The Boss's Secret Mistress

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.