Lovers In The Afternoon

She grimaced. ‘Would it help if I were to say I’m sorry?’ she cajoled.

‘You always are,’ David said without rancour. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Thompson Electronics.’

A frown marred her creamy brow. ‘Has something gone wrong? I thought they were pleased with the work I did for them. I don’t understand——’

‘Calm down, Leonie,’ he ordered impatiently at her impassioned outburst. ‘They were pleased, they are pleased, which is why the new President of the company wants you to personally design the decor for his own office suit.’

‘He does?’ she gasped.

‘Don’t look so surprised,’ David mocked. ‘It was a good piece of work. Even I would never have thought of using that particular shade of pink—indeed any shade of pink, in a group of offices.’

‘It was the brown that off-set the femininity of it. You see I had——’

‘You don’t have to convince me of anything, Leonie,’ he drawled. ‘Or them either. You just have to get yourself over there at four o’clock this afternoon to discuss the details.’

She was still relatively new at her job, and tried to make every design she did a work of art, something personal; she was more than pleased to know that someone else had seen and appreciated some of her completed work enough to ask for her personally. It was the first time it had happened.

‘Mrs Carlson will be expecting you,’ David continued. ‘She phoned and made the appointment first thing this morning. And she’ll introduce you to the President then.’

‘Ronald Reagan?’

He gave a patiently humouring sigh. ‘Where do you get your sense of humour from?

She grinned at him. ‘It’s what keeps my world going.’

David frowned at the underlying seriousness beneath her words. Except for the friendly, and often loony facade she presented to everyone here, he knew little about the real Leonie Grant. Her employee’s file said she had been married but was now separated from her husband, but she never spoke of the marriage or the man she had been married to, her openness often seeming to hide a wealth of pain and disillusionment.

But it never showed, and Leonie found as much humour in her clumsiness as everyone else did, able to laugh at herself and the things that happened to her.

His mouth quirked into a smile. ‘I have to admit that when Mrs Carlson said the President would expect you at four o’clock the same thought crossed my mind!’

‘Naughty, David,’ she shook her head reprovingly, her eyes glowing deeply green.

For a moment they shared a smile of mutual humour, and then David shook his head ruefully. ‘Try not to be late for the meeting,’ he advised. ‘From the way Mrs Carlson was acting he sounds pretty awesome.’

Leonie grimaced. ‘Are you sure you want to send me, I could walk in, trip over a matchstick, and end up sliding across his desk into his lap!’

‘He asked for you specifically.’ But David frowned as he mentally envisaged the scene she had just described. ‘I’ll take the risk,’ he said without enthusiasm.

‘Sure?’

‘No,’ he answered with complete honesty. ‘But short of lying to the man I don’t know what else I can do. Just try not to be late,’ he warned again.

And she did try, she tried very hard, but it seemed the fates were against her from the start. She caught her tights on the door as she got into her VW, drove around for another ten minutes trying to find somewhere to park so she could buy some new ones, getting back to the car just in time to personally accept her parking ticket from the traffic warden, making a mad dash to find somewhere to change her tights, laddering that pair too in her haste, although it was high enough up her leg not to show. By this time she in no way resembled the coolly smart young woman who had left Stevenson Interiors in plenty of time to reach Thompson Electronics by four o’clock. It was already five to four, and she was hot and sticky from her exertions with the tights, her make-up needing some repair, her hair having lost its glowing bounce in the heat of the day. She was already going to be a few minutes late; taking time to refresh her make-up and brush her hair wasn’t going to make that much difference now.

It was ten minutes past four when she entered the Thompson building, her slim briefcase in her hand, and except for the fact that she was late, looking like a self-contained young executive. Ten minutes wasn’t so bad, she could blame that on the traffic. She certainly didn’t intend going into the story of the ripped tights as her excuse, or the parking ticket either! It was——

Oh no, she just didn’t believe this, it couldn’t be happening to her! But she knew that it was as the smooth-running lift made a terrible grinding noise and shuddered to a halt somewhere between the eighth and ninth floors. She was stuck in a lift for the second time that day! And as usual she was alone. She was always alone when the damned things broke down, never had anyone to help calm the panic that she felt. This was a large lift, not like the one at Stevenson Interiors, but she would still rather be on the other side of those steel doors. Oh well, at least the floor was carpeted if she had to spend any amount of time here, so she could be comfortable. But it wasn’t likely that she would be here for long, this was a big and busy building, someone was sure to realise sooner or later that one of the lifts was stuck between floors. And she hoped it was sooner!

She sank to the floor after pressing the emergency button, knowing from experience that people rarely took notice of that bell. God, what a day it had been, worse than her usual string of mishaps. If she didn’t know better she would think——But no, she wouldn’t even think about him. God, this was a hell of a place to start thinking of the disastrous effect her husband had had on her, his disapproval of almost everything she did making her more nervous, and consequently more klutzy, than ever.

She determinedly opened her briefcase, going through the fabric book she had brought with her, wondering what sort of colour scheme the President of the company would favour. She had thought of a few ideas, but basically she just wanted to hear what his tastes were.

She became so engrossed in matching paints and fabrics, the books strewn over the floor, that for some time she managed to forget she was marooned in a lift eight-and-a-half floors up. It was almost five-thirty when she heard the sound of banging from above, a voice that sounded strangely hollow calling down that the lift would be working shortly.

Leonie stood up, her legs stiff from where she had been sitting on the floor for over an hour, losing her balance as the lift began moving almost immediately, jerking for several feet before moving smoothly, Leonie flung about in the confined space, falling to the ground in a sprawled heap as it shuddered to a halt and the door miraculously creaked slowly open.

The first thing Leonie saw from her floor-level view was a pair of well-shod feet, the man’s black shoes made of a soft leather, a meticulous crease down the centre of the grey trouser legs. Before she could raise her gaze any further Mrs Carlson was rushing into the lift to help her to her feet, the black shoes and grey-covered legs turning away.

‘Bring her into my office as soon as you’ve helped her tidy up,’ ordered a curt male voice.

Leonie turned sharply to look at the man as the other woman fussed around her, but all she saw was the back of the man’s head as he entered a room at the end of the corridor.

‘Have you been in here long?’ The middle-aged woman helped her pick up her sample books from the floor, a tall capable woman who had been secretary to the last President of the company for over twenty years. Leonie had met her when she worked here last, and although the other woman tried to be distant and authoritative, her warm brown eyes belied the role.

Leonie liked the other woman, but she wasn’t sure she liked anyone seeing her sprawled on the floor in that undignified way. ‘An hour or so,’ she dismissed distractedly, pushing the books into her briefcase, anxious to get out of the lift.

Stella Carlson followed her out into the corridor. ‘In all the years I’ve worked here I’ve never known any of the lifts break down before,’ she shook her head.

Leonie grimaced, brushing her skirt down. ‘I have a strange effect on lifts.’

‘Really?’ the other woman frowned. ‘Well as long as you’re all right now…?’

‘Fine,’ she nodded dismissively. ‘I’m too late for my meeting, so perhaps you could explain the reason for my delay to your boss and I could make another appointment for tomorrow?’

‘Didn’t you hear, you’re to go in as soon as you feel able to.’

She thought of the man with the black shoes and grey trousers. ‘That was the new President of the company?’ she dreaded the answer, although she knew what it was going to be.

‘Yes,’ Mrs Carlson confirmed.

Oh David, Leonie mentally groaned, I didn’t trip and slide across his desk into his lap, but I did lie sprawled at his feet on the floor of a lift that never broke down! David would never understand, things like this just didn’t happen to him. They didn’t happen to any normal person!

‘Now seems as good a time as any,’ she said dully, knowing her dignity was past redemption. ‘I’m sure I’ve delayed you long enough already.’

‘Not at all,’ the other woman assured her as they walked side by side down the corridor. ‘Things have been a little—hectic, here the last few weeks.’

The new boss was obviously giving the employees a shake-up, Leonie thought ruefully, her humour leaving her as she realised she would probably be in for the same treatment. After all, if she hadn’t been ten minutes late in the first place she wouldn’t have been in the lift when it broke down. Or would she? As she had told Mrs Carlson, she had a strange effect on lifts. She had a strange effect on most inanimate objects, things just seemed to happen to them whenever she was around.

She smoothed her skirt down as Mrs Carlson knocked on the office door, unaware of the fact that her hair was sadly in need of brushing after her fall, that the fullness of her mouth was bare of lipgloss where she had chewed on her lips as she looked through the sample books. Not that she would have worried too much about it if she had known; she couldn’t possibly make a worse impression than she had as she grovelled about the lift floor!

Mrs Carlson opened the door after the terse instruction from within for them to enter. ‘Miss Grant, sir,’ she introduced quietly.

Leonie stared at the man seated behind the desk, the man that belonged to the black shoes and grey legs, the rest of the dark grey suit as impressive, the waistcoat taut across his flat stomach, the tailored material of the jacket stretched across widely powerful shoulders, the white shirt beneath the suit making his skin look very dark.

But it was his face that held her attention, a harshly attractive face, his chin firm and square, the sensuality of his mouth firmly controlled, his nose long and straight, ice-grey eyes narrowed on her beneath darkly jutting brows, silver threading the darkness of his hair at his temples and over his ears. Anyone who was in the least familiar with the businessworld would recognise Adam Faulkner from his photographs in the newspapers, one of the most successful—and richest—men in England today. He was also——

‘Miss Grant,’ he stood up in fluid movements, the coldness instantly gone from his eyes, his voice warm and friendly, his hand enveloping hers in a grip that was pleasantly warm, not too firm and not too loose; the exactly right handshake for a businessman to instil confidence in the person he was dealing with.