Читать книгу The Mistress Contract - HELEN BROOKS, Helen Brooks - Страница 7

QUENTIN DYNAMICS occupied a smart, four-storey building in Islington and Sephy’s new flat was just a ten-minute walk away, which was wonderful after years of battling on the train from Twickenham.

The late September evening was mellow and balmy as she trod the crowded London pavements, and the chairs and tables outside most of the pubs and cafés were full as Londoners enjoyed an alfresco drink in the Indian summer the country was enjoying.

Everyone seemed relaxed and easy now the working day was finished, but Sephy was conscious that she felt somewhat stunned as she walked along in the warm, traffic-scented air, and more tired than she had felt in a long, long time.

Mind you, that wasn’t surprising, she reassured herself silently in the next moment. She always worked hard—as Mr Harper’s secretary she was used to working on her own initiative and dealing with one panic after another most days—but being around Conrad Quentin was something else again! The man wasn’t human—he was a machine that consumed facts and figures with spectacular single-mindedness and with a swiftness that was frightening.

No wonder he had risen so dramatically fast to the top of his field, she thought ruefully as she neared the row of shops over which her flat—and ten others—were situated. Other men might have his astute business sense and brilliance, but they were lacking the almost monomaniacal drive of the head of Quentin Dynamics.

Was he like that in all areas of his life? A sudden picture of Caroline de Menthe was there on the screen on her mind, along with the long list of women’s names in the little black book he had tossed to her. It was an answer in itself and it made Sephy go hot inside.

He would be an incredible lover; of course he would! He had lush beauties absolutely panting after him, and inevitably they were reduced to purring pussycats by the magnetism that surrounded him like a dark aura, if all the society photographs and office gossip were anything to go by.

He was king of the small kingdom he had created, an invincible being who had only to click his fingers to see his minions falling over themselves to please him. And he knew it.

She didn’t know why it bothered her so much but it did. Sephy was frowning as she delved in her shoulder bag for her keys to unlock the outside door, behind which were stairs leading to the front door of her flat, and the frown deepened as she heard Jerry’s voice call her name.

Jerry was the young owner of the menswear shop, and nice enough, even good-looking in a floppy-haired kind of way, but although Sephy liked him she knew she could never think of him in a romantic sense. He was too…boyish.

Jerry, on the other hand, seemed determined to pursue her, even after she had told him—politely but firmly—that there was no chance of a date. It made her feel uncomfortable, even guilty, when he was so likeable and friendly, as though she was smacking down a big amiable puppy with dirty feet who wanted to play.

She raised her eyes, her hand still in her bag, and turned her head to see Jerry just behind her, the very epitome of public school Britain in his immaculate flannels and well-pressed shirt.

‘Just wanted to remind you about Maisie’s party tonight,’ he said earnestly. ‘You hadn’t forgotten?’

She had. Maisie occupied the flat two doors along, above her own boutique, and her psychedelic hair—dyed several vivid colours and gelled to stick up in dangerous-looking spikes—and enthusiastic body-piercing hid a very intelligent and shrewd mind. And Maisie’s parties were legendary. The trouble was—Sephy’s eyes narrowed just the slightest as her mind raced—Maisie and all of Jerry’s other friends knew how he felt about her and, ever since she had moved into the flat, some eight weeks ago, had been trying to pair them off.

She had just opened her mouth to give voice to the weakest excuse of all—a blinding headache, which had every likelihood of being perfectly true the way her head was thumping after the hectic day—when a deep cold voice cut through the balmy evening air like a knife through butter.

‘It would have been quicker to walk here with this damn traffic.’

‘Mr Quentin!’ She had whirled right round to face the road at the sound of his voice and her heart seemed to stop, and then race on like a greyhound.

Conrad Quentin was sitting at the wheel of a silver Mercedes, the driver’s window down and his arm resting on the ledge as he surveyed her lazily from narrowed blue eyes in the fading light. The big beautiful car, the dark, brooding quality of its inhabitant and the utter surprise of it all robbed Sephy of all coherent thought, and it was a few moments before the mocking sapphire gaze told her she was looking at him with her mouth open.

She shut her lips so suddenly her teeth jarred, and then made a superhuman effort to pull herself together as she muttered in a soft aside to Jerry, ‘It’s my boss from work,’ before walking quickly across the pavement to the side of the waiting vehicle.

‘One set of keys.’ He spoke before she could say anything. ‘I noticed them on the floor as I was leaving and thought they might be important?’ he added quietly as he handed her the keyring.

She stared at the keys for a moment before raising her burning face to his cool perusal. Her flat keys, the keys to her mother’s house and car, as well as those for Mr Harper’s office and the filing cabinets. What must he be thinking? she asked herself hotly. It wasn’t exactly reassuring to think one’s temporary secretary was in the habit of mislaying such items. Ex-temporary secretary!

‘I dropped my bag earlier.’ It was a monotone, but all she could manage. ‘They must have fallen out.’

‘Undoubtedly.’ It was very dry.

‘Tha…thank you.’ Oh, don’t stutter! Whatever else, don’t stutter, she told herself heatedly.

‘My pleasure.’ He eyed her sardonically.

‘It was when the fax from Einhorn came through,’ she said quickly. ‘I knew you were waiting for it and I knocked my bag off the desk as I went to reach for it. I must have missed the keys…’ Her voice trailed away weakly. It could have been his keys she’d dropped, the keys to his confidential papers and so on, if he had retrieved Madge’s set. Which he hadn’t yet. And when he did, he was hardly likely to give them to her now, was he? she belaboured herself miserably. He must think she was a featherbrain! And she’d never done anything like this with Mr Harper.

‘No one is perfect, Seraphina.’ And then he further surprised her when he added, the brilliant blue eyes holding hers, ‘It’s a relief, actually. I was beginning to think I’d have my work cut out to keep up with you.’

Her mouth was open again but she couldn’t help it.

‘So…’ His dark husky voice was soft and low. ‘Is that the boyfriend?’ The blue eyes looked past her and they were mocking.

‘What?’ She was still recovering from being let off the hook.

‘The guy who is glaring at me.’ It was a slow, amused drawl. ‘Is he your boyfriend?’

Belatedly she remembered Jerry, and as she turned her head, following the direction of Conrad Quentin’s eyes, she saw Jerry was indeed glaring. ‘No, no of course not,’ she said distractedly. ‘He’s just a neighbour, a friend.’

The black eyebrows went a notch higher. ‘Really?’ It was cryptic.

‘Yes, really,’ she snapped back, before she remembered this was Conrad Quentin she was talking to. ‘He…he owns the shop below my flat,’ she said more circumspectly. ‘That’s all.’ And then she added, as the vivid blue gaze became distinctly uncomfortable, ‘Thank you so much for bringing the keys, and I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble.’

‘How sorry?’ he asked smoothly.

‘What?’ It was becoming a habit, this ‘what?’, but then she might have known he wouldn’t react like ninety-nine per cent of people would to her gracious little speech, she told herself silently.

‘I said, how sorry?’ he drawled lazily, the sapphire eyes as sharp as blue glass. ‘Sorry enough to accompany me to the hospital tonight?’

She almost said ‘The hospital?’ before she managed to bite back the fatuous words and say instead, ‘Why would you want me to do that, Mr Quentin?’ with some modicum of composure.

‘I told you, I don’t like hospitals,’ he said easily as he settled back in the leather seat. ‘Besides, I’m sure Madge would feel more comfortable with another woman around.’

‘I thought you had a date for tonight? I’m sure Miss de Menthe would be pleased to accompany you.’ She hadn’t meant to say it but it had just sort of popped out on its own.

‘Caroline is not the sort of woman you take to the hospital to visit your aged secretary,’ he said drily.

No, she’d just bet she wasn’t! Sephy thought nastily. No doubt he had something else entirely in mind for the voluptuous model.

‘But of course if you have other plans…’

She stared at him, her mind racing. If she stayed at home she would have to go to the party, and that would mean a night of further embarrassment with Jerry, because one thing was for sure—he’d made up his mind he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Which would have been nice and flattering if she’d even the slightest inkling of ever fancying him. As it was…

‘When are you thinking of going?’ she asked carefully, her voice low.

‘Now seems as good a time as any.’ And then he smiled slowly, a fascinatingly breath-stopping smile, as he added, ‘Does that mean you are considering taking pity on me?’

Sephy stood as though glued to the hot pavement and swallowed twice before she managed to say, ‘I’ll have to go and change first. I’ll be about five minutes?’

‘Fine.’ He glanced over her shoulder. ‘The guy who isn’t the boyfriend looks like he wants a word with you,’ he drawled laconically before the sapphire gaze homed in again on her warm face.

‘Yes, right…’ She was backing away as she spoke, suddenly overwhelmed by what she had agreed to.

She must be mad, she told herself silently as she walked back to Jerry, who was waiting in the doorway of his shop, his pleasant, attractive face straight and his brown eyes fixed on her face. If it was a choice of an evening fending off Jerry as kindly as she could or choosing to spend an hour or so in Conrad Quentin’s company there was no contest! The amiable puppy had it every time. But it was too late now.

‘You told me your boss was small and fat and had eight grandchildren,’ Jerry accused her as she reached his side.

‘He is and he does,’ Sephy said weakly. ‘That’s the owner of the business, Mr Quentin, and I’m standing in for his secretary for a while. There…there’s an emergency and I’ve got to go with him.’ She was terribly conscious of the parked car behind them.

‘Now?’ Jerry made no effort to lower his voice.

‘I’m afraid so.’ She nodded firmly and inserted the key in the lock as she added, ‘So it looks like the party is off for me, Jerry. Make my apologies to Maisie, would you? Tell her I’ll see her at the weekend. For a coffee or something.’

‘How long do you think you will be?’ He was nothing if not hopeful, his voice holding a pleading note which increased her guilt.

‘Ages,’ she answered briskly as the door swung wide. ‘Bye, Jerry.’ This was definitely a case of being cruel to be kind.

She ran quickly up the stairs to the flat, but once inside in the small neat hall she stopped still, staring at her reflection in the charming antique mirror her mother had bought her for a housewarming present.

Anxious honey-brown eyes stared back at her, and it was their expression she answered as she said, ‘You might well be worried! As though working with him isn’t bad enough you have to agree to go with him tonight.’ He obviously wouldn’t have dreamt asking the beautiful Caroline to do anything so mundane, but Sephy Vincent? Well, she was just part of the office machine, there to serve and obey. She grimaced at her reflection irritably.

What had he said? Oh, yes—Caroline de Menthe was not the sort of woman you took to a hospital to visit your secretary. She—clearly—was. Which said it all, really.

The soft liquid eyes narrowed and hardened and her mouth became tight. Okay, so she wasn’t an oil painting and she never would be, and she could do with losing a few pounds too, but no one had ever suggested she walk round with a paper bag over her head! And Jerry fancied her.

The last thought brought her back to earth with a bump. What was she doing feeling sorry for herself? she asked the dark-haired girl in the mirror with something akin to amazement in her face now. This wasn’t like her. But then she hadn’t felt like herself all afternoon if it came to it. It was him, Conrad Quentin. He was…disturbing. And he was also waiting outside, she reminded herself sharply, diving through to the bedroom in the same instant.

She threw off her crumpled work clothes and grabbed a pretty knee-length flowered skirt she had bought the week before, teaming it with a little white top and matching waist-length cardigan. She didn’t have time to shower, she decided feverishly, but she quickly bundled her hair in a high knot on top of her head, teasing her fringe and several tendrils loose, and then applied a touch of eyeshadow and a layer of mascara to widen her eyes.

The whole procedure had taken no more than five minutes and she was out in the street again in six, to find him lying back indolently in the seat with his eyes shut and his hands behind his head as he listened to Frank Sinatra singing about doing it his way.

Very appropriate, she thought a trifle caustically. If only half the stories about Conrad Quentin were true he certainly lived his life by that principle.

His eyes opened as she reached the car and he straightened, glancing at his watch as he murmured, ‘When you say five minutes you really mean five minutes, don’t you?’ before leaning across and opening the passenger door for her to slide in.

‘You find that surprising?’ she asked unevenly as the closeness of him registered and all her senses went into hyperdrive.

‘For a woman to say what she means?’ He half turned in his seat, the brilliant blue gaze raking her hot face. ‘More of a minor miracle,’ he drawled cynically, one black eyebrow quirking mockingly as he started the engine.

Sephy would have liked to come back with a sharp, clever retort, but the truth of the matter was that she was floundering. She’d never ridden in a Mercedes before for a start, and the big beautiful car was truly gorgeous, but it was the man at the wheel who was really taking her breath away.

The office—with plenty of air space, not to mention desks, chairs and all the other paraphernalia—was one thing; the close confines of the car were quite another. They emphasised his dominating masculinity a hundredfold, and underlined the dark, dangerous quality of his attractiveness enough to have her sitting as rigid as a piece of wood.

She tried telling herself she was stupid and pathetic and ridiculous, but with the faint smell of his aftershave teasing her senses and his body warmth all about her it didn’t do any good. This was Conrad Quentin—Conrad Quentin—and she still couldn’t quite believe the whole afternoon had happened, or that she was actually sitting here with him like this.

She felt a momentary thrill that she didn’t understand and that was entirely inappropriate in the circumstances, and reminded herself—sharply now—that she had to keep her wits about her after the episode of the keys if he wasn’t going to think she was utterly dense. She was a useful office item as far as he was concerned—like the fax or the computer—and he expected cool, efficient service.

He was a very exacting employer, and it was well known that he suffered fools badly—in fact he didn’t suffer them at all! And that was fair enough, she told herself silently, when you considered he paid top salaries with manifold perks like private health insurance and so on.

He was the original work hard and play hard business tycoon, and until today she had never so much as exchanged more than half a dozen words with him, so it wasn’t surprising she was feeling a bit…tense. Well, more than a bit, she admitted ruefully.

And then, as though he had read her mind, she was conscious of the hard profile turning her way for an instant before he said softly, ‘Relax, Seraphina. I’m not going to eat you.’

Her head shot round, but he was looking straight ahead at the road again and the imperturbable face was expressionless.

It took her a second or two, but then she was able to say, her voice verging on the icy, ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Quentin,’ even as she knew her face was burning with hot colour.

‘The suggestion that you accompany me to the hospital was purely spontaneous,’ he said mildly, without looking at her again. ‘I’m not about to leap on you and have my wicked way, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘Nothing is worrying me,’ she bit back immediately, horrified beyond measure, ‘and I wouldn’t dream of thinking you intended…that you would even think of—’ She stopped abruptly, aware that she was about to burst into flames, and took a deep breath before she said, ‘I’m quite sure you are not that sort of man, Mr Quentin.’

There was a moment of blank silence, when Sephy felt the temperature drop about thirty degrees, and then he said, his dark voice silky-soft, ‘I do like women, Miss Vincent.’

This was getting worse! ‘I know you do,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course I know that; everyone does. I just meant—’ She wasn’t improving matters, she realised suddenly, as she risked a sidelong glance at the cold rugged face.

‘Please, do continue.’ It was curt and clipped. “‘Everyone” takes an interest in my love life, do they?’

Oh, blow it! He was the one prancing about with a different woman each week! What did he expect for goodness’ sake? ‘I was just trying to say I know you like women, that’s all,’ Sephy said primly, her face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and disquiet.

‘Right. So my sexual persuasion is not in question.’ There was liquid ice in his deep voice. ‘That taken as read, why would it be so unlikely that I might have ulterior motives in asking you to spend the evening with me?’

The evening? They were going to visit poor Madge Watkins, that was all! Afterwards she would realise she could have answered in a host of ways to defuse what had become an electric moment: he was not the sort of man to mix business and pleasure would have been a good one; she was aware he was dating someone at the moment could have been another. What she did say, the words tumbling out of her mouth, was, ‘There has to be some sort of a spark between a man and a woman, doesn’t there? And I’m not your type.’

‘My type?’ If she had accused him of a gross obscenity he couldn’t have sounded more offended. There was another chilling pause, and then he said, ‘What, exactly, do you consider my “type”, Miss Vincent?’ as he viciously cut up a harmless, peaceable family saloon that had been sailing along minding its own business.

She couldn’t make it any worse. She might as well be honest, Sephy told herself silently as the two ‘Miss Vincents’ after all the ‘Seraphinas’ of the day registered like the kiss of death on her career. ‘Women like Miss de Menthe, I suppose,’ she said shakily.

‘Meaning?’ he queried testily.

He didn’t intend to make this easy. ‘Beautiful, successful, rich…’ Spoilt, selfish, bitchy…

The grooves that splayed out from either side of his nose to his mouth deepened, as though she had actually voiced the last three words, but he remained silent, although it was a silence that vibrated with painful tension. Finally, he said coldly, ‘So, we’ve ascertained my type. What is your type, Seraphina?’

At least the Seraphina was back, although she didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing, Sephy thought feverishly as she clasped her hands together so tightly the knuckles showed white. And her type? That was funny if he did but know it. In the age of the Pill and condoms being bought as casually as bunches of flowers, she must be the only girl in the whole of London whose sexual experience was minimal to say the least. But that was the last thing she could say to a man of the world like Conrad Quentin. He’d laugh his head off.

The thought brought the door in her mind behind which she kept the caustic memories of the past slightly ajar, and as the image of David intruded for a second her stomach turned over. And then she had slammed it shut again, her mouth tightening as she willed the humiliation and pain to die.

She forced herself to shrug easily and kept her voice light as she said, ‘I guess I’m not fussy on looks; dark or fair, tall or short, it doesn’t matter as long as the guy is a nice person.’

‘A nice person?’ he returned mockingly, with a lift of one dark eyebrow, his large capable hands firmly on the wheel as he executed a manoeuvre that Sephy knew wasn’t exactly legal, and which caused a medley of car horns to blare behind them as the Mercedes dived off into a side-street to avoid the traffic jam which had been ahead. ‘And how would you define a nice person?’

A man who could accept that one-night stands and casual sex weren’t obligatory on the first date? Someone who could understand that some women—or certainly this one at least—needed to be in love before they would allow full intimacy, and who was prepared to think with his head and hopefully his heart rather than that other vital organ some inches lower. Someone who cared about her just a little more than their own ego, who didn’t mind that she hadn’t got a perfect thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six figure, with fluffy blonde hair and big blue eyes, someone…someone from her dreams.

Sephy twisted in the seat, knowing she had to say something, and then managed, ‘A man who is kind and funny and gentle, I suppose,’ and then cringed inside as he snorted mockingly.

‘And that’s it?’ he asked scathingly. ‘You don’t want a man, Seraphina. Your average cocker spaniel would do just as well. And the lovelorn guy back at your flat, does he fit all the criteria?’ he added before she could react to the acidic sarcasm.

‘Jerry?’ she asked with a stiffness that should have warned him.

‘Is that his name?’ He couldn’t have sounded more derisory if she’d said Donald Duck. ‘Well, it’s clear Jerry’s got it bad, and he looked a fine, upstanding pillar of the establishment and impossibly kind and gentle, or am I wrong?’

She didn’t often get angry, but around this man she seemed to be little else, and now the words were on her tongue without her even having to think about them. ‘I wasn’t aware that my job description necessitated talking about my friends,’ she said with savage coldness, ‘but if it does you had better accept my resignation here and now, Mr Quentin.’

There was absolute silence for a screaming moment, but as Sephy glared at him the cool profile was magnificently indifferent. He’d make a fantastic poker player, she thought irrelevantly. No wonder he was so formidable in business.

‘The name’s Conrad.’

‘What?’ If he had taken all his clothes off and danced stark naked on the Mercedes’ beautiful leather seats she couldn’t have been more taken aback.

‘I said, the name is Conrad,’ he said evenly, without taking his eyes from the view beyond the car’s bonnet. ‘If we are going to be working together for some weeks I can’t be doing with Mr Quentin this and Mr Quentin that; it’s irritating in the extreme.’

She wanted—she did so want—to be able to match him for cool aplomb and control, but it was a lost cause, she acknowledged weakly as she sank back in her seat without saying another word. Game, set and match to him, the insensitive, cold-blooded, arrogant so-and-so.