That Devil Love

Looking up to meet those brilliant eyes, she said blankly, ‘Lunch?’

‘Yes. I want you with me.’ She was about to refuse curtly, when he added, ‘I have a luncheon appointment with Cyrus Oates, the American tycoon. As it’s at his hotel, his wife will be with him.’

‘I’m not dressed for lunching out,’ she objected.

‘You’re dressed like the perfect secretary,’ he assured her mockingly. ‘Which is just as well, because after lunch I’ve a meeting at the bank, and I’d like you to take notes.’

She emerged from the cloakroom some five minutes later, hair and make-up checked, and they took the lift down to the underground car park where his silver BMW was waiting for him.

‘What do you usually do for lunch?’ he queried, when they were settled in the car.

‘Buy a sandwich,’ she told him, omitting to add that with high rents to pay both for her furnished flat and the Regent Street office it was all her tight budget would stand.

As they climbed the ramp to street level and joined the flow of traffic, he ordered, ‘Tell me about your business.’

‘I thought Stephen had given you all the information you wanted.’

Ignoring her prickly response, he asked, ‘Do you usually work alongside your staff as well as coping with the administration?’

‘Yes,’ she answered shortly.

‘But, being the boss, you can take your pick of the assignments?’

Oh, well, if he was determined to talk… And perhaps it was better than sitting beside him in strained silence.

‘It doesn’t usually work like that,’ she answered a shade ruefully. ‘I often get landed with the jobs no one else wants to do.’

Zan gave her a swift sideways glance and raised a black brow. ‘Such as?’

‘Well, there was taking care of George while the family went on holiday…’

‘George?’

‘A twelve-foot python. He turned out to be quite docile, not to say friendly. But feeding him proved a bit of a problem. The worst thing about pet snakes is they prefer their food on the hoof, so to speak. Have you ever tried making a very dead rat look alive?’

He was still laughing when they drew up outside the Farndale Hotel.

They were crossing the foyer when a large, balding man with rimless glasses and a paunch advanced on them. He held out a ham-like fist. ‘Hello, Power. Glad you could make it. This is my wife, Dorothy.’

An equally large lady with eyes as pale as ripe goose-berries in a fleshy face, came forward with an outstretched hand. Having greeted the pair courteously, Zan said, ‘May I introduce Miss Warrener, my secretary.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Warrener,’ Cyrus Oates boomed, while his shrewd grey eyes assessed her slim figure, her cool, patrician beauty.

During lunch, while the men discussed business, Annis asked, ‘Is this your first visit to England, Mrs Oates?’

The polite query was all that was needed to induce a flood of talk with the battering force of Niagara. A look of interest and an occasional word kept it flowing.

They were at the coffee stage, when with a suddenness that took Annis by surprise Mrs Oates finished an account of her visit to Harrods and said in strident tones, ‘Gee, but your boss sure is good-looking. Don’t you think he’s handsome, honey?’

‘I wouldn’t describe him as handsome myself,’ Annis said. Adding with a tight smile, ‘Any more than I’d describe the north face of the Eiger as pretty.’

Her comparison went over the American’s head.

‘But don’t you just love working for him?’

Annis caught a gleam of amusement in Zan’s heavy-lidded eyes which made her aware he was following both conversations.

Evading the issue, she answered, ‘I don’t actually work for Mr Power. I’m only a temp.’

Overhearing the last few words, Cyrus Oates exclaimed, ‘A temp?’ Then to Zan, ‘You don’t get many secretaries look that good. Guess you won’t want to part with her, huh?’

Catching Annis’s eye, Zan said with smooth meaning, ‘I shall certainly be taking steps to keep her with me on a more permanent basis.’

The subtle threat made a shiver crawl over her skin and her palms grow clammy with cold perspiration.

Lunch over, business matters apparently settled to everyone’s satisfaction, they made their farewells and set off for the bank. It was nearly half-past four by the time the meeting was finished, and Annis, who had attracted quite a few curious and interested glances, was feeling stiff and tired. Though she was not normally prone to headaches, her head throbbed dully and the back of her throat was rough and dry.

Outside it was a bleak, prematurely dark afternoon, with more than a hint of snow in the air.

Turning the BMW into the traffic stream, Zan remarked, ‘It’s too late to go back to the office. I’ll take you straight home.’

‘Really, there’s no need to go to all that trouble,’ she said stiltedly. ‘If you drop me at the next corner I can easily get the Tube.’

‘It’s no trouble.’ His tone was quietly adamant.

After a pause, when the expected opposition failed to materialise, he asked, ‘Have you lived at Fairfield Court long?’

‘About three years.’ She tried to hold at bay the hurt, the bitter memories crowding in on her.

‘Do you like being there?’

‘Not particularly.’ The modern, characterless flat, with its small, square rooms, was functional rather than pleasing.

‘Where does your brother live?’

Annis stiffened at the mention of Richard. Then, her voice as casual as she could make it, said, ‘He and Linda have a house in Notting Hill.’

‘Have you any more family?’

Like flicking a lighted match into a keg of gunpowder, that innocent question seemed to explode inside her head. She wanted to strike at him, to claw her nails down his handsome face, to watch him bleed.

Badly shaken by that flare of raw, primitive passion, the violence of her feelings, hands clenched into fists, she shook her head mutely.

Glancing at the frozen blankness of her face, Zan knew he’d hit a nerve. Though he didn’t know how or why. There was so much about this woman that he didn’t know. But he intended to.

When they reached Fairfield Court, Zan accompanied her to the door and waited while she unlocked it, but to her very great relief he made no move to follow her inside.

As she said a coldly formal, ‘Thank you,’ he stooped and touched his lips to hers in another of those light but proprietorial kisses that left her feeling as if she’d been caught in some terrifying whirlpool.