War Of Love

‘Look, I don’t know who you are,’ she told him exasperatedly, attempting to pull out of his grasp, failing miserably, only succeeding in bruising her arm even further as his fingers merely tightened their vice-like grip. She was still being pulled unceremoniously down the luxuriously carpeted hallway towards what she supposed was this man’s own office. She took a deep, controlling breath, determined not to appear to be intimidated by this man. Even if she was! ‘But—’

‘No, you don’t, do you?’ the man bit out grimly, grey eyes narrowed ominously. ‘But I know who you are. Or at least what you’re supposed to be.’ He sounded angry again now. ‘You fall far short of requirements!’

She had told her mother herself that she was far too short and slight to be a bunny girl, but there was no need for this man to be continually insulting about her lack of assets!

‘Now look,’ she spluttered again, intending to tell him exactly what she thought of his opinion. And what he could do with it!

‘I have.’ As if to prove his point, he gave another disparaging glance down the slender length of her body in the revealing outfit. ‘And so has every customer who entered the store this morning! Are you Doug’s latest girlfriend, is that it?’ he scorned, sculptured mouth twisted derisively. ‘It’s difficult to tell what you look like under that ridiculous rabbit head, but I suppose you could be pretty. And I know Doug’s tastes run to the youthfully nubile, so I suppose it’s possible that could be the explanation. It isn’t an acceptable one. To me,’ he added harshly. ‘But it’s the only one I can think of for the moment.’

Silke was once again rendered speechless; the arrogance of the man! ‘Could be pretty’! ‘Youthfully nubile’! The chauvinistic— And then she remembered what she was—or rather, wasn’t!—wearing, and knew there was really no defence she could offer to this man’s scorn when she gave every appearance of being a half-dressed bunny girl!

She barely had time to register the comfort of the next outer office he dragged her through, without stopping, before entering the even plusher office beyond—obviously his own—before she spotted the elderly man of earlier sitting in one of the leather armchairs that faced the imposing desk, the hazy smoke from the cigar he was puffing on with enjoyment filling the room. Silke’s nose—behind the rabbit mask—wrinkled with distaste at the foul-smelling weed.

But at least she had her explanation now; this old man had complained about her verbal rebuke earlier. She couldn’t help wondering what explanation he had given for having earned such a rebuke; she doubted he had told the other man of the way he had touched her bottom with such familiarity.

‘I took the liberty of helping myself to one of your cigars—oh, I say, Lyon.’ The older man’s eyes widened with enjoyment as he spotted Silke at Lyon’s side—what a name! And yet somehow it fitted the man’s fierceness exactly. ‘I know I said she was an appealing little thing, plenty of fire, but you didn’t have to bring her up here to meet—’

‘Shut up, Uncle Henry,’ the man who still held Silke rasped wearily. ‘Sit,’ he instructed her curtly, nodding in the direction of the second chair that faced the opulence of the brown leather-topped mahogany desk, around which he now moved to sit in yet another leather chair, a swivel one this time, leaning forward once he had done so, resting his arms on the leather top, his narrowed, steely gaze fixed on her steadily.

Uncle Henry! So she had made the mistake of actually snapping indignantly at this man’s uncle. That explained a lot. Perhaps she should have realised before now that the two of them were related; they both had those unusual grey eyes, and they were both arrogant enough in their own way! ‘Uncle Henry’ had touched her earlier as if he had a perfect right to do so, and his nephew had dragged her up here without explanation just as if he had as much right. God, what a family!

‘No need to take that tone with me, Lyon,’ Uncle Henry told him without rancour. ‘I’ve told you before, it has little effect when I’ve looked after you since you were a baby; bounced you on my knee, held you when you cried, wiped your nose for you, changed your—’

‘That last claim is definitely a figment of your imagination, Uncle Henry,’ the younger man cut in harshly. ‘You employed a nanny for that particular task. In fact—’ his mouth twisted scornfully—did it ever do anything else? Silke wondered, looking at him ‘—I don’t remember too much of the “knee-bouncing” either; you were always too busy following your own interests!’

His uncle looked unconcerned. ‘Businesses don’t run themselves.’ He shrugged.

‘I wasn’t referring to those sorts of interests,’ Lyon told him drily.

The older man grinned, grey eyes—eyes the same colour as his nephew’s, but oh, so different in expression!—twinkling merrily. ‘So many beautiful women in the world, and so few years to enjoy them! You should try it some time, Lyon; it might make all the difference—’

‘That’s enough, Henry!’ the younger man snapped tautly, eyes glacial now as he turned his attention back to Silke.

Which she instantly wished he hadn’t. She had been finding the two men’s confrontation enlightening to say the least, but it certainly hadn’t improved Lyon’s temper—and it was now directed back at her!

Well, if he had brought her up here, as she suspected he had, to reprimand her for her behaviour towards his uncle earlier, then he could go ahead and do it—and after he had, she would tell him exactly what a dirty old man she thought his uncle to be. And from the brief conversation between the two men just now, that shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise to him! In fact, attack was her best defence, and she would get in her opinion of his uncle before he could even start on her.

‘I don’t know what your uncle has told you happened downstairs earlier, but—’

‘I thought I told you to sit,’ Lyon observed softly—too softly, dangerously so—completely ignoring her words. Again.

Which Silke was becoming more than a little tired of! ‘I may be wearing this ridiculous bunny outfit—’ her eyes flashed deeply green behind the mask ‘—but underneath this I’m a person, not an animal to be ordered about!’ She was breathing deeply in her agitation.

‘I’m glad you agree that what you’re wearing is—inappropriate,’ he rasped drily, again ignoring what she had really said. ‘If you would care to remove—’

‘I don’t care to remove anything!’ she cut in frustratedly. ‘And if you can’t control the way your uncle behaves towards women, no matter what they are wearing, then I suggest you keep him away from them. Preferably far away!’ she snapped, looking from him to his mildly surprised uncle, before once again turning back to the younger man. ‘The few sharp words I said to him earlier were well deserved, and I would do it again given the same circumstances.’ She glared pointedly at the older man.

Lyon was now looking at his uncle too. ‘Circumstances?’ he prompted softly, dark brows raised questioningly.

The older man looked a little uncomfortable now. ‘Well, as I said, Lyon, she’s an appealing little thing.’ He moved his hands dismissively, once again billowing smoke around the room from the half-smoked cigar he still held.

‘And, being the old rogue that you are, you couldn’t resist the appeal!’ his nephew realised, shaking his head disgustedly. ‘God, Henry, you really are—’ He broke off abruptly as the intercom buzzed on his desk. ‘Yes?’ he rasped impatiently into the innocent machine.

‘Mr Moore to see you, Mr Buchanan,’ came the disembodied voice of his secretary.

Silke missed the rest of the conversation, staring at the man who sat so confidently across the desk from her, at last beginning to realise exactly why he was so confident. Mr Buchanan! This man, the man who had forcibly dragged her into the lift and up to the executive floor of the department store, was a Buchanan.

My God, and not just any Buchanan, from the way he had behaved towards her from the first and the deference with which the staff had treated him, but Buchanan himself, the owner of the store! Unless he was the son; she had thought the owner of the Buchanan group was someone called Charles Buchanan. Although this man’s uncle had said he had effectively been Lyon Buchanan’s guardian since he was a baby, so... None of this really made any difference to the fact that this man was a Buchanan. And the man she had verbally rebuked earlier was his uncle!

She didn’t need any further telling to sit down; she almost fell into the waiting chair. What a mess! And her mother...! Oh, God, what her mother was going to say about this she just didn’t like to think.

Silke turned dazedly as the office door opened behind them to admit Doug Moore.

‘Ah, Doug, so glad you could join us at last,’ he told the other man silkily now, getting slowly to his feet, instantly putting his personnel manager at a disadvantage with his superior height—if he needed any added advantage. His position as owner of the store already more than gave him that!

The younger man looked puzzled by his employer’s obvious displeasure—obvious, despite the pleasantness of his tone; there was an air of menace about Lyon Buchanan that was unmistakable. ‘I was down in Ladies’ Fashions when I got your message—’

‘A pity you didn’t pay Confectionery a visit some time this morning,’ Lyon Buchanan told him icily. ‘Would you like to tell me what that is?’

‘That’ was Silke!

She had recovered enough from the shock of realising exactly who this man was to look up to see what Lyon Buchanan was talking about, only to discover he was looking directly at her. She was ‘that’. Her shock was replaced by indignation as she realised he was once again talking about her as if she weren’t a person, with feelings, but an object to be discussed. And she didn’t care who he was, he still had no right—

‘Good God!’ Doug Moore, the man who had been perfectly charming to her earlier this morning when they met—probably because of his penchant for ‘pretty, youthful nubiles’—was now looking at her with something approaching horror. ‘I—my God...!’ he said again, weakly this time, looking in need of a chair himself now. Except that there wasn’t another one available!

‘A bunny girl, Doug,’ Lyon Buchanan rasped with feeling. ‘You employed a damned bunny girl in a costume so revealing that every lecher within a hundred miles made a beeline for her.’ He looked pointedly at his uncle. ‘A bunny girl,’ he repeated again, as if he could still hardly believe it, ‘to give away our line of chocolate Easter bunnies. When it should have been a cute fluffy rabbit children would find appealing!’

At last Silke was being given an insight into exactly why she had been dragged off the shop floor and up here to the office of Lyon Buchanan himself—and it had nothing to do with what she had said to his uncle Henry! She had wondered at his puzzlement earlier concerning her accusations towards his uncle; now she knew it was because he had had no idea of the verbal encounter between his Uncle Henry and herself; the way his uncle had informed him she was dressed appeared to be the problem!

‘Forgive me if I’m wrong, Doug,’ Lyon Buchanan continued smoothly—his tone saying he knew damn well he wasn’t the one in the wrong, that he rarely, if ever, was! ‘But I thought we had agreed, during the meeting concerning this particular promotion, that we would contact an agency and take on someone who would—’

‘Wear a cute, fluffy bunny costume while giving away the chocolates,’ Doug Moore finished weakly, staring at Silke in the revealing costume as if he still couldn’t quite believe his eyes. ‘I don’t understand how the mistake could have happened—’

‘Oh, you admit there’s been a mistake?’ his employer prompted with raised brows, still supremely confident in the mistake’s not being of his making.

Just as Silke was. But she wasn’t sure it was completely Doug Moore’s either; the instructions her mother had received had been ambiguous to say the least—a simple request for a girl in a bunny costume to promote a line at the store. And when Silke had reported to Doug Moore this morning she hadn’t been in costume, had changed in the staff-room later, so neither of them had realised then that the mistake had been made. And that appeared to be what this was: a genuine mistake, brought about through lack of information on both sides.

Although from the look of increasing anger on Lyon Buchanan’s face he wasn’t going to be satisfied with that explanation! But it was the truth, so what more could any of them say?

‘Buchanan’s has a reputation to uphold,’ he told his personnel manager icily. ‘And I don’t believe having a barely clothed bunny girl in fishnet tights parading around the store is quite the image—’

‘I’m not wearing fishnet tights!’ Silke cut in indignantly as she stood up; she had drawn the line at that part of the costume that had been supplied to her, preferring to wear her own sheer black tights. Not much of an improvement, she knew, when the entire length of her legs was visible, but it was better than those awful things that had arrived with the rented costume.

Lyon Buchanan looked down the long length of his autocratic nose at her. ‘In that case, you have a series of holes in the tights you are wearing, which is just as bad—’

‘What can you expect?’ Silke demanded indignantly, her cheeks burning hotly from where she had looked down and realised he was right about the holes in her tights; there were at least half a dozen in the right leg, and another two on the left. And she hated ladders or holes in her tights, usually carried a spare pair around with her when she was out; but there was nowhere in the briefness of this costume that she could have put a spare pair of tights. ‘After the way you manhandled me earlier—’

‘Really, Lyon,’ his uncle drawled drily, eyes twinkling merrily once again. ‘It’s good to realise you have more than the stuffy Buchanan blood running through your veins after all; that you found the young lady’s charms equally—’