Читать книгу A Professional Marriage - Jessica Steele - Страница 7

IT WAS four weeks since Barbara had left, and Chesnie was thankful that in those four weeks she had not had to phone Barbara or needed to call on the services of Eileen Gray, a kind of floating PA who, while not wanting the pressure of being anyone’s full-time PA, was so good at the job that the company did not want to let her go.

Chesnie drove to work that Monday four weeks after Barbara’s departure and for the first time truly believed that she could do the job of Joel’s number one PA.

It had not been an easy four weeks. Joel Davenport, for all he made his job seem effortless, had an appetite for work that at first had caused her to work in overdrive just to try and keep up with him.

She worked late; once, when he was out for the day, staying at the office until gone nine at night to catch up and so have her desk clear for the next morning.

Most evenings she staggered home to make a quick snack, get her smart business clothes ready for the morning, and fall into bed. Sometimes she dreamed of him, but that was hardly surprising; he had become a dominant force in her life.

On one weekend she had visited her grandfather in Herefordshire, and another weekend she’d gone to see her parents in Cambridge. Robina had been there, having left Ronnie for a ‘final’ time. She was divorcing him, she’d declared in floods of tears, she’d had enough. Ronnie had phoned, and there were more tears as Robina had screeched a list of his faults down the phone at him.

All that hate and recrimination had served only to freshly endorse for Chesnie that she’d got the better bargain when 23 she’d decided never to marry. Though she had to smile—when would she get the chance? Working for and with such a high-powered, work-oriented man, she didn’t have the time to date, much less to build any kind of relationship.

Which reminded her. Nerissa had telephoned last night to say Philip Pomeroy had rung again and could he have her sister’s number?

‘You didn’t give it to him?’ Chesnie had asked, guessing that Philip wanted to ask her out; she didn’t have time to go out. By not letting him have her newly connected number, she was spared having to make excuses.

‘I promised you I wouldn’t,’ Nerissa had confirmed.

With her new-found confidence in her ability to cope with her job, Chesnie parked her grandfather’s car, swung into the building and took the lift to the top floor. It went without saying that Joel Davenport would already be hard at work. Unless he was out of town he was always in before her.

An involuntary smile lit her mouth as she recalled that first Monday after Barbara had gone. Hoping to look as cool and as poised as she was striving to look, Chesnie, feeling a bundle of nerves, had entered her office. No sooner had she sat down, though, and Joel Davenport had come to greet her as if it had been her first day.

‘Good morning, Chesnie,’ he’d said pleasantly. ‘We haven’t frightened you off, then?’

She had given him her guarded smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Davenport,’ she’d replied and, inwardly churning, ‘I don’t scare easily,’ she had added.

He’d studied her, nodded, and then commented, ‘That’s what I like to hear. The name’s Joel,’ he indicated, and her first day as numero uno had begun.

The door between the two offices stood open today, as it sometimes did when she went in. ‘Good morning,’ Chesnie called to the dark-blond-haired man absorbed in the paperwork in front of him.

‘Good morning,’ he answered, but did not raise his head. Business as usual.

Chesnie had barely stowed her bag when Darren, the post boy, arrived. ‘Good morning, Miss Cosgrove,’ he said huskily, and as their hands touched as she relieved him of the bundles of post he blushed crimson.

Chesnie took her eyes from him, giving him time to compose himself. ‘How’s your mother?’ she asked. ‘I do hope she’s on the mend.’ She glanced at him, glad to see his blush had died down.

‘She’s going back to work today,’ he answered on a gulp of breath. ‘Thank you,’ he added, and gave her a beautiful smile as his eyes glued to her face, he backed to the door.

Then he became aware that Joel Davenport had come from his office and was standing watching him—Darren bolted. ‘That young man idolises you,’ Joel said abruptly.

‘It’s only a crush,’ Chesnie replied, and was ready to deal with any query her employer had when she discovered he wasn’t ready to dismiss the subject yet.

‘He’ll never get over it while you treat him that way!’

What way was that? ‘I’d rather be pleasant to him than not,’ she answered, as calmly as she was able.

‘Is that the way you treat all your admirers?’

What had this got to do with work? ‘It depends how old they are,’ she replied evenly. ‘Young men like Darren, sensitive young men, deserve to have their blushes respected. Older, more cynical men,’ she went on, looking one such straight in the eye, ‘are too tough to need kid-glove treatment.’

A grunt was her answer. ‘Bring the post through when you’ve sorted it!’ he rapped.

Yes, sir, three bags full, sir. And, anyhow, he could talk! In the short time she’d been there she’d observed he had quite a fan club amongst the female staff.

The morning that had got off to a rancorous start did not improve much for Chesnie when, nearing one o’clock, Joel’s office door opened. Observing he wasn’t there, the most striking-looking blue-eyed brunette, sporting a sensational tan, fluttered through and into Chesnie’s office.

‘You must be Chesnie!’ She smiled. ‘Uncle Winslow told me all about you.’

‘Uncle Winslow’ must be Winslow Yeatman, the chairman. Chesnie had by then met him several times and found him a most charming gentleman. ‘You must be Arlene Enderby,’ Chesnie guessed—the non-working director of the company.

‘You have it. I’ve come to take Joel to lunch, but he doesn’t appear to be in.’

Chesnie, who managed Joel’s diary with keen efficiency, knew for certain he did not have a lunch appointment with the chairman’s niece. ‘He’s probably been held up somewhere,’ she suggested tactfully. ‘Perhaps…’

‘Oh, we haven’t arranged lunch. I’ve just got back from soaking up the sun on holiday.’ She almost purred as she trotted out, ‘We have such a lot to catch up on, I thought—’ She broke off to exclaim, ‘Ah!’ as they heard a door open and saw Joel stride into his office. ‘Joel! Darling!’ Arlene Enderby cried, and was in the other office, flinging her arms around him as if he was some long-lost lover.

Chesnie met the eyes of her employer as Arlene Enderby snuggled into his arms. Chesnie did not smile; neither did he. She got up and deliberately closed the door—and discovered she was inwardly shaking, experiencing the strangest sensation of not caring to see him with his arms around some woman. How odd! Why should it bother her at all?

It wasn’t in the least odd, she decided a moment later. This was a place of business and that was why she didn’t care for it. Everything that happened in this office should be purely professional. Which wasn’t what was happening next door. What was happening next door? It was very quiet in there. She half wished she had left the door open.

Chesnie was over the slight glitch in her equilibrium by the next day. She smiled and chatted lightly to Darren when he brought the post, and dealt pleasantly with the various heads of department—male ones—who seemed to find it necessary to stop by her desk for one reason or another. She had gradually got to know more and more of the people within the organisation, and it was good to be able to put a face to the various names that cropped up from time to time.

Though there was one new face she hadn’t seen before. The tall white-haired man poked his head round her office door at a quarter to one and came in. ‘Well, you’re a decided improvement on Barbara Thingy,’ he beamed, and, when Chesnie looked pleasantly enquiring, asked, ‘Is my son around?’

‘You’re Joel’s father?’

‘I know, I know. I don’t look old enough to have a son that age,’ quipped the man Chesnie thought must be at least seventy. ‘Magnus Davenport, at your service.’ He extended his right hand, and Chesnie immediately decided she liked him.

‘Chesnie Cosgrove,’ she introduced herself, shaking his hand. ‘I’m afraid your son is at a business lunch. Can I help you at all?’

‘Oh, dear, that’s a nuisance! I’ve driven all the way across the city hoping he’d take me to lunch,’ Davenport Senior replied with a sigh.

Chesnie thought for a moment. The matter was settled when it came to her that Joel’s father was only about ten years younger than Gramps. She wouldn’t hesitate to take her grandfather to lunch. ‘I’ll take you if you like?’ she offered.

‘I thought you’d never ask!’ he beamed.

Over lunch she discovered Magnus Davenport was a bit of a rascal. He insisted that she call him by his first name, but as he chatted away freely, about everything and everyone, she found that as well as being an outrageous gossip he was also a bit of a flirt—but quite harmless.

He openly told her that his wife, Joel’s mother, had thrown him out and divorced him years ago. ‘Said I was shiftless. Can you believe that? And that she’d had enough.’ Chesnie was on the point of feeling sorry for him when all of a sudden he laughed. ‘D’you know, I can’t really blame her? I never did hold down a job for long. Come to think of it, one of the happiest days I’ve had was when I retired.’

Chesnie had to laugh too; he had a sort of infectious quality about him. ‘I must think about getting back,’ she hinted, when he seemed inclined to linger over his coffee.

‘I’m going to the races tomorrow. Fancy coming with me?’ he asked.

She smiled and declined, and knew she was going to be late when Magnus Davenport drove her back to the Yeatman Trading building. She was not unduly alarmed that it was nearer half past two than two o’clock when Magnus dropped her off. She had worked late many times, and would cheerfully work late tonight if she hadn’t finished her workload by five.

‘I won’t come in—give me a call if you change your mind about the races,’ he said, and handed her his card.

Chesnie was smiling as she bade him goodbye, but had work on her mind as she opened the door to her office. She noticed at once that the communicating door to her employer’s office was open and that Joel was back from his business lunch.

Courtesy demanded that she commented on her lateness. She crossed that carpet and was aware that Joel knew she had returned, even though she hadn’t noticed him look up.

Nor did he glance up then, when she stood to the side of his desk. For some reason it niggled her. She’d be blessed if she’d say a word till he acknowledged her presence.

Just as she was about to turn around and go back to her office, however, he carefully laid down his pen. Then his head came up. He leaned back in his chair, silently appraising her, from the top of her red-blonde hair, to her slender but curvy figure in the royal blue suit, and all the way down to her shoes. Then, while she was studying his firm jaw, noticing that his mouth was pretty terrific even without the semblance of a smile, he moved his glance swiftly upwards and his blue eyes met her stubborn green ones head on.

Good, she’d got his attention. He waited—waited for her to speak first—and she felt quite irritated about that too. But she had been at pains to adopt a cool front; she wasn’t about to let it slip now.

‘Your father called,’ she began evenly, pleasantly. ‘He was disappointed not to see you,’ she added. ‘We went to lunch,’ she informed him, when Davenport said nothing.

‘No doubt you were able to help him over his disappointment,’ he threw in sourly, and at that moment pugilistic tendencies awakened in Chesnie that she’d had no idea she possessed. To her amazement she felt a momentary desire to poke Davenport Junior in the eye with something sharp and painful. ‘Who paid?’ he asked abruptly, his tone toughening.

What was it with him? The nerve! ‘Your father was my guest,’ she answered primly.

‘He conned you into taking him to lunch, didn’t he?’

‘Not at all. I liked him,’ she began. ‘He—’

‘I’ll reimburse you!’ Joel Davenport cut in sharply—and her anger went soaring, and with it her cool image.

‘No, you won’t!’ she flared hotly, and saw him smile—every bit as if he really enjoyed fracturing the cool front she’d displayed this past six weeks.

He shrugged. ‘So I won’t,’ he agreed, his tone all at once silky, and picked up his pen.

Chesnie went swiftly back to her own office. She felt then that she hated him. He’d done that on purpose—made her forget her poise for a moment. She didn’t want her front fractured; it made her feel vulnerable. She did not care for the feeling.

She slammed into her work and wanted nothing to do with him. This was what happened when you let personalities in on the scene. Meeting his father, liking him, laughing with him, had put a severe dent in the Chesnie Cosgrove she preferred to show the world. It seemed as if one Davenport had softened her up for another. Well, she wasn’t having it.

By four that afternoon her cool exterior was firmly back in place. At four-fifteen Larry Jenkins from Accounts came into her office with a query that wasn’t strictly in her domain, but she was pleased to be able to handle it. Though Larry didn’t stay long when the door opened and Joel Davenport strode in.

Joel watched him hastily leave. ‘I hear this corridor is alive with senior executives in need of guidance from you on some urgent matter or other,’ he commented.

What was she supposed to answer to that? And how did he know? Though she supposed that not a lot got by him—even when he wasn’t around! ‘Is there something you need guidance with?’ she enquired coolly of his visit—and didn’t hate him any more when he actually laughed, as though the way she’d bounced that back at him had amused him.

‘Are you still mad at me?’ he asked, with such a wealth of natural charm there that she began to like him very much again.

‘You deliberately provoked me!’ she accused primly.

‘Did I?’ he asked innocently—and a moment later was all business and instruction.

Chesnie went home that night in a happy frame of mind. She liked her job, had never felt so stimulated by any work she had done before, and she liked her boss too. He was…Chesnie came to, to realise she had drifted off for quite some time to thinking of Joel Davenport, her good-looking boss. My, did he have it all. Gina had rung him this morning, but he hadn’t stayed talking to her above a minute. Chesnie had an idea that Gina was on her way out.

Aware that her employer would be flying up to Scotland first thing on Thursday morning, Chesnie went into the office earlier than usual on Wednesday, so she could complete any information he needed to take with him before he left the office that night.

‘Good morning,’ she called as she went in, and hardly thought he would notice her early arrival.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’

She should have known better—there was no detail small enough that he’d miss. She grinned to herself and started her day.

She did not feel like grinning when, in Joel’s office, taking notes later that morning, the phone on her desk rang. Saving time, Joel stretched out a hand and pressed a button to divert the call to his phone, and took the call himself.

Whoever it was had been put through to the right phone in the first place. ‘Who wants her?’ he demanded. And while Chesnie was thinking it must be some business call, because her family would only phone in the direst emergency, he was charmingly saying, ‘I’m sorry, Pomeroy, my PA isn’t available just now.’ So saying, he put down the phone and terminated the call. Then, as cool as you like, he calmly carried on from where he had left off.

Feeling little short of amazed, Chesnie stared disbelievingly at her employer. Even while she was recognising that someone named Pomeroy had phoned to speak to her, and that the only Pomeroy she knew was Philip Pomeroy, Chesnie was astonished that Joel Davenport had not passed the call over to her.

She quickly found her voice. ‘Anyone I should ring back?’ she enquired politely, annoyance straining at the leash.

Joel looked across at her, his blue glance icy. ‘How do you know Philip Pomeroy?’ he demanded.

Ready to tell him it was none of his business, Chesnie decided that one of them should show some manners here. ‘I met him at a party.’ She forced the words out.

Joel grunted, didn’t look impressed, and stated coldly, ‘You do know he’s with the opposition?’

‘Opposition?’

‘In case you didn’t know he heads Symington Technology—our competitors in the technology field.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Chesnie answered, and started to feel cross that Joel Davenport was as good as reminding her that the work she did for him was highly confidential. She resented that unsaid reminder, resented his icy manner, and tilted her chin a defiant fraction. ‘You obviously know him better than I do,’ she replied, her control back. And, knowing she was pushing it, ‘Do you happen to have his number?’

Icy blue eyes bored into hers; she refused to back down. ‘I shouldn’t bother,’ he replied shortly. ‘He’ll ring again.’

Chesnie was still silently mutinying against Joel Davenport when she went back to her desk. She didn’t particularly wish to speak to Philip Pomeroy—and thank you, Nerissa, for telling him where I work—but that was for her to decide, not Davenport. He spoke to his girlfriends when they rang him at the office. Where did he get off not allowing her that same courtesy? Even if Philip Pomeroy was the opposition.

Chesnie was not feeling any more Davenport-friendly when, around midday, just as he had predicted, Philip Pomeroy rang again. Had the door between the two offices not been open, and Joel Davenport privy to everything she said, Chesnie might well have refused Philip’s invitation to dinner. As it was, she knew full well he had heard her ‘Hello, Philip’ and would more than likely be tuned in. Stubbornly she determined that Davenport should know exactly what she thought of his offensive, if unspoken, reminder that her work was highly confidential.

‘Say yes,’ Philip was urging. ‘You can’t still be unpacking.’

She glanced through to the other office—Davenport appeared to be working, but she knew his capability to handle several things at once. ‘I’d love to go out with you,’ she heard herself reply—and loved it when Davenport turned his head to glance her way. He was unsmiling. She smiled—she couldn’t help it—then dipped her head so he shouldn’t see her smile, though she guessed he had.

‘Tonight?’ Philip was pressing. ‘Give me your address and I’ll pick you up at—’

‘Er—I can’t tonight,’ she interrupted hurriedly. Heaven alone knew what time she would finish work tonight. Tomorrow, though, with Joel up in Scotland, should be much easier. ‘I can make tomorrow if—’

Philip snapped up the alternative, asked again for her address, and when she had told him where she lived he, as busy as she, said he would look forward to tomorrow and rang off.

After that Chesnie was too busy to give thought to anything but the work she was involved with. She stayed late at her desk; so too did the man in the next room. At ten past seven she tidied her desk for the day, double-checked that Joel had all the information he would need for his trip, and went in to see him.

They spent another ten minutes finalising everything, then she said she was going home—and found she was looking into a pair of inscrutable sharp blue eyes.

He was unsmiling at first, but then relaxed to say quietly, ‘You’re turning out to be something of a treasure, Chesnie Cosgrove.’

Her heart gave the most peculiar bump, and she was so delighted by the compliment that she almost fell for his charm and smiled. But she wasn’t forgetting his attitude earlier in the day, so she remained pleasant, but otherwise aloof, as—like any well-brought-up PA would—she wished him a pleasant trip and went home.

Strangely—or perhaps, she mused, it wasn’t so strange—Joel Davenport was in her head very much that night. She could not remember ever being so annoyed with an employer before. Hector Browning didn’t count; it was his father she had worked for.

Feeling unable to settle, Joel Davenport still in her head, she rang her sister at half past nine. ‘I expected you to ring before this,’ Nerissa said by way of apology. ‘He rang, didn’t he?’

‘Did you have to tell him where I work?’

‘What else could I do? You said not to give him your phone number. And anyway, I ran out of excuses. Where’s he taking you?’

‘I don’t know. He’s calling for me at—’

‘Hah!’ Nerissa cut in. ‘You’re going out with him!’

Chesnie had to laugh. ‘Tomorrow,’ she agreed, then chatted for another few minutes and rang off—to have Joel Davenport back in her head. He thought she was a treasure. She found she was smiling—and quickly cancelled that. Soft soap!

As anticipated, she was less busy on Thursday, and was extremely pleased that she seemed to coast through her work that day. True, there wasn’t the same buzz about the office with Joel not there, but at least it looked as if she would be leaving on time that night. Which would suit her quite nicely. Time to go home, have a relaxing bath and get ready to go out with Philip Pomeroy.

At five past four she glanced at her watch, assessed the work she still had to do and knew for certain that she would be leaving at five. The best-laid plans…

At four-thirty her phone rang. ‘Joel Davenport’s office,’ she answered pleasantly.

‘Hello, Chesnie,’ the man himself answered, and her insides went all kind of crumbly. Ridiculous, she told herself stoutly. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ he began, not sounding sorry at all, ‘but I’ve arranged an early meeting in London tomorrow. Do you think you can have some paperwork ready for me?’

‘Of course,’ she answered automatically, and had her notepad in hand. ‘Fire away.’

She was getting writer’s cramp before he was halfway finished. Was he joking? It would take her hours to complete this little lot! She almost stopped him then and there, to remind him that she had a date that night. But remembered in time how at her job interview he had asked her supposing she had a date but he needed her to accompany him at short notice. Without hesitation she’d indicated it would not be a problem—that she would change her plans for the evening. This wasn’t accompanying him anywhere, but it amounted to the same thing.

‘I haven’t given you too much to do there, have I?’ he asked, when he eventually came to an end.

‘What are treasures for?’ she found she had answered, before she could think about it.

‘I knew I could rely on you,’ he commented charmingly, and rang off.

Chesnie was busying herself making a start, collecting information together, before she realised that there was no way she could get everything sorted, no way she could type up reams and reams of confidential matter, and keep her date with Philip Pomeroy.

Her hand went to the phone, but before she could carry out her intention to put a call through to Symington Technology she had another thought. How about if she got all the paperwork already to hand checked over, then typed as much as she could of the new stuff before she went home? Then, with her computer installed at home in that apology for a second bedroom, she could work as late as she had to after her dinner with Philip. Brilliant, or what?

Having gone over the notion, Chesnie couldn’t fault the idea. She’d have to get up early to have everything ready on Joel’s desk for when he came in—she wished she knew what time that was—but couldn’t see any problem. If this was what being a senior PA was all about, then she would prove she was very much up to the job.

She was glad to make herself comfortable in Philip Pomeroy’s car on the way to the restaurant. It was the first chance she’d had to sit and relax since that half past four phone call. She had rushed from the office at five past six, laden with folders and stationery. She had taken the quickest of showers and had selected a short-sleeved, straight-skirted black dress. Although her wardrobe was not extensive it was of good quality. She had been ready and, anxious not to waste a minute, had been busy typing when the outer door buzzer had sounded, announcing the arrival of her escort.

The Linton, the restaurant Philip had chosen, was elegant, discreet, and, she didn’t doubt, pricey. Chesnie found Philip Pomeroy a pleasant companion, too sophisticated to be obvious or pushy, and she began to relax more and more.

‘I had no idea you worked for Joel Davenport,’ Philip remarked as they began their meal. ‘You can’t have been at Yeatman Trading long or I’m sure I’d have heard.’

That surprised her. Then she wondered if it should have. Being a business rival, would Joel know the name of Philip’s PA? Very probably he did, she mused.

‘I’ve worked for Joel for almost two months now,’ she saw no harm in admitting.

‘You changed jobs around the same time you moved into your new flat,’ Philip documented. ‘How do you find working for Davenport? Is he—?’

‘Hmm, I’m sorry, Philip, would you mind very much if neither of us talked about our work?’

He stared at her, plainly liked what he saw, and agreed. ‘It’s a pact. Business if off the agenda. But—’ he smiled ‘—you can tell Davenport from me that he’s a lucky devil, able to look at you every day. Now, tell me how you’re settling in to your new flat?’

During their second course Chesnie learned that Philip had been married and divorced. That didn’t worry her—who hadn’t? She was growing to like him very much, even though she knew that it would never be more than that. He was amusing, and had just said something that made her laugh when, glancing from him, laughter still on her curving lips, she was startled to find she was looking into the steel-blue eyes of someone several tables away. The glint in those eyes warned her she was in trouble over something.

With a coolness she was suddenly far from feeling Chesnie turned back to her dinner companion. She offered some light comment, she knew not what, her mind busy with the fact that Joel Davenport had flown back from Scotland and all too plainly, if her answers at the job interview meant anything, fully expected her to still be slaving away at the office.

It annoyed her that he should think she had fallen down on the job. And that annoyance caused her to smile more, perhaps laugh a little more, at Philip’s amusingly light conversation than she would otherwise.

At any rate Philip seemed pleased, and she didn’t give a button what Davenport thought. She knew what he didn’t—that she was going home to do his work so he should have it on his desk for eight in the morning. So he could go and take a running jump.

‘More coffee?’ Philip asked.

‘No, thank you,’ she refused pleasantly. ‘It’s been a super evening, but…’

‘But you’re a working girl?’

‘Something like that,’ she answered with a smile, and smiled again when, having to pass Davenport’s table—curse it—Philip civilly paused to say hello.

‘Pomeroy,’ Joel acknowledged, getting to his feet. ‘Chesnie.’ He included her, and introduced his sultry, if terrific-looking companion. ‘Do you know Imogen?’

Brief introductions followed, where Joel did not mention that Chesnie was his PA and that he was saving a few short and sharp words for her. After the way she slaved for him! Let him try! Then she and Philip were moving on.

Philip came to the outer door of her apartment building with her. ‘I hope you’re going to allow me to see you again, Chesnie?’ he asked.

She liked him, he was good company—and she had an idea it annoyed Joel Davenport that she went out with the opposition. ‘I’d like that,’ she answered. But, thinking he might have this coming Saturday in mind, added, ‘I’ll give you my phone number. Perhaps next week some time?’

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he said, and when he had her phone number he leaned forward. Though, perhaps sensing her instant withdrawal, he satisfied himself to kiss her cheek, and stood back to wait while she went indoors.

Despite the fact that her home had been cobbled together with pieces of furniture given to her by her parents, grandparents and her sisters, and the few additions she had contributed herself, Chesnie had to admit everything blended in well to give her apartment a very homely feel.

But there was no time to make herself comfortable in it now. Time only to rinse her hands and head for that tiny second bedroom now laughingly called a study.

She had been at work for forty-five minutes when someone rang the outer buzzer. Philip? Why would he come back? She left her work and went into her small hall to take up the telephone that was connected to the outer front door.

‘Who is it?’ she enquired, and felt faintly staggered at the reply she received.

‘Davenport,’ he informed her crisply.

Davenport! Surely he hadn’t left the lovely Imogen to have those few short and sharp words with his PA that had been brewing? At this hour? She didn’t believe it—though he wasn’t sounding too affable.

‘You’d better come up!’ she replied, equally crisply, while wondering—had she done anything that could be called grounds for dismissal? She didn’t think so, and surely Joel Davenport wouldn’t call at her home to sack her! Or would he?

She stayed in the hall to wait the minute or so it would take him to reach her door, and mentally braced herself for whatever he had called to see her about. At his first ring she had the door open. For several seconds, like warring adversaries, they stood coldly eyeing each other. He was the first to speak.

‘You’re still dressed!’ he stated hostilely, his glance going over her black dress, drawn for a second to the delicate contours of her cleavage, which had never before been on view.

Feeling very much like holding her hands protectively in front of her bosom, Chesnie instead turned from him. ‘Come in,’ she invited, and led the way into her sitting room, realising that it would have been just the same to him if she had gone to bed—he would still have rung her apartment buzzer.

In her sitting room she turned to face him. But before she could ask him why he had called, he was telling her, ‘You knew I needed that paperwork for the morning!’ Clearly he had stopped by the office from the airport and discovered that the paperwork he’d ordered wasn’t locked away in his drawer. ‘Yet you deliberately—’ He began to sort her out. But she’d had enough before he started.

‘I’m glad you called,’ she cut in calmly, inwardly boiling. ‘There are one or two queries I need your help with. If you’re not too tired after your busy day, I wonder if you’d help me?’ He was looking at her with narrowed eyes, as if wondering what her game was. Oh, joy; oh, bliss. ‘Have you a moment to come to my study?’ Study? Pretentious or what? ‘I’m working on your paperwork now.’

There was a definite glint in his eyes now, she saw. He had called looking for a fight. She had disarmed him—and he didn’t like it. Tough.

Whether he was impressed or not that she’d had no intention of letting him down, she had no idea. But he followed her to her ‘study’, where she had already printed off some of the matter she had typed.

Swiftly he dealt with the queries which she had been going to make a note of, but from the unsmiling look of him she suspected he didn’t care at all to have his cause for righteous anger taken away from him, and was still looking for a fight.

‘Naturally, I intend to have everything completed and on your desk by eight in the morning.’ She nicely rubbed it in.

A hostile look was the thanks she received for her trouble. She was almost purring as they left her workroom and she accompanied him out to the hall. He soon put an end to any lofty feelings, however.

Joel Davenport had his hand on the door latch when he looked down on her from his superior height, paused, and then commented shortly, ‘After our discussion yesterday, I hardly expected you to be out with Pomeroy tonight!’

What discussion was that? Her memory of it was that Joel had enlightened her to the fact that Philip Pomeroy was head of the opposition. And she felt incensed again that Davenport, for a second time, felt he had to remind her of the confidentiality of her position!

‘Do you honestly believe that Philip would have telephoned me at the office and told you who he was if he was after sensitive information from me?’ she flared. And, her cool image suddenly in tatters around her, ‘Do you honestly think, when I’ve worked for you for almost two months now, that I would part with any information, confidential or otherwise?’ she erupted—and came the closest yet to setting about him when, infuriatingly, he stared at her, seemed again to enjoy seeing her lose her cool front, and then had the sheer audacity—to smile!

‘It seems a shame that, because of pressure of work, you sent him from your first date without even a goodnight kiss,’ he commented charmingly.

Oh, to kick his shin! Chesnie strove hard for control. ‘It rather looks as if you’re going to bed kissless too,’ she answered sweetly—and was on the receiving end of a look that very clearly stated ‘Fat chance’. Though he made no comment with regard to whether the delectable Imogen was waiting for him somewhere.

Instead, he opened the door, and was on his way out when he bade her silkily, ‘Don’t work too late.’

Chesnie glared at his departing back. Pig!