clear. Arguably, his directness was a virtue, but if he had any other noble character traits Tory had missed them.

Time had changed Tory, too. Or was it her current lifestyle? All work and no play, as he’d said. Making her dull, stupid even, unable to laugh off a man’s interest without sounding like prude of the year.

Tory felt like kicking herself. And Alex. And Lucas Ryecart. She settled for kicking her waste bin and didn’t hang around to tidy up the mess she made.

She took the American’s advice and spent the afternoon at the Anglian Country Club, a favourite haunt for young professionals. For two hours she windsurfed across the man-made lake, a skill she’d acquired on her first foreign holiday. It was her main form of relaxation, strenuous though it could be, and she was now more than competent.

Sometimes she took a lesson with Steve, the resident coach. About her age, he had a law degree but had never practised, preferring to spend his life windsurfing. They had chatted occasionally and once gone for a drink in the club but nothing more. Today he helped her put away her equipment and asked casually if she had plans for the evening. She shook her head and he proposed going for something to eat in town.

Normally Tory would have politely turned him down, but Lucas Ryecart’s image loomed, and she said, ‘Why not?’

Tory drove them in her car and they went to an Italian restaurant. They talked about windsurfing, then music and the colleges they’d attended. Steve was easy enough company.

They went on to a pub and met some of his friends, a mixed crowd of men and women. Tory stuck to orange juice, and, although declining a party invitation, agreed to drive them there.

When the rest had piled out of her car, Steve surprised her with a kiss on the lips. It was quite pleasurable, but hardly earth-moving and another man’s image intruded when she closed her eyes. She broke off the kiss before it turned intimate.

Steve got the message. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to go home to my place?’ he asked, more in hope than expectation.

‘No, thanks all the same.’ She gave him an amiable smile and her refusal was accepted in the same spirit.

Steve bowed out with a casual, ‘Perhaps we can go out again some time,’ and followed his friends into the house where the party was.

Tory drove home without regrets. She’d enjoyed the evening up to a point, but she had no desire to have competent, athletic sex with a man whose raison d’être was windsurfing. She’d sooner go to bed with a mug of Horlicks and a Jane Austen.

She returned to find her flat empty and felt a measure of relief, assuming Alex had chosen somewhere else to doss down.

No such luck, however, as she was rudely awakened at two in the morning by a constant ringing on her doorbell. Pulling on a dressing gown, she went to the bay window first and wasn’t entirely surprised to see Alex leaning against the wall.

‘Lost my key, sorry,’ he slurred as she opened the outer door and took in his swaying figure.

‘Oh, Alex, you promised.’ She sighed wearily and for a moment contemplated shutting the door on him.

‘Couldn’t help it,’ he mumbled pathetically. ‘Love her, really love her… Know that, Tory?’

‘Yes, Alex. Now, shh!’ Tory hastily propelled him through the hallway before he woke her neighbours.

‘I’m not drunk.’ He breathed whisky fumes on her as he lurched inside her flat. ‘Just had a drink or two. Her fault. The bitch. Phoned her up but she wouldn’t talk to me.’

Tory sighed again as he sprawled his length on her sofa. There would be no moving him now. She should have turned him away.

‘Why won’t she talk to me?’ he appealed with an injured air. ‘She knows she’s the only one I’ve ever loved.’

‘Her husband was probably there,’ Tory pointed out in cynical tones.

‘Husband?’ He turned bleary eyes towards her, then rallied to claim belligerently, ‘I’m her husband. Eyes of God and all that. Better or worse. Richer or poorer. Till death or the mortgage company do us part,’ he finished on a self-pitying sob.

‘Who are we talking about, Alex?’ Tory finally asked.

‘Rita, of course.’ A frown questioned her intelligence, then he began to sing, ‘Lovely Rita, no one can beat her—’

‘Shh!’ Tory hushed him once more. ‘You’re going to wake the woman upstairs.’

‘Don’t care,’ Alex announced, this time like a sulky boy. ‘All women are vile… ’Cept you, darling Tory.’ He smiled winningly at her.

Tory rolled her eyes heavenward. She might have taken Lucas Ryecart too seriously that morning, but she was in no danger of it with Alex. Drunk, Alex would flirt with a lamp-post.

‘I thought you were talking about Sue,’ she stated in repressive tones.

‘Sue?’ He looked blank for a moment.

‘Sue Baxter,’ she reminded him heavily. ‘Works at Eastwich. Husband in Navy. Woman you’ve been living with for the last month or two.’

Drunk though he was, Alex understood the implication. ‘You think I don’t love Rita because I’ve been shacking up with Sue? But I do. Sue’s just…’

‘A fill-in?’ Tory suggested dryly.

‘Yes. No. You don’t understand,’ he answered in quick succession. ‘Men aren’t the same as women, Tory, you have to realise that.’

‘Oh, I do,’ Tory assured him, and before he could justify his infidelity on biological grounds she stood and picked up the blanket and pillow she’d dug out earlier. ‘You’re an education in yourself, Alex,’ she added, draping the blanket over him without ceremony. ‘Lift.’

He raised his head and she thrust the pillow under him. ‘You’re not a woman, Tory,’ he told her solemnly, ‘you’re a friend.’

‘Thanks,’ she muttered at this backhanded compliment. Not that she minded much. She didn’t want Alex’s roving eye fixing on her. ‘Goodnight, Alex.’

‘’Night, Tory,’ he echoed, already settling down for the night. Soon he would be out for the count.

It was Tory who was left sleepless.

After an afternoon spent windsurfing and an evening in company, she should be tired enough to sleep through a hurricane, yet she couldn’t sleep through Lucas Ryecart.

Alex had provided a temporary distraction but now he was just another concern. How could she keep Alex sober tomorrow so he would be presentable on Monday for his meeting with Ryecart?

She tried telling herself it wasn’t her problem. And it wasn’t, really. After all, what did she owe Alex? He had given her a chance, taking her on as a production assistant when she’d had little experience, but she’d surely repaid him, covering up for him as she had over that last three months. It would be much the wisest thing to let Alex fend for himself.

Perhaps Alex might even hold his own with the American. After all, he was an intelligent, articulate man with a first-class degree from Cambridge and twenty years’ experience in the television industry.

Whereas Lucas Ryecart, who was he?

The man who was going to wipe the floor with Alex, that was who, she answered the question for herself, and for the second night in a row fell asleep with Lucas Ryecart’s image running round her brain.

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