Читать книгу The Mistress Contract - HELEN BROOKS, Helen Brooks - Страница 6

‘ME?’ SEPHY stared at Mrs Williams—the company secretary’s assistant—in horror, her velvet-brown eyes opening wide as she said again, ‘Me? Stand in for Mr Quentin’s secretary? I don’t think I could, Pat. I mean—’

‘Of course you could,’ Pat Williams interrupted briskly, her sharp voice, which matched her sharp face and thin, angular body, signalling that the matter was not open for discussion. ‘You’re as bright as a button, Seraphina, even if you do insist on hiding your light under a bushel most of the time, and after six years at Quentin Dynamics you know as much as me about the firm and its operating procedures. More, probably, after working for Mr Harper in Customer Support and Service for four years.’

Sephy smiled weakly. The Customer Support and Services department was, by its very nature, a fast-moving and hectic environment within Quentin Dynamics, and in her position as assistant to Mr Harper—who was small and plump and genial, but the sort of boss who arrived late, left early and had three-hour lunch breaks most days—she was used to dealing with the hundred and one panics that erupted daily on her own initiative. But Mr Harper and Customer Service was one thing; Conrad Quentin, the millionaire entrepreneur and tycoon founder of the firm, was quite another!

Sephy took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea, Pat. I’m sorry, but I’m sure there must be someone else more suitable? What about Jenny Brown, Mr Eddleston’s secretary? Or Suzy Dodds? Or…or you?’

The other woman waved a dismissive bony hand. ‘Those two girls would last ten minutes with Mr Quentin and you know it, and with the end of year accounts to pull together I can’t desert Mr Meadows. No, you’re ideal. You know the ins and outs of the business, you’ve got a level head on your shoulders, and you’re used to dealing with awkward customers every day of the week so Mr Quentin won’t throw you. We can get a good temp to fill in for you until Mr Quentin’s secretary is back—’

‘Can’t Mr Quentin have the good temp?’ Sephy interjected desperately.

‘He’d eat her alive!’ Pat’s beady black eyes held Sephy’s golden-brown ones. ‘You know how impatient he is. He hasn’t got time for someone who doesn’t know the ropes, besides which he expects his secretary to practically live here, and most girls have got—’ She stopped abruptly, suddenly aware she was being tactless as Sephy’s small heart-shaped face flushed hotly.

‘Most girls have got boyfriends or husbands or whatever,’ Sephy finished flatly.

Sephy had never hidden the fact that she rarely dated and that her social diary wasn’t exactly the most riveting reading, but it wasn’t particularly warming to think that Pat Williams—along with everyone else, most probably—thought she had nothing better to do than work twenty-four hours a day.

‘Well, yes,’ Pat murmured uncomfortably.

‘What about Marilyn?’

‘Tried her first, lasted an hour.’

‘Philippa?’

‘Howled her eyes out in the ladies’ cloakroom all lunchtime and has gone home with a migraine,’ Pat said triumphantly. ‘She’s not used to men snapping and snarling at her like Mr Quentin did.’

Sephy thought of the beautiful ash-blonde who was the marketing manager’s secretary, and who had different men in flash, expensive sports cars waiting outside the building for her every night of the week and nodded. ‘No, I can imagine,’ she agreed drily. ‘And you think I am, is that it?’

‘Seraphina, please. Try it for this afternoon at least.’ In spite of the ‘please’ it was more of an order than a request, and Sephy stared at the other woman exasperatedly.

Pat Williams was the only person she knew—apart from her mother—who insisted on giving her her full Christian name when she knew full well Sephy loathed it, but it went with the brusque, army-style manner of the company secretary’s assistant, and the utilitarian haircut and severely practical clothes.

For her first two years at Quentin Dynamics, Sephy—along with the other secretaries and personnel of the hugely successful software firm that majored in specialist packages for different types of companies—had thoroughly disliked Pat Williams, but there had come a day when she and the other woman had been working late and she had found Pat in the ladies’ cloakroom in tears.

All Pat’s defences had been down, and when Sephy had discovered her history—an upbringing in a children’s home where she’d met the husband she adored, only for him to develop multiple sclerosis just after they married, which now confined him to a wheelchair and made Pat the bread-winner—her friendship with the older woman had begun.

And it was that which made Sephy sigh loudly, narrow her eyes and nod her dark head resignedly. ‘One afternoon,’ she agreed quietly. ‘But I can’t see me lasting any better than the others, Pat. It’s a well-known fact Madge Watkins is so devoted to him she puts up with anything, and she’s been his secretary for decades! How can anyone step into her shoes?’

‘She’s been his secretary for thirteen years,’ Pat corrected cheerfully, allowing herself a smile now Sephy had agreed to help her out of what had become a very tight spot. ‘And I’m not asking you to step into her shoes; they wouldn’t fit you.’

They both thought of the elderly spinster, who looked like a tiny shrivelled up prune but was excellent at her job, and absolutely ruthless when it came to ensuring that her esteemed boss’s life ran like clockwork with lesser mortals kept very firmly in their place. ‘How long is she expected to be in hospital?’ Sephy asked flatly.

‘Not sure.’ Pat eyed her carefully. ‘She was rushed in in the middle of the night with stomach pains and they’re talking about doing an exploratory op today or tomorrow.’

Wonderful. Sephy sighed long and loudly and left it to Pat to inform Ted Harper that his secretary and right-hand man—or woman, in this case—had been commandeered for the foreseeable future. He wouldn’t like it—he might have to start working for that sizeable salary he picked up each month—but he wouldn’t argue. Everyone fell down and worshipped at the feet of the illustrious head of Quentin Dynamics, and it wouldn’t occur to any of Conrad Quentin’s staff to deny him anything, Sephy thought wryly.

Not that she had had anything to do with him, to be fair, but it was common knowledge that thirteen years ago, at the age of twenty-five, Conrad Quentin had had a meteoric rise in the business world, and his power and wealth were legendary. As was his taste for beautiful women. He was the original love ’em and leave ’em type, but, judging by the number of times his picture appeared in the paper with a different glittering female hanging adoringly on his arm at some spectacular function or other, one had to assume his attraction outshone his reputation.

Or perhaps the sort of women Conrad Quentin chose thought they were beautiful and desirable enough to tame the wolf? Sephy’s clear brow wrinkled. Maybe they even relished the challenge? Whatever, in spite of his well-publicised affairs over the years, with some of the precious darlings of the jet-set, no one had managed to snare him yet.

Oh, what was she doing wasting time thinking about Mr Quentin’s love-life? Sephy shook herself irritably and then quickly fixed her face in a purposely blank expression as Pat sailed out of Ted Harper’s office and said cheerfully, ‘Right, that’s settled, then. I’ve told him I’ll get a temp here for tomorrow morning and he can manage for one afternoon. Are you ready?’

For Conrad Quentin? Absolutely not. ‘Yes, I’m ready,’ Sephy said, with what she considered admirable calm in the circumstances, resisting the temptation to nip to the ladies’ cloakroom. All the titivating in the world wouldn’t make any difference to the medium height, gentle-eyed, dark-haired girl who would stare back at her from the long rectangular mirror above the three basins.

She wasn’t plain, she knew that, but she was…nondescript, she admitted silently as she followed Pat out of the office and along the corridor towards the lift for the exalted top floor. Her honey-brown eyes, shoulder-length thick brown hair and small neat nose were all pleasant, but unremarkable, and to cap it all she had an abundance of freckles scattered across her smooth, creamy skin that made her look heaps younger than her twenty-six years.

‘Here we are, then.’ They had emerged from the lift and Pat was being deliberately hearty as she led Sephy past her own office and that of the company secretary and financial director. Conrad Quentin’s vast suite took up all the rest of the top floor, and to say the opulence was intimidating was putting it mildly. ‘Your home from home for the next little while.’

‘I said an afternoon, Pat,’ Sephy hissed quietly as the other woman opened the door in front of them. Sephy had visited the top floor a few times—rapid calls which had lasted as long as the delivery of files or whatever had necessitated—and she found the lavish surroundings somewhat surreal. ‘He’s bound to treat me the same as the rest.’

‘And how, exactly, did I treat the rest, Miss…?’

Sephy heard Pat’s sudden intake of breath, but all her senses were focused on the tall, dark man who had obviously been about to leave the room when they had opened the door. She had spoken to Conrad Quentin a few times in the six years she had been working at the firm—brief, polite words at the obligatory Christmas party and on the rare occasions their paths had crossed in the lift—but she had always been overcome with nerves at the prospect of saying the wrong thing and had escaped at the earliest opportunity. But now she certainly had said the wrong thing, and there was no retreat possible.

She stared desperately into the hard, chiselled face; the piercing blue of his eyes threw his tanned skin into even more prominence, picking up the ebony sheen in his jet-black hair, and she saw his straight black eyebrows were lifted in mockingly cruel enquiry.

And it did something to her, causing anger to slice through her body and tighten her stomach, and before she knew she had spoken she said, her voice tight and very controlled, ‘You know that better than me, Mr Quentin,’ and held his glance.

Pat looked as if she was going to faint at the side of her, and for the first time ever Sephy heard the company secretary’s cool dragon of a secretary babbling as she said, ‘This is Seraphina, Mr Quentin, from Customer Services. She’s been with us six years and I thought she would be suitable for temporarily standing in for Miss Watkins. Of course, if you think—’

The man in front of them raised an authoritative hand and immediately Pat’s voice was cut off. ‘You think I treat my staff unfairly, Seraphina?’ he asked silkily.

All sorts of things were racing through Sephy’s frantic mind. She couldn’t believe she had spoken to Conrad Quentin like that, and her heart was pounding like a drum even as tiny pinpricks of sheer, unmitigated panic hit every nerve and sinew. This could be the end of her extremely well-paid and interesting job. And the end of her job could threaten the new flat she had just moved into, the flat it had taken so long to find. And if she left with a black mark over her, if he refused to allow Mr Harper to give her a good reference, how soon could she get other work?

Conrad Quentin was the ultimate in ruthlessness—everyone, everyone knew that—and people didn’t talk back to him! People didn’t even breathe without his say-so. She must have had a brainstorm; it was the only explanation. Maybe if she grovelled low enough he’d overlook the matter?

And then something in the icy sapphire gaze told her he knew exactly what she was thinking and that he was fully expecting her to abase herself.

In the split second it took for the decision to be made Sephy heard herself saying, ‘If everything I have heard is true it would appear so, Mr Quentin, but not having worked for you personally I can’t be positive, of course.’ And she raised her small chin a notch higher as she waited for the storm to break over her head.

As he stared at her she was aware that the hard, masculine face—which just missed being handsome and instead held a magnetic attractiveness that was a thousand times more compelling than any pretty-boy good looks—was betraying nothing of what he was feeling. It was unnerving. Very unnerving. And she would dare bet her life he was fully aware of just that very thing.

‘Then we had better rectify that small point so that you can make a judgement based on fact rather than hearsay,’ he said smoothly, inclining his head towards Pat as he added, ‘Thank you, Pat. I’m sure Seraphina is capable of managing on her own.’ The tone was not complimentary.

‘Yes, of course. I was just going to show her where everything is…the filing cabinets and so on… But, yes, of course…’ Pat had backed out of the doorway as she had spoken, her one glance at Sephy saying quite clearly, You rather than me, kid, but you asked for it! before she shut the door behind her, leaving Sephy standing in front of the brilliant and eminent head of Quentin Dynamics.

He was very tall. The observation came from nowhere and it didn’t help Sephy’s confidence. And big—muscle-type big—with a leanness that suggested regular workouts and a passion for fitness.

‘So you have worked for Quentin Dynamics for six years?’

His voice was deep, with an edge of huskiness that took it out of the ordinary and into the unforgettable. Sephy took several steadying breaths until she was sure her voice was under control, and then she said quietly, ‘Yes, that’s right. That’s one of the reasons Pat thought you would prefer me to a temp.’

‘I don’t use temps.’

The laser-blue eyes hadn’t left hers for a moment, and Sephy was finding it incredibly difficult not to give in to the temptation to drop her gaze. ‘Oh…’ She didn’t know what else to say.

‘My secretary always aligns her holidays with mine and she is rarely ill,’ he continued coolly. ‘It doesn’t fit in with my schedule.’

The sweeping pretension brought her thickly lashed eyes widening, before she saw the mocking glint in his own and said weakly, ‘You’re joking.’

‘Many a true word is spoken in jest, Seraphina.’

They were standing in the outer office, part of which was kitted out as a small reception area. Deep easy seats were clustered around a couple of wood tables laden with glossy magazines, to the side of which were lush potted palms and a water chiller. Now he turned and walked past the sitting area to where his secretary’s huge desk and chair stood, just in front of the interconnecting door to his office.

There was a row of superior filing cabinets in an alcove at the back of the desk, and he flicked one tanned wrist as he passed, saying, ‘Acquaint yourself with those immediately. The more confidential files are kept in my office, along with data and documents relating to my other interests outside Quentin Dynamics. There are two sets of keys.’ He turned in the doorway to his rooms and again the blue gaze raked her face with its cold perusal. ‘I have one set and Miss Watkins has the other. Hopefully it will not be necessary to retrieve those from her; I am anticipating she will soon be back at her desk again.’

Not as much as she was, Sephy thought with a faint touch of hysteria. Suddenly Mr Harper and her battered little desk in Customer Services took on the poignancy of an oasis in the desert and she felt positively homesick.

Mr Harper might be work-shy and somewhat somnolent most of the time, and his personal hygiene was distinctly iffy on occasion, but he was rotund and genial and utterly devoted to his wife and children, and their ever-expanding family of grandchildren.

Conrad Quentin, on the other hand, was like a brilliant black star that kept all the lesser planets orbiting it in a perpetual state of fermenting unrest. It wasn’t just the knowledge that he was a multimillionaire with a well-deserved reputation for ruthless arrogance, who demanded one hundred per cent commitment from his employees—it was him, the man himself. The harsh, flagrantly male features and muscular physique had a sensualness about them that was overwhelming.

His virile maleness was emphasised rather than concealed by the wildly expensive clothes he wore, and the unmistakable aura of wealth and power was so real she could taste it. He was everything she disliked in a man.

Still, she didn’t have to like him, she reminded herself sharply, as she became aware he was waiting for her reply. She managed a careful, impersonal smile and said politely, ‘I’m sure she will, Mr Quentin.’ No, she didn’t have to like him, and with any luck the resilient Madge, who was about four-foot-ten and looked as if a breath of wind would blow her away but must have the toughness of a pair of old boots to have lasted this long with her high-powered, vigorous boss, would be back at her desk within the week.

Not that she had much chance of lasting a week—half a day would be doing pretty good, Sephy thought ruefully.

He nodded abruptly, closing the interconnecting door as he said, ‘Twenty minutes, Seraphina, and then I’d like you in here with the Breedon file, the Einhorn file and notebook and pencil.’

Pat, Pat, Pat… As the door closed Sephy leant limply against Madge’s desk for a moment. How could you blackmail me with friendship into this position?

And then she straightened sharply as the door opened again and he poked his head round to say, ‘Why haven’t I seen you before if you’ve worked here for six years?’ as though she had purposely been hiding in a cupboard all that time.

It was on the tip of her tongue to answer tartly, Because I’m not a model-type femme fatale with long blonde hair and the sort of figure that drives men wild—the type of woman Conrad Quentin usually went for if the newspaper pictures were to be believed—but a very ordinary, brown-haired, brown-eyed, slightly plump little nobody. But she felt that would be pushing her luck too far. Instead she gritted her teeth, forced a smile, and said quietly, ‘You have seen me, Mr Quentin. We have spoken on at least two or three occasions.’

‘Have we?’ He frowned darkly. ‘I don’t remember.’

He clearly considered it her fault, and she was prompted to retort, with an asperity it was difficult to temper, ‘There’s no reason why you should, is there? You’re a very busy man, after all.’ He was often abroad on business, and Quentin Dynamics was only one of his many enterprises, all of which seemed to have the Midas touch, and it was to this Sephy referred as she added quickly, ‘You can’t know everyone who works for you, and the way you’ve expanded over the years…’

‘I trust that is a reference to my business acumen and not my waistline?’ And he smiled. Just a quick flash of white teeth as he closed the door again, but it was enough to leave her standing in stunned silence for some long moments. The difference it had made to his hard cold face, the way his piercing blue eyes had crinkled and mellowed and his uncompromising jawline softened, had been…well, devastating, she admitted unsteadily. And it bothered her more than anything else that had happened that day.

But she couldn’t think of it now. She seized on the thought like a lifeline and took a deep, shuddering breath as she glanced towards the filing cabinets. She was here to stand in for the formidable Madge and she had to make some sort of reasonable stab at it. She had been used to looking after Mr Harper for four years and virtually carrying that office at times; she could do this. She could.

Twenty minutes later to the dot she knocked at the interconnecting door, the files and her notebook and pencil tucked under one arm.

She wished she had worn something newer and smarter than the plain white blouse and straight black skirt she had pulled on that morning, but it was too late now. They were serviceable enough, but distinctly utilitarian, and because she had overslept she hadn’t bothered to put her hair up, as normal, or apply any eye make-up.

Oh, stop fussing! The admonition came just as she heard the deep ‘Come in’ from inside the room. Conrad Quentin wouldn’t be looking at her, Sephy Vincent. He wanted an efficient working machine, and as long as she met that criterion all would be well.

She opened the door and walked briskly into the vast expanse in front of her. The far wall of the room, in front of which Conrad Quentin had his enormous desk and chair, was all glass. Before she reached the chair he gestured at, Sephy was conscious of a breathtaking view of half of London coupled with a spacious luxury that made Mr Harper’s little office seem like a broom cupboard.

‘Sit down, Seraphina.’

That was the fourth or fifth time; she’d have to say something. ‘It’s Sephy, actually,’ she said steadily as she sat in the plushly upholstered armless chair in front of the walnut desk, crossing her legs and then forcing herself to look at him. ‘I never use my full name.’

‘Why not?’ He had been sitting bent over piles of papers he’d been scrutinising, but now he raised his head and sat back in the enormous leather chair, clasping his hands behind his head as he surveyed her through narrowed blue eyes. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

The pose had brought powerful chest muscles into play beneath the thin grey silk of the shirt he was wearing, and at some time in the last twenty minutes he had loosened his tie and undone the top buttons of his shirt, exposing the shadow of dark body hair at the base of his throat.

Sephy cleared her dry throat. ‘It doesn’t suit me. Even my mother had to agree she’d made a mistake, but I was born on the twelfth of March, and on the calendar of saints Seraphina is the only woman for that day.’

He said nothing, merely shifted position slightly in the black chair, and now she was horrified to find herself beginning to waffle as she said, ‘Mind, it could have been worse. There’s a Gertrude and a Euphemia in the next few days, so perhaps I ought to be thankful for small mercies. But Seraphina suggests an ethereal, will-o’-the-wisp type creature, and I’m certainly not that.’

He leant forward again, the glittering sapphire gaze moving over her creamy skin, soft mouth and wide honey-brown eyes, and he stared at her a moment before he said, his tone expressionless, ‘I think Seraphina suits you and I certainly don’t intend to call you by such a ridiculous abbreviation as Sephy. It’s the sort of name one would bestow on a pet poodle. Have you a second Christian name?’

‘No.’ It was something of a snap.

‘Pity,’ he said laconically.

She didn’t believe this. How dared he ride roughshod over her wishes? she asked herself silently. She was searching her mind for an adequately curt response when he switched to sharp business mode, his eyes turning to the papers spread out over his desk as he said, his tone keen and focused, ‘How familiar are you with the Einhorn project?’

As luck would have it she had been dealing with the problems associated with this particular package over the last weeks, and she had just spent ten of the last twenty minutes delving into the file to see if there were any confidential complications Customer Services hadn’t been privy to. ‘Quite familiar,’ she answered smartly.

‘Really?’ He raised his dark head and the hard sapphire gaze homed in. ‘Tell me what you know.’

She considered for a moment or two, trying to pull her thoughts into concise order, and then spoke quietly and fluently as she outlined what had been a disastrous endeavour from the start, due to a series of mistakes which Sephy felt could be laid fair and square at Quentin Dynamics’ door.

He looked down at his desk as she began talking, a frown creasing his brow as he listened intently without glancing at her once. As she finished speaking the frown became a quizzical ruffle, and he raised his head and said, ‘Brains and beauty! Well, well, well. Have I found myself a treasure, here?’ And then, before she could respond in any way, ‘So, you think we should take the full hit on this? Reimburse for engineering call-out charges as well as a free upgrade for the software?’

It probably wasn’t very clever to tell him his company had made a sow’s ear out of what should have been a silk purse within the first half an hour of working with him, but Sephy took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘Yes, I do.’

‘And Mr Ransome’s report, that recommends we merely reduce the cost for the new software?’

Mr Ransome was trying to cover his own shortcomings with regard to the whole sorry mess, but Sephy didn’t feel she could be that blunt.

She didn’t answer immediately, and the blue eyes narrowed before she said quietly, ‘He’s wrong, in my opinion, and although the firm might save a good deal of money in the short term, I don’t think it will do Quentin Dynamics’ reputation any good in the long term.’

He gave her a long hard look. ‘Right. And you think that is important?’

‘Very.’ Now it was her turn to hold his eyes. ‘Don’t you?’

He folded his arms over his chest, settling back in his seat again as he surveyed her thoughtfully. The white sunlight streaming in through the plate glass at the back of him was picking up what was almost a blue sheen in his jetblack hair, and Sephy was aware of the unusual thickness of the black lashes shading the vivid blue eyes as she looked back at him.

He had something. The thought popped into her consciousness with a nervous quiver. Male magnetism; a dark fascination; good old-fashioned sex appeal—call it what you will, it was there and it was powerful. Oh, boy, was it powerful!

‘Yes, I do,’ he said quietly. He stared at her a moment more and then snapped forward, speaking swiftly and softly as he outlined various procedures he wanted put into place. ‘Internal memos to Customer Services, Marketing and Research,’ he added shortly. ‘You can see to those, I presume? And a letter to Einhorn stating what we have decided. And I want a complete breakdown from Accounts of all costs.’

‘You want me to write the memos and the letter?’ Sephy asked quickly as he paused for breath.

‘Certainly.’ The piercing gaze flashed upwards from the papers on the desk. ‘That’s not a problem, is it? I need my secretary to work on her own initiative most of the time, once I’ve made any overall decisions. I can’t be bothered with trivialities.’

Sephy nodded somewhat dazedly. She could see Madge earnt every penny of her salary.

He continued to fire instructions and brief guidelines on a whole host of matters for some few minutes more, and by the time Sephy rose to walk back to Madge’s desk she felt as though she had been run over by a steamroller.

She had enough work to last her two or three days and she had only been in there a matter of minutes, she told herself weakly as she plopped down on her chair. He was amazing. Intelligent—acutely intelligent—and with a razor-sharp grasp of what was at the heart of any matter that cut straight through incidentals and exposed the kernel in the nut.

And he scared her to death.

She worked solidly for the rest of the afternoon, her fingers flying over the keys of the word processor as the pile of papers for signature grew. Apart from telephone calls and a brief stop for coffee—delivered on a silver tray from the small canteen at the basement of the building by one of the staff and drunk at her desk—she didn’t raise her head from the screen, and it came as something of a shock when she glanced at her wristwatch just after half past five.

She quickly gathered up all the correspondence awaiting signature and knocked at the interconnecting door, hearing the deep ‘Come in’ as butterflies began to flutter in her stomach.

He glanced up from his hand-held dictating machine as she entered, his expression preoccupied. He had been running his hand through his hair, if the ruffled black crop was anything to go by, and the tie had gone altogether now, along with a couple more buttons being undone, which exposed a V of tanned flesh and dark curling body hair.

The butterflies joined together in an explosive tarantella, and Sephy forced herself to concentrate very hard on a point just over his left shoulder as she smiled brightly and walked across to his desk. ‘Correspondence for signature,’ she squeaked, clearing her throat before adding, ‘The post goes at six, so if you could look at them now, please? I didn’t realise what the time was.’

He glanced at the gold Rolex on his wrist. ‘Hell!’

‘What’s the matter?’ Sephy asked guardedly.

‘I’ve a dinner engagement at seven,’ he muttered abstractedly. ‘Look, ring her, would you? Explain about Madge, and that things are out of kilter here, and say I’ll be half an hour late. She won’t like it—’ he grimaced slightly ‘—but don’t stand any nonsense.’

‘Ring who?’

‘What?’ He clearly expected her to be a mind-reader, as no doubt the faithful Madge was. ‘Oh, Caroline de Menthe; the number’s in here.’

He threw the obligatory little black book which he’d fetched out of a drawer across the desk.

‘Right.’ She took a deep breath and let it out evenly. She had heard of Caroline de Menthe. Everyone in the world had heard of the statuesque French model, who had the body of a goddess and the face of an angel and who was the toast of London and every other capital city besides. And she was his date. Of course she was. She was the latest prize on the circuit so she’d be bound to be, wouldn’t she? Sephy thought with a shrewishness that surprised her.

Once back at her desk she thumbed through the book, trying to ignore the reams of female names, and then, once she had found Caroline de Menthe, dialled the London number—there were several international numbers under the same name. She spoke politely into the receiver when she got through to the Savoy switchboard.

It was a moment or two before Reception connected her, and then a sultry, heavily accented voice said lazily, ‘Caroline de Menthe.’

‘Good afternoon, Miss de Menthe,’ Sephy said quickly. ‘Mr Quentin has asked me to call you to say he is sorry but he’ll be half an hour late this evening. His secretary has been taken ill and he is running a little behind schedule. He will pick you up at about half past seven if that is all right?’

‘And you are what? An office girl?’ The seductive sultriness was gone; the other woman’s tone was distinctly vinegary now.

‘I am standing in for Mr Quentin’s secretary,’ Sephy stated quietly, forcing herself not to react to the overt rudeness.

There was a moment’s silence, and then the model said curtly, ‘Tell Mr Quentin I will be waiting for him,’ and the phone went dead.

Charming. Sephy stared at the receiver in her hand for a moment before slowly replacing it. Caroline de Menthe might be beautiful and famous and have the world at her feet, but she didn’t have the manners of an alley cat. She glanced at the interconnecting door as she wrinkled her small nose. And that was the sort of woman he liked? Still, it was absolutely nothing to do with her. She was just his temporary secretary—very temporary.

The telephone rang, cutting off further deliberations, and when she realised it was the hospital asking for Mr Quentin she put the call through to him immediately.

It was a minute or two before the call ended and he buzzed her at once. She opened the door to see him sitting back in his chair with a stunned look on his dark face. ‘It’s cancer,’ he said slowly. ‘The poor old girl’s got cancer.’

‘Oh, no. Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Sephy said helplessly. He looked poleaxed and positively grey, and she was amazed how much he obviously cared.

‘They think it’s operable and that she’ll be okay in the long run, but it’ll be a long job,’ he said flatly, after taking a hard pull of air. And then he made Sephy jump a mile as he drove his fist down on to the desk with enough force to make the papers rise an inch or two. ‘Damn stupid woman,’ he ground out through clenched teeth. ‘Why didn’t she say something? The consultant said she must have been in pain for some weeks.’

‘She probably thought it was viral, something like that,’ Sephy pointed out sensibly. ‘No one likes to think the worst.’

‘Spare me the benefit of inane female logic,’ he bit back with cutting coldness.

She swallowed hard. Okay, so he was obviously upset about Madge, and she would ignore his rudeness this time, but if he thought she was going to be a doormat he’d got another think coming! She wouldn’t take that from anyone.

‘Hell!’ It was an angry bark. ‘This is going to hit her hard. Her job is her life, it’s what makes her tick, and she’s been with me from the start. She’ll hate the idea of being laid low, and she’s got no friends, just a sister somewhere or other.’

Sephy remained silent. This was awful for Madge, and difficult for him, but once bitten, twice shy. She was saying nothing.

‘So…’ He rose from the desk and turned to the window so his back was towards her. ‘She’s covered by the company’s private health plan, but make sure she’s in the best room available; any additional costs will be covered by me personally. And send her some flowers and chocolates and a selection of magazines. Is there anything else you, as another woman, would think she’d like?’ he asked, turning to face her with characteristic abruptness.

She stared at him. ‘A visit?’ she suggested pointedly.

His eyes narrowed into blue slits and he was grimly silent for a full ten seconds before he said expressionlessly, ‘I don’t like hospitals,’ as though that was the end of the matter.

‘If she’s as lacking in friends as you said she’d still like a visit,’ Sephy said stolidly. ‘She must be feeling very vulnerable tonight, and probably a bit frightened.’

She saw his square jaw move as his teeth clenched hard and then he sighed irritably, a scowl crossing his harsh attractive face. ‘She’s probably exhausted right now,’ he snapped tightly. ‘It doesn’t have to be tonight, does it?’

Sephy thought of the ravishing Caroline de Menthe waiting at the Savoy and smiled sweetly. ‘That’s up to you, of course, but a little bit of reassurance at a time like this goes a long way,’ she said with saccharine gentleness.

She gathered up the pile of correspondence, now duly signed, as she spoke, and then felt awful about the covert bitchiness when he said, his tone distracted, ‘That’s excellent work by the way, Seraphina. I trust you’ve no objection to standing in for Madge for the next few weeks?’

She hesitated for a moment, his big, broad-shouldered body and rugged face swimming into focus as she raised her head from the papers in her hands, and then, as he raised enquiring black eyebrows she forced herself to smile coolly. ‘Of course not,’ she lied with careful composure. ‘If you think I’m up to the job, that is.’

‘I don’t think there is any doubt about that,’ he returned drily, the deep-blue eyes which resembled a cold summer sea watching her intently. ‘No doubt at all.’

And this time he didn’t smile.