Living With Marc

‘What did you say?’ Robin glared; she couldn’t help it. ‘I am not a juvenile.’ Not even a teenager. Twenty years old today, and so far it had been the kind of birthday she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. ‘Nor am I a delinquent,’ she snapped. ‘I could sue you for saying that.’

‘Only if you got yourself a very good lawyer.’ That had to be a joke of sorts; Marc Hammond, head of Hammond and Hammond, was the smartest lawyer she was ever likely to meet.

Deadpan, she said, ‘Ha, ha.’ And Mrs Myson protested.

‘That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, Marc. What’s so unsuitable about Robin? Why shouldn’t she be—’ she pulled a face as if this was a silly description ‘—a lady’s companion?’

He showed real exasperation for the first time, his voice suddenly harsh, ‘For God’s sake, look at her.’

Robin knew what he meant by that. Her hair was so bright a red that only those who had known her since she was a child believed that it was natural, and she wore it almost waist-length. But even when it was tucked away under a hat Robin Johnson was still a knockout. She had a model girl’s long-legged figure, with high cheekbones, a wide mouth and restless green eyes. Without deliberately doing a thing, Robin was a stirrer. Around her, life quickened and sometimes got out of hand.

She knew how she was looking now—her cheeks flushed and her eyes glinting, because Marc Hammond had that effect on her—but Mrs Myson seemed to see nothing wrong in her appearance. ‘I can’t believe you’d turn Robin down just because she’s young,’ Mrs Myson said.

Marc Hammond smiled at that. Cynically. And his voice was sarcastic, as he said, ‘I take back the juvenile; I’m sure Miss Johnson is old for her years.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ Robin muttered. She managed to get one hand free from Mrs Myson, who had a very firm grip for someone in her eighties.

‘But you still think she might be too hot to handle?’ Mrs Myson was teasing Marc and he was looking at her with amused tolerance.

‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘She certainly was last time.’

‘Last time?’ the elderly lady echoed.

‘When she worked for me,’ said Marc Hammond. ‘Briefly.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Mrs Myson was smiling. ‘This has to mean there was some sort of trouble.’

‘There would have been,’ he said drily, and Robin flared up.

‘Don’t make it sound as if I was robbing the till.’

There had been no tills in that office. Hammond and Hammond were the top law firm in town, the building they occupied was one of the most impressive, and Robin had arrived there as a trainee receptionist.

And had met Marc Hammond. She had seen him crossing the foyer—a tall, dark, strikingly good-looking man. He had come across, looked hard at her and welcomed her to the firm. She had gulped, feeling her breath catch in her throat, and she had still been holding her breath when he’d walked away. After that he hadn’t seemed to notice her at all until her first Friday.

Others had. A studious, bespectacled junior clerk had fancied her from the first day, and when Robin had had lunch with him he had gone back to the office on cloud nine. He’d even grinned at the husky biker in studded leather who had been leaning on the counter under the disapproving eye of the senior receptionist, until the biker had come over and knocked him flat.

The clerk’s first impression was that here was a homicidal maniac, and for the first time in his life, and probably the last, he started frantically to fight back.

Robin shrieked. She knew the biker. She had had a very brief fling with him and wanted no more. She yelled, ‘Stop it, you idiots,’ but the biker went on throwing the punches and, seeing blood, the receptionist gave a high-pitched scream that went on and on.

Hammond and Hammond was a law firm. Folk came into their offices carrying a load of grief and resentment, but there had never been a scene as physically violent as this, a rough and tumble between two men, fists and feet flying, and a girl with long flaming red hair dodging around screaming their names and trying to shove them apart.

When Marc Hammond came down the stairs Robin didn’t see him until he yanked the biker away and threw him through the door into the street. Jack was two hundred and ten pounds but he went out bodily, hardly touching the ground.

Then Hammond turned on his employees. ‘Right, you two—in my office,’ he said.

The receptionist was moaning now, staring at the spots of blood on Robin’s white shirt. There was more on the junior clerk because it was his nose which was bleeding, although it didn’t show up on his dark suit. He dug into his pocket for a tissue, trying to staunch the flow as they trailed after Marc Hammond, through a small, empty office into a large room with panelled walls and a huge desk with a black leather top.

Hammond closed the door and Robin thought that she and the clerk must look a wretched pair. Tony had realised he had been fighting with Robin’s boyfriend in front of Hammond himself and that this was probably going to cost him his job. His nose was sore, and he’d lost his glasses, so that he could hardly see. But he could see enough for Marc Hammond, still immaculate and cool as a cucumber, to look more formidable than a gang of roughnecks.

Robin was flushed and breathing fast, her hair all over the place, and miserably aware that most of this was her fault. The young man blinked, head ducked. Robin looked up at Marc Hammond and wondered if there was any way she could plead for her colleague.

‘You’d better clean up and go home for the day,’ he said.

‘Yessir,’ the clerk mumbled into his bloodstained tissue as he stumbled blindly out of the room.

Then Hammond turned his attention to Robin. There was a scorching feeling of danger about him. She could feel the heat burning her cheeks.

‘Has this kind of thing happened before?’ he was demanding.

She nearly said no. But once or twice it had, so she muttered, ‘Well—’

‘I thought so. Well, you might get a kick out of two men fighting over you but our clients don’t expect to walk into a blood bath when they come through the door.’

She was getting the sack. Aunt Helen had been right. ‘You’ll never keep a job there,’ she’d said when Robin had told her and Uncle Edward that she’d had an interview and was starting on Monday. This would be just what Aunt Helen had expected, but all through lunch the young clerk had been talking about his career prospects. He was so pleased to be working here.

‘What will happen to him?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t his fault.’

‘I can believe that,’ Hammond drawled. ‘Somebody like Tony wouldn’t stand much of a chance if you moved in on him.’

That was not what she’d meant. She hadn’t made the moves. The first day she’d arrived he had asked for a date and gone on asking, but it was not until today she’d agreed just to have a sandwich with him. She said, ‘I meant the fight; Jack hit him first.’

‘I’m sure he did. I think Tony’s ego has been damaged enough for one week. We can forget him. The problem is you.’ She felt even younger than she was, standing there while he passed judgement on her. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll make your mark,’ he said drily. ‘But not in my firm. And I hope you don’t do too much damage to others on the way.’

She went downstairs to get her coat. The receptionist was dealing with a smartly dressed man and woman and avoided looking Robin’s way, and Robin thought that it was just as well they hadn’t arrived five minutes earlier. They didn’t look the sort to be impressed by a member of the firm having a punch-up with a biker.

Now, three years later, the biker had long gone. Robin might have passed the clerk in town since without noticing him, but they’d certainly never spoken another word to each other.

‘So what happened?’ Mrs Myson was wanting to know. She looked from Robin to Marc and he answered.

‘Three years ago, you were with us how long?’ He knew how long, Robin would bet. ‘Nearly a week, wasn’t it?’ She nodded and he told Mrs Myson, ‘Two of her admirers had a fight in the foyer.’

‘The office foyer?’

‘That’s the one.’

She crowed with laughter. ‘I never heard about it.’

‘We kept it quiet.’ His grin took the sternness from his face, making him look suddenly light-hearted. ‘We didn’t want rumours getting around that dissatisfied clients were beating up the staff. The only witness was Edna Hodgkiss, and you know what a soul of discretion she is.’

Mrs Myson wasn’t shocked; her eyes were twinkling. But Robin knew the joke was on her. At just seventeen she had wanted to crawl away. Now she would have said, I didn’t get a kick out of it. They’re a couple of morons, like a lot of the men I seem to meet, and that’s their problem, not mine.

Mrs Myson waved the matter away. ‘This happened years ago; it’s all forgotten by now, and Robin needs a job. You say I need a companion. Well, I’d like Robin.’

‘We’ve had much more suitable applicants, and you’ve turned them all down,’ said Marc Hammond.

‘I didn’t want them,’ said Mrs Myson. She nearly pouted, and Robin glimpsed the dazzling, demanding girl she must have been, and still was under the skin.