Читать книгу The Boss's Forbidden Secretary - Lee Wilkinson - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

CATHY had packed the car, said goodbye to her neighbours, handed in the keys of the flat and set off from London that morning.

Because it was such a long way to drive, and Carl had been anxious about her, she had agreed to break the journey with an overnight stay at Ilithgow House, a small, family-run hotel that, according to the blurb, was both comfortable and inexpensive.

Carl had warned her, ‘Get as early a start as possible, Sis. It’s a hell of a long way just going as far as Ilithgow, and you’ll have the pre-Christmas traffic to contend with.’

But, in spite of his warning, the journey had taken far longer than she had anticipated, and it had already been dark for several hours.

She had just crossed the border from England into Scotland when it started to snow. The first big, soft flakes swirled past, caught in the golden beam of the car’s headlights and plopping onto the windscreen where the busy wipers flicked them carelessly aside.

Since she had been a small child Cathy had loved snow, and she thought how pretty it looked and how lovely it would be to have a white Christmas.

Or rather how lovely it would have been, if she hadn’t, for Carl’s sake, been planning to live a lie.

Peering through the windscreen, she thought thankfully that it was just as well she was almost there. The feathery flakes had grown smaller and more compact, and the snow was now coming down in earnest.

Pre-warned that there had already been fairly heavy falls in northern Scotland and over the mountains, she had expected to run into it sooner or later. But not this far south, and she was thankful that she was using Carl’s four-wheel drive.

By the time she caught sight of the lighted sign that gave the name of the hotel, a rising wind had created blizzard conditions, and she was driving through a blinding curtain of white.

Turning left between the lighted gateposts, she slowed to a crawl, cheering herself with the thought that there couldn’t be more than a few hundred yards to go.

Ilithgow House, she had learnt when she booked, was less than a quarter of a mile from the main road. However, to get to it she would have to cross an old stone bridge that spanned the River Ilith.

Remembering that made her hastily bring the car to a halt. She had no idea whether the long drive was straight or winding, and in these conditions it would be only too easy to miss the bridge and drive into the river.

A few seconds’ thought convinced her that her best plan would be to get out and reconnoitre.

Her hand was on the door handle when, from behind, approaching headlights lit up the falling snow. A big car—a Range Rover, she thought—drew up alongside, and a man’s dark figure appeared at her window.

As she rolled down the window, he stooped and, in a pleasant, low-pitched voice, asked, ‘Need any help?’

Briefly she explained her predicament.

‘Luckily I know the lie of the land,’ he said briskly, ‘so I’ll lead the way, if you’d like to follow me?’

Before she had time to thank him, he had gone back to his car.

As he drove slowly ahead she followed the red glow of his tail-lights until they had bumped their way across a narrow, humpbacked bridge.

Then, through the blizzard of white, she spotted the welcoming sight of the hotel’s lighted windows.

A moment later the leading car signalled right and, pulling onto a snow-shrouded forecourt, came to a halt near a shallow flight of steps.

As Cathy drew up alongside, the man doused his headlights and, jumping out, turned up the collar of his short car coat.

Though she couldn’t make out his features, in the light spilling from the long windows she could see that he was tall and broad-shouldered.

Reaching to open her car door, he queried, ‘I presume you’ve booked at the hotel?’

‘Yes.’

Noticing her medium-heeled suede court shoes, he advised, ‘It’s getting quite nasty underfoot. You’ll need to be careful.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed ruefully. ‘I should have worn something more sensible, but I wasn’t expecting to run into snow quite this soon.’

He was bareheaded, and, realizing that snowflakes were settling fast on his fair hair, she climbed out rather too hastily and slipped.

Catching her arm, he steadied her.

She pulled a face. ‘Now you can say, what did I tell you?’

He laughed. ‘As if I would! Have you much luggage to take in?’

‘Just an overnight bag.’

When she had retrieved it from the boot, he said, ‘Let me,’ and took it from her.

The bag she had packed had been a fun present from Carl, and had gold-coloured teddy bears prancing on it, but if the stranger noticed, it didn’t seem to bother him.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘But don’t you have your own luggage to carry?’

‘I haven’t any luggage. I wasn’t intending to make an overnight stop. However, a rescheduled business meeting meant a late start, and, given the weather conditions, it seems preferable to possibly ending up in a ditch.’

She could only agree as, heads bent against the driving curtain of snow, they mounted the steps.

Seeing she was having a struggle to keep her footing, he put a strong arm around her. The caring gesture brought a glow of comforting warmth, in sharp contrast to the bleakness she had lived with for a long time now.

Since her parents’ untimely death she had been forced to shoulder all the responsibility, and it was lovely to feel cherished and protected, to have someone else safely in control.

She was sorry when they reached the door and he took his arm away.

He rang the bell, as a small notice requested, and, turning the knob, ushered her inside. Snowflakes whirled around them like confetti, before he closed the door again, shutting out the elements.

As they wiped their feet on the doormat, he turned down the collar of his coat and brushed melting snowflakes from his thick fair hair.

The red-carpeted foyer-cum-lounge was pleasantly cosy, with several easy chairs, a couple of small couches, an abundance of Christmas decorations and a log fire burning in the old-fashioned grate.

But all Cathy’s attention was taken by the man who stood so easily at her side. It was the first time she had seen him properly, and his effect on her was immediate and powerful. With his strong, clear-cut features, his chiselled mouth and those thickly lashed, heavy-lidded eyes, he was the most attractive man she had ever seen, and she wanted to keep on looking at him.

But, she reminded herself hastily, she mustn’t allow herself to be attracted. She must try and think herself into the role of a married woman.

A role she had only agreed to play to enable her brother to get a post as a ski instructor—an ambition he had cherished since boyhood. A role she must appear to be happy in, whereas her own short, real-life experience of being married to Neil had been anything but happy…

Becoming aware that the stranger was studying her and, judging by his expression, liking what he saw, and feeling suddenly self-conscious, she glanced hastily away.

A melted snowflake dripped off her hair and trickled down her neck, making her shiver.

‘You look as if you could use this.’ He fished in his pocket and handed her a folded hankie, adding, ‘By the way, my name’s Ross Dalgowan.’

Their eyes met briefly and hers dropped, the long, curly lashes almost brushing her cheeks. ‘Mine’s Cathy Richardson.’

A little shy, he thought to himself, but she had to be the most fascinating woman he’d ever set eyes on and he wanted to keep looking at her.

Despite good teeth and a flawless complexion she wasn’t, strictly speaking, beautiful. Her hair was somewhere between ash-brown and blonde, her eyes were every colour but no colour, her nose was too short and her mouth was too wide. But her heart-shaped face held real character and a quiet, haunting loveliness.

As they made their way over to the reception desk she mopped at her face and hair before handing back the damp square of cambric. ‘Thanks.’

‘Always at your service,’ he said with a white, crooked grin that made her heart lurch drunkenly, then pick up speed.

She was still trying to regain her composure when a plump, homely woman with grey hair came through a door at the rear.

Smiling at them across the polished desk, she said cheerfully, ‘Good evening. I’m afraid it’s a nasty night…’ Then, in surprise, ‘Why, it’s Mr Dalgowan, isn’t it?’

‘It is. Good evening, Mrs Low.’

‘I didn’t expect to see you in weather like this.’

‘It’s due to the weather that I’m here,’ he told her ruefully. ‘I was on my way home when the blizzard made me change my mind and decide to stay the night.’

‘Och, now!’ she exclaimed, evidently flustered. ‘And we don’t have a single vacant room. But it would be madness to travel farther on a night like this, so you’re more than welcome to a couch in front of the fire and the use of the family bathroom—which is just through the archway on the right—if that will do?’

‘That will do fine, thanks.’

‘I’d give you our Duggie’s room, but he’s home for Christmas, and he’s brought his girlfriend with him.’ With a sigh, she went on, ‘Young people these days are so casual when it comes to relationships. It wouldn’t have done when I was a girl, but Duggie is always telling Charlie and me that we should move with the times, and I expect he’s right…but listen to me rattling on… Now, what about the young lady?’

Glancing at her ringless hands, Ross Dalgowan said, ‘Miss Richardson has a room booked.’

Mrs Low opened the register and ran an index finger down the entries. ‘Richardson…Richardson… Ah, yes, here we are…’

Then, that flustered look returning, she said, ‘I’m afraid we owe you an apology, Miss Richardson. Earlier this evening we found we’d made a mistake and the only accommodation we had left was a small family suite on the ground floor. It’s comprised of two adjoining rooms and a bathroom. Hastily she added, ‘But, as the mistake was ours, we’ll be happy to let you have it for the price we quoted you… Have you any luggage?’

‘Just an overnight bag.’

Mrs Low glanced at the cavorting teddy bears on the bag Ross Dalgowan was still holding and rightly identified it.

At that precise moment, another stray drop of water trickled down Cathy’s cheek, and Ross reached to wipe it away.

Clearly the intimate gesture gave Mrs Low the wrong impression and, with the air of having solved a thorny problem, she suggested, ‘Possibly you could share the suite?’

‘I really can’t ask Miss Richardson to—’

‘If there are two rooms I have no objection to—’

They spoke, and stopped, in unison.

‘If I show you, you’ll no doubt find it easier to decide.’ Emerging from behind the desk, Mrs Low led them briskly through a small, inner hallway and opened a door on the right.

‘Although there’s central heating, I’ve lit a fire in this bedroom… So much more welcoming on a night like this, don’t you think?’

The room she showed them into was warm and cosy in the leaping firelight. Heavy folkweave curtains had been drawn to keep out the night, and a single lamp cast a pool of golden light.

There was a double bed with an old-fashioned patchwork quilt, a tallboy, a wardrobe, a carved blanket chest and, set in front of the hearth, a low table and two comfortable-looking armchairs.

To one side of the fireplace was a wicker basket of logs and a big pile of fir cones. The aromatic scent of pine resin mingled with lavender hung in the air.

Through a curtained archway was another small room, not much bigger than a large cupboard, with bunk beds and a narrow fitted wardrobe.

Glancing up at Ross Dalgowan’s six feet two inches, Mrs Low said doubtfully, ‘I’m afraid the bunk beds were only intended for children, but even one of them might be more comfortable, and give you a tidy bit more privacy than a couch. And this is the bathroom…’

Though old-fashioned, the bathroom was spotlessly clean and had every facility, including a walk-in shower cubicle.

‘There are plenty of towels and toiletries, even a disposable shaving kit, if you do decide to share.’

Looking from one to the other, she added, ‘While you talk it over why don’t you sit in front of the fire and get warm? I’ll bring you in a nice bite of supper.’

Satisfied that she’d done the best she could, she hurried away.

Putting Cathy’s bag on the chest, Ross Dalgowan raised a well-marked brow and asked, ‘Do you have any problem with Mrs Low’s kindly meant suggestion? If you do…’

Recognizing that it was politeness rather than diffidence that had made him ask, she answered. ‘No, no, of course I don’t.’

‘In that case…’ He helped her off with her coat before removing his own and hanging them both on some convenient pegs.

She saw that he was wearing smart-casual trousers and an olive-green jerkin over a toning shirt. His watch looked expensive, and his shoes appeared to be handmade.

Although there was nothing blatant, his whole appearance suggested affluence and power, while his air of ease spoke of a quiet self-assurance.

Taking a mobile phone from his pocket, he said, ‘If you’ll excuse me just a minute? So they won’t worry, I’d like to give the folks who are expecting me a call to say I’ll be staying here for the night.’

‘Of course.’

While he made the call, she moved to sit by the blazing log fire.

Addressing the person who answered as Marley, he kept it brief and to the point, ending, ‘See you tomorrow, then. Bye.’

Cathy found herself wondering if Marley was his wife and rather hoping not, until she pulled herself up short, reminding herself sternly that it was none of her business.

Dropping the phone back into his pocket, Ross joined her in front of the fire, remarking, ‘Your shoes look as if they’re saturated. Why don’t you take them off and warm your feet?’

She had been longing to do just that, and, needing no further encouragement, she slipped them off and, propping them by the fender to dry, held her slim feet out to the blaze.

There was a drifting silence for a minute or so while he stared into the leaping flames and she studied him covertly.

The strong face held a certain aloofness, a touch of arrogance, a hint of sensuality. He was, she guessed, a complex man with many layers.

His mouth, with its ascetic upper lip and passionate lower, was beautiful, and his thick lashes were ridiculously long and curly. Combined with so much sheer masculinity, that mouth and those lashes had a stunning effect, and she felt hollow inside.

He glanced up suddenly, and as she looked anywhere but at him, he queried, ‘Warmer now?’

‘Much warmer,’ she answered abstractedly.

‘How long were you on the road?’

Pulling herself together, she told him, ‘I left London mid-morning. But though I only stopped briefly for a sandwich and a cup of coffee, it took much longer to reach the border than I’d expected.’

‘You’re from London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you heading for?’

‘The Cairngorms. A small place called Luing.’

A flicker of something that she couldn’t decipher crossed his face, before he said, ‘Yes, I know it well. You were right to break the journey. It’s quite a distance. I take it you ski?’

‘Yes, but not particularly well, I’m sorry to say. Do you?’

‘I was born and brought up on the edge of the Cairngorms, so during the winter months I practically lived on skis.’

‘I’m afraid my experience has been confined to childhood holidays in the Alps.’

‘Sounds fun.’

‘Yes, they were.’

Without thinking, she voiced the thought that was in her mind. ‘To say you were born in Scotland you don’t have much of an accent.’

‘My father’s family were Scottish born and bred, but my mother was English. When I was fourteen and my sister was eleven our parents divorced, and our mother went to live in London. Though my father and I didn’t always see eye to eye, I stayed with him and his second wife until I was eighteen and got a place at Oxford.

‘After I’d graduated I moved to London and went into the Information Technology business with a couple of friends. I’d always intended to come back to Scotland eventually, but at the moment I’m still living in London while I tie up some loose ends.’

‘Which part of town?’

‘I’ve a flat in Belmont Square.’

The fact that he lived in Mayfair seemed to confirm her first impression that he was well off.

Eager to know more about him, but wary of making the questions too personal, she asked, ‘Do you get up to Scotland much?’

‘Four or five times a year.’

‘For business or pleasure?’

‘You could say both.’

There was a tap at the door and Mrs Low came bustling in, a voluminous apron tied at her waist, wheeling a supper trolley.

‘Here we are,’ she said cheerfully. ‘There’s a nice drop of my cock-a-leekie, some hot oatcakes wrapped round ham, an apple pie and cream, and I thought a big jug of coffee wouldn’t go amiss.’

As she spoke, she wheeled the trolley to where they could comfortably reach, adding, ‘I’m afraid it’s all very simple…’

‘Thanks, Mrs Low,’ Ross Dalgowan said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s a feast. It was very good of you to go to so much trouble.’

Cathy added her agreement and thanks.

Looking pleased, Mrs Low said, ‘Whist, now, it was no trouble at all.’ Then, beaming at them, she added, ‘Oh, and when I told Charlie you were here, he said to leave this with you and advise you and the young lady to have a wee dram or two to keep out the cold.’

Like a conjuror pulling a rabbit out of a hat, from a deep pocket in her apron she produced a bottle of Highland single malt and two whisky glasses wrapped in a white napkin.

‘Please give him our thanks.’

‘You’ll have a word with him before you go?’

‘I certainly will.’

She stooped to put fresh logs on the fire before going on, ‘The bunk beds are already made up, and I’ve left a pillow and some blankets on one of the couches in the lounge, so you can decide at your leisure which suits you best.

‘Now, if there’s nothing else either of you need I’m away to my bed. With a house full of guests I have to be up very early, so I’ll say goodnight to you both.’

‘Goodnight,’ they answered in unison.

At the door, she paused to say, ‘I almost forgot to tell you, there’ll be breakfast from six-thirty onwards. The breakfast room is just off the lounge… Oh, and when you’ve finished eating, perhaps you’ll put the trolley outside?’

When the door had closed behind her, Ross Dalgowan poured coffee for Cathy and himself, remarking thoughtfully, ‘If you only had a sandwich at lunchtime you must be hungry.’

‘I am, rather.’

‘Then tuck in.’

They enjoyed a leisurely supper without speaking, the only sounds the crackling of the logs and the wind soughing mournfully in the chimney.

As though comfortable with himself, his companion and his surroundings, Ross Dalgowan seemed quite content with the silence, and Cathy was pleased.

Neil, invariably uncomfortable with silence, had needed to fill every second with the sound of his own voice. Convinced he knew everything there was to know, he had talked whenever he had a listener.

But this man was different. He had a maturity Neil would never have and he was, she guessed, much quieter by nature.

She and Neil had first met when she had been a shy, naive nineteen and he was an experienced twenty, and she had been duly impressed by his strikingly handsome face and his apparent depth of knowledge.

After a whirlwind courtship—although he had been a penniless student—at his insistence they had got married, and he had moved in with her.

He had been about to start his last year at college, and because he had had no family to help she had found herself struggling to pay off his debts and support him, as well as Carl.

Even so, he had complained about her brother living with them, until she had told him firmly that it was, and always had been, Carl’s home.

‘Oh, very well,’ he’d said sulkily. ‘I suppose it’ll only be until he can get a job and find a place of his own.’

Relieved that he had accepted the situation, she had done her best to make him happy.

It wasn’t until they were married that she had discovered how empty and shallow he really was, and that his cleverness and his handsomeness—like the ripples on a pool—were all on the surface.

But, even after such a brief acquaintance, Cathy was already sure that Ross Dalgowan, who was sitting so quietly, was anything but shallow.

Watching him surreptitiously, she noticed that in the heat from the fire his hair had dried to the colour of ripe corn, and it struck her as strange that such a very masculine man should be so fair.

Neil had been blond, but fair-skinned, with pale brows and lashes and almost girlish features.

Whereas this man was tough-looking, with brows and lashes several shades darker than his hair and the kind of skin that would tan easily.

Though Neil had proved to be greedy and selfish and vain—a narcissist to the core—he’d been a golden boy that the opposite sex had fawned over.

A woman’s darling.

Ross Dalgowan would be a woman’s darling, she had little doubt, but he would also be a man’s man, where Neil had had few, if any, male friends.

When she had first met Neil, he’d appeared to be charming and easygoing, willing to live and let live. But in reality—like some weak people—he had been spoilt and peevish, a bully at heart.

Her companion, she was oddly certain, would be neither spoilt nor peevish, and while he might be masterful, she couldn’t see him being a bully.

Watching him, she noticed that he ate with a healthy appetite, but neatly and noiselessly.

Unlike Neil, who, in spite of his somewhat effeminate good looks and his general air of delicacy, had tended to bolt his food. Rather like a greedy schoolboy who hadn’t yet learned either manners or self-control.

She had discovered, to her cost, that the same went for his sexual appetite.

They had been married only a matter of months when, after drinking too much wine, he’d tried to force himself on her.

Failing, he had lashed out at her, calling her a lot of things, amongst which ‘a frigid bitch’ was the kindest by far.

Sighing, she pushed thoughts of the unhappy past aside and, glancing up, found herself looking into eyes the grey of woodsmoke—fascinating eyes that tilted up a little at the outer edge.

Her head whirling, and a strange tingle running along her nerve ends, she tore her gaze away.

Sensitive to her mood, Ross asked, ‘Problems?’

‘No, not really.’

Though he obviously didn’t believe her, he let the matter drop, and they continued the meal in companionable silence.

‘More coffee?’ he queried when they had both finished eating.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Then I’ll get rid of this.’ He rose to his feet and put the trolley outside.

Returning to his seat, he suggested, ‘Suppose we have a “wee dram” before we turn in, as Mrs Low’s husband advised?’

Though normally she never drank spirits, wanting to keep him with her a little longer, she agreed, ‘Yes, why not?’

He opened the bottle and, having poured a finger of whisky into both glasses, handed her one.

Raising his own glass, he toasted, ‘Here’s to the future, and our better acquaintance.’

His words, and the look in his eyes, brought a surge of warmth and excitement, and she found herself yearning for something this man seemed to offer. Something poignant. Something magic. Something that would last a lifetime. True love, perhaps…?

Telling herself not to be foolish, she tore her gaze away with an effort and took an incautious sip of her drink. The strong spirit made her cough.

His lips twitched, but, hiding his amusement—if indeed it was amusement—he said, ‘Just to prove that I’ve lived in England for a long time, I’ll act like a Sassenach and ask if you’d prefer some water with it?’

‘Yes, I would,’ she answered gratefully, and started to rise to fetch it.

But Ross was already on his feet, and he pressed her gently back into the chair. ‘Stay where you are. I’ll get it.’

He disappeared into the bathroom and returned after a moment with glass of water. ‘Say when.’

When there was about twice as much water as whisky, she said, ‘That should be fine, thank you.’

‘Try it and see.’

She tried a sip and, breathing a sigh of relief, told him, ‘Much better.’

Putting the rest of the water by the whisky bottle, he smiled at her.

His teeth gleamed white and even, and his mouth, with its intriguing hint of controlled passion, made her feel strange inside.

Becoming aware that she had been staring at him, she looked back into the glowing fire. But the cosy familiarity had gone, leaving an awareness, a rising excitement, a sexual tension.

Needing to break the silence and return to the more mundane, she swallowed and, her normally clear voice decidedly husky, asked, ‘Are you up here for Christmas, Mr Dalgowan?’

‘Yes, and New Year. But won’t you call me Ross? It seems ridiculous to stand on ceremony.’

‘Of course, if you call me Cathy.’

‘How long are you in Scotland for, Cathy?’

Reminded of just why she was in Scotland, and flustered by the innocent question, she answered, ‘I’m not quite sure… Christmas and New Year…’

‘Do you have anyone important in your life? A partner, perhaps?’

Unwilling to talk about her brief and disastrous marriage and the subsequent divorce, she answered briefly, ‘No.’

Though they had only just met, and he knew scarcely anything about her, Ross felt a rush of gladness that shook him with its strength and vehemence.

After Lena, he had taken care to avoid any emotional entanglements, keeping the occasional liaison light, casual, a simple, straightforward exchange of pleasure, with no looking back and no regrets when they parted.

Now he found himself doubting that that would be enough with this woman.

He sat quietly watching her, and holding her breath, aware that somehow the answer mattered, she seized the opportunity to ask, ‘How about you?’

‘No, no one.’

She was breathing a sigh of relief when he added, ‘I did have plans to marry earlier this year, but they didn’t work out. Though Lena was born in Scotland, and in fact our families lived quite close, she loved the bright lights of London and refused to live anywhere else. Whereas I wanted to live in the country.

‘When she couldn’t bring me round to her way of thinking, she left me for a wealthy businessman who lives in Park Lane and never leaves London…’

Cathy heard the underlying bitterness in his voice, and knew that his fiancée’s defection still hurt.

‘Now, if we happen to be in Scotland at the same time, she makes a point of calling to see me when she’s visiting her father.’

It smacked of turning the screw, and Cathy frowned, hardly able to believe that any woman could treat him that way.

Seeing her frown, and misinterpreting it, he apologized quickly, ‘I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have got on to such a personal topic, but I wondered if you were perhaps travelling up to join someone?’

Instinctively sure that this man was special, she hesitated, momentarily tempted to try and explain about Carl and the deception she had reluctantly agreed to take part in.

Though, as Carl had frequently pointed out since he had first broached the scheme, it was an innocent enough deception and would do no one any harm. And it would only be necessary until he’d been able to prove his worth.

‘I have exactly the qualifications the Bowans are looking for,’ he had told her, ‘but they were adamant that they would only employ a married couple.’

Then with a sigh he had said, ‘Everything would have been fine if Katie hadn’t walked out on me and we’d got married as planned. But as it is I badly need your help. And honestly, Sis, it won’t be too bad. All we need to do is get on with our respective jobs and pretend to be husband and wife.’

However, intrinsically honest, Cathy was far from happy, and had it been anyone other than her beloved younger brother she would have refused point-blank to be a part of it.

As it was—with his life in ruins after the woman he loved had run off with his best friend—Cathy had found it impossible to deny him the chance to do what he’d always wanted to do.

But her heart sank at the thought of trying to explain all that to Ross Dalgowan…

And after promising Carl she wouldn’t breath a word to a soul, how could she?

Turning her back on temptation, she shook her head. ‘Not really.’

Her companion seemed satisfied, but, far from happy, she felt the colour rise in her cheeks and hoped he would put it down to the heat of the fire.