No Need For Love

‘Time for a break,’ she murmured. She walked the width of her small office, poured herself a cup of coffee, then strolled back again. The black lace nightgown caught her eye; she stopped and caught it up lightly in her hand, shaking her head as she examined the gossamer straps and sheer bodice.

Maybe Betty would be one of the lucky ones and whatever she was dreaming today would last. Maybe her husband would be a man, not the boy Hannah had unwittingly married, who’d been so intent on his own desires that he’d slept with another woman in their bed. She could still remember the pain of coming home early from work and finding them there, a frill of black lace very like this one on the carpet.

The door swung open and banged against the wall. Sally, Hannah thought, and she swung around blindly and held out the damned nightgown.

‘Take this, will you please?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t want it cluttering up my...’

The burst of angry words caught in her throat. She gave a start as she looked into the grey eyes of her employer.

‘For me, Miss Lewis?’ Grant MacLean took the gown from her suddenly nerveless fingers. It slithered through his hands like a snake. ‘Charming,’ he said, his voice fairly purring. A little smile angled across his mouth. ‘But not quite my size.’

Colour raced into Hannah’s cheeks. ‘I—I didn’t know it was you, Mr MacLean.’

‘No. I can see that.’ MacLean’s gaze drifted impersonally over her, from her neatly clasped chestnut hair to the hazel eyes behind the oversized glasses, then down her grey worsted blazer to the hem of her matching calf-length skirt before returning to her face. He held out the gown as that tight smile inched across his lips again. ‘A gift from an admirer, perhaps?’

This time, she felt her face blaze crimson. ‘No! Of course not. How could you think... ?’ She fell silent. He was having fun at her expense, damn him! ‘It’s a gift,’ she said stiffly, snatching the gown from his hands. ‘For Betty, in the typing pool. She’s getting married Sunday, and——’

MacLean’s smile vanished. ‘Spare me the details,’ he said as he shouldered his way past her. ‘Just get your notes on the Gibbs case and come into my office—if you can spare the time, of course.’

Hannah glared at his retreating back. ‘Yes, sir.’ She gave the nightgown one last, condemning glance, then stuffed it into the box and slammed on the lid. Quickly, she stalked to the door and flung it open. A girl was coming towards her, hurrying towards the employees’ lunch room where the sounds of revelry had grown louder. ‘Here,’ Hannah said, shoving the box into the girl’s arms, ‘take this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s Betty’s gi——’

‘Miss Lewis!’ The voice roared out from behind her and Hannah flinched.

‘Just take it,’ she hissed, and then she shut the door, snatched up her pad and pencil, and hurried into Grant MacLean’s private office.

It was a large room but it was not furnished with the profusion of Oriental carpets and priceless antiques that filled the other partners’ quarters. A pair of black leather couches faced a low glass table to her right; to her left, a matching cabinet hid stereophonic equipment and a built-in bar. Ahead, centred against a backdrop of darkened glass, stood a rectangle of burled walnut that served as MacLean’s desk, flanked by a pair of leather chairs that complemented the one behind the desk.

It was a room almost spartan in its simplicity, yet it had an air of power and authority almost as tangible as the man it housed. He was standing at the window, his back to Hannah, staring out at the Golden Gate Bridge resplendent in the last rays of the afternoon sun, but one glance at his rigid spine and stiffly held shoulders suggested that he was not admiring the scenery.

Hannah ran her tongue over her lips as she moved towards him. ‘Mr MacLean?’ She waited for a few seconds. ‘Sir? You asked me to bring you my notes on Gibbs.’

‘Are you sure you have the time to spare, Miss Lewis?’ He swung around to face her. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to attend that fashion show down the hall.’

Her chin lifted. ‘That’s not necessary, sir, thank you.’

MacLean looked at her in silence, then jerked his head towards the door.

‘Close that,’ he said sharply. ‘My skull already feels as if there’s somebody inside hammering to get out without having to listen to the noise coming from that—that female victory party!’ Hannah’s brows lifted, but she said nothing, only turned and did as he’d asked. Then she marched to his desk, her sensible heels silent against the tightly knit cream Berber carpet. MacLean motioned her to a chair as he loosened his tie and sank into the one behind the desk. ‘That stupid woman,’ he muttered. ‘She wouldn’t agree to the settlement.’

Hannah was puzzled, but only for a moment. ‘Mrs Gibbs?’

‘Yes.’ He leaned forward and folded his hands loosely on the desk top. ‘We offered one million five, but she won’t take it.’ He shook his head, the harshly handsome face twisted into lines of disbelief. “‘I love him,” she keeps saying, as if that were about to change anything. Can you imagine? Of course,’ he went on in a smug, certain voice, ‘it’s all crap.’

He looked at Hannah. It was clear he was waiting for her to say something.

‘Is it?’

‘Sure. She’s just setting him up for the kill. She figures on getting more money out of him. Hell, they were married, what? Five years? What’s that worth in dollars?’

Hannah frowned. ‘I’m not sure you’re right, sir. After reading through the file, I——’

‘Well, Gibbs will pay. What choice has he got? But he’ll be twice as smart next time. He won’t let himself get led into marriage so easily.’

‘Mrs Gibbs manoeuvred him into marrying her?’

That smug look came over his face again. ‘I keep forgetting that you’re single, Miss Lewis. You’ve no way of knowing that marriage is never a man’s idea.’

Hannah’s brows lifted. ‘Is that right?’ she said politely.

‘Some pretty little thing comes along, the time is right, and wham, the next thing a man knows, he’s being dragged to the altar.’

‘Really,’ she said, even more politely. ‘How remarkable. I saw Mr and Mrs Gibbs the day they came in for that meeting; she seemed rather small to have accomplished such a feat.’

MacLean’s head came up sharply. ‘It’s a figure of speech,’ he said.

‘Ah.’ Hannah bent over her notepad and scratched something on it. ‘I should have realised.’

‘The point is, the bitch wants blood!’

‘Another figure of speech, of course,’ she muttered before she could stop herself. She swallowed hard. What was wrong with her? She felt as if the devil were pulling her tongue.

MacLean’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did you say something, Miss Lewis?’

Hannah took a breath. ‘Yes, sir. I said that you’re wrong about what Mrs Gibbs wants. She’s not after more money. She’s still in love with her husband.’

He stared at her for a moment, then shot from his chair. ‘When did you speak to her? Damn, she must have gone straight to the telephone after the meeting.’ He stalked around the desk, leaned down, and grasped the arms of Hannah’s chair. ‘What did she say, exactly? I want to know every word.’

Hannah wet her lips. ‘She—she didn’t.’

‘Didn’t what?’ MacLean’s dark brows drew together. ‘Surely you can remember.’

‘I mean, she didn’t telephone.’ Did he have to stare down at her like this? He was so close that she could see that his eyes weren’t really grey at all; they were a combination of blue and black and green, little streaking lines radiating out from the dark pupil.

‘She was here, then?’ He shook his head. ‘But she couldn’t have been. I came straight back; if she’d come by——’

‘She didn’t do that, either.’ Hannah took a deep breath. ‘I was—I was just saying what I thought, sir.’

‘What?’

‘I was—I was only offering my opinion.’

A muted scream of feminine laughter beating through the closed door punctuated her hurried words. Silence fell between them, and then MacLean let out his breath.

‘Your opinion,’ he said softly. ‘Your highly trained opinion as a paralegal, that is.’ A muscle knotted in his jaw. ‘I see.’