Читать книгу Secretary On Demand - Кэтти Уильямс, Cathy Williams - Страница 8

KANE LINDLEY’S house was as far removed from Shannon’s expectations as it was possible to be.

She’d expected something modern and austere, perhaps a penthouse suite in a renovated building with thick white carpets to drown out the noise of an eight-year-old child, whom she imagined wandering forlornly amid the luxury, searching for places to hide from a largely absent father.

But when the chauffeur-driven car turned into a pair of wrought-iron gates, the house confronting her was an ivy-clad Victorian house with neatly trimmed lawns. The outside lights revealed mature trees shading some swings and a slide.

She rang the doorbell, feeling her stomach muscles tense. Kane Lindley was proving to be a very good boss, so how was it that she still felt a little quiver of alarm every time she saw him? In fact, even when he was working in his office and out of sight, there was still a part of her that seemed tuned in to his presence, waiting for him to emerge. She assumed that it was all wrapped up in the usual nervousness of being new to a job.

She might have surmounted this initial nervousness if he’d been out of the office much, as he’d implied he would be at their first interview, but, in fact, he was in a great deal. Through the partially open door, she was always aware of his clipped voice as he conversed on the phone or else his steady silence as he worked through paperwork and on his computer. Ever so often he would call her in and dictate something, and then he would swivel his chair away from his desk and talk fluently and smoothly at her, frowning as he spoke, while his fingers lightly drummed his thigh. And he never failed to peer in at least twice a day just to see how she was progressing.

She couldn’t really see why he hadn’t been able to find a suitable secretary. It was hardly as if he was prone to dramatic mood swings or unpleasantly critical behaviour, and she could only think that his pace was maybe too fast for someone with too little experience. If nothing else, working at Alfredo’s and at the radio station had promoted a healthy ability to think quickly and react without confusion to abrupt changes of routine.

A rotund, middle-aged woman answered the door, introduced herself as Mrs Porter and informed Shannon, without preamble, that Kane was waiting for her in the sitting room.

‘And where’s Eleanor?’ Shannon asked, anxious to make sure that the object of this evening visit hadn’t done something unfortunate, like gone to bed. A cosy little dinner with only Kane Lindley for company, while his daughter innocently slumbered upstairs, wasn’t an appealing prospect. But Eleanor, she was told, was in the sitting room with her father and was, she was also told in a confidential whisper, eagerly looking forward to meeting Shannon.

‘If you ask me,’ Mrs Porter said, her voice sinking lower so that Shannon had to strain to hear what she was saying, ‘Mr Lindley should have remarried a long time ago. A child needs a mother figure. No stability, that’s her problem, poor little mite. Young Carrie is fine with her, but she really needs someone permanent. Not these women friends who seem to drop in one minute and out the next.’

Shannon nodded, loath to continue talking in this manner about someone else’s private life yet avidly curious to find out more about Kane. Women friends? He had women friends? Of course he had, she thought, wildly trying to imagine what this long line of inappropriate women friends was like. He always seemed so controlled that the idea of him flinging himself passionately at a woman, growing weak at the knees whenever she came into the room, was beyond the powers of even her imagination.

Fortunately, the temptation to elicit more information on this suddenly raunchy side of Kane Lindley was abruptly halted by Mrs Porter pushing open the door to the sitting room and then stepping aside so that Shannon could enter.

‘I’ll be off now, Mr Lindley, if that’s all right with you. The food will just need heating up, but the table’s all set.’

‘Heating up?’

‘I can help, Dad.’ There was a childish eagerness to Eleanor’s voice that made Shannon ache.

‘Eleanor, this is Shannon, my new secretary. You’re going to be seeing a bit of her when I’m not around.’

‘Hello.’ She smiled briefly, then turned to her father with a pleading face. ‘But, really, Dad, I can help. I know what to do. Honestly.’

‘Eleanor, darling, you’re far too young to be doing anything in the kitchen. Most domestic accidents originate in the kitchen, did you know that? There are knives, fire, pans of boiling water—’

‘She can do a bit, Mr Lindley,’ Shannon interrupted, growing impatient with his listing of danger points which made the average kitchen sound like a death trap. ‘When I was Eleanor’s age, I was already doing a few basic things.’ She sneaked a glance at Eleanor who was gaping at her with shy gratitude. ‘You just have to make sure that there’s supervision and—’

‘You may have been preparing three-course meals at the age of eight, but Eleanor didn’t have your sturdy upbringing.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘Shannon comes from a family of seven children.’

‘Seven? Wow!’ The revelation had turned her eyes into saucers. ‘How lucky! I wish…’ Her voice trailed off and her eyes flitted across to her father.

‘I’ll make sure I supervise her, Mr Lindley,’ Shannon said hurriedly, before the telling sentence could be completed. ‘I mean, Eleanor, don’t you do home economics at school? A bit of baking and stuff?’

‘Not really,’ Eleanor admitted, frowning.

‘There, you see! Even the school realises the limits of letting children loose with dangerous objects.’ His eyebrows rose with the satisfaction of someone who has proved a point, and Shannon flushed hotly.

‘Actually, Mr Lindley—’

‘Kane. It’s ridiculous for us to be on such formal terms. And I can see from the indignant expression on your face that I’m about to be subjected to a lecture on the importance of teaching young children how to play with fire.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of lecturing you on anything of the sort,’ Shannon informed him in a huffy voice, ‘but what I’m talking about here is a wooden spoon, a bowl and a bit of stirring perhaps. How many young children do you personally know who have fallen victim to a sharp cut from a wooden spoon? And how many serious domestic accidents have been caused from a bit of stirring?’

‘We do woodwork at school,’ Eleanor interrupted helpfully. ‘Don’t we, Dad? Do you remember that box I made for you a few months ago? The one with the lid that could open and close?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’ But Shannon could tell from the vague expression on his face that the last thing currently stored in his memory bank was a box with a lid that could open and close.