The Boss's Secret Mistress

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!’