Читать книгу The Spanish Groom - Lynne Graham - Страница 7

CÉSAR replaced the phone, his lean, strong face taut, wide, sensual mouth compressed. So Jasper’s health was failing. Since his godfather was eighty-two, the news should not have come as a shock…

Rising restively from behind his desk, César crossed his spacious office—a contemporary triumph of glass and steel, wholly in keeping with a minimalist building much mentioned in architectural digests. Formed round a series of stylish atriums embellished with lush greenery and tranquil fountains, the office block César had commissioned to house the London headquarters of the Valverde Mercantile Bank was as elegant and impressive as its owner.

But César was indifferent to his surroundings. His thoughts were on Jasper Dysart, who had become his guardian when he was twelve. He was a true English eccentric, a bachelor bookworm who had made rare butterflies his lifestudy, and the kindest old man imaginable. César and Jasper were mental poles apart. Indeed César and Jasper might as well have come from different planets, but César was fond of Jasper, and suddenly grimly aware that the only thing Jasper had ever wanted him to do remained undone and time now seemed to be running out…

A knock on the door heralded the entrance of his executive assistant, Bruce Gregory. Normally the very epitome of confident efficiency, for some reason Bruce chose to hover, a sheet of paper rather tensely clutched between his fingers.

‘Yes?’ César prompted impatiently.

The young blond man cleared his throat. ‘The random security check has turned up a member of staff with financial problems.’

‘You know the rules. Getting into debt is grounds for instant dismissal.’ César frowned at the need to make this reminder when that warning appeared in all staff employment contracts. ‘We deal with too much confidential information to take the risk.’

Bruce grimaced. ‘This…er…person is a very minor cog in the bank, César.’

‘I still don’t see a problem.’ The brilliant dark eyes were cool, unemotional, the hallmark of a hugely successful financial genius with neither time nor sympathy for those who broke the rules. César was contemptuous of weakness, and ruthless at exploiting it in business opponents.

‘Actually…it’s Dixie.’

César stilled. Bruce studied the wall, not wanting to see César smile at that information. Everybody knew how César felt about Dixie Robinson, currently the equivalent of an office junior on the top floor. Dixie, quite simply, irritated the hell out of César.

She had not one single trait which didn’t grate on her cool, sophisticated employer. In recent weeks, César had been heard to censure her sloppy appearance, her clumsiness, her friendly chatter, her constant collecting for obscure charities…and, it had to be admitted, a degree of incompetence at business skills that had raised her to the level of an office mascot. César, alone, was deflatingly untouched by the compensatingly warm and caring personality which made Dixie so universally well liked.

But then on a level playing field, Dixie Robinson would never have got as far as an interview at the Valverde Mercantile Bank: she had no qualifications. Jasper Dysart had asked César to give her a job. Personnel had jumped to the task, only to find themselves seriously challenged by Dixie’s inability to cope with technology. Passed on from one department to another, Jasper’s protegée had finally arrived on the top floor, a fact which had delighted her elderly sponsor but which had unfortunately brought Dixie into César’s immediate radius.

César extended a hand for the computer printout. Bruce passed it over with perceptible reluctance.

Scanning down the sheet, César slowly elevated a winged ebony brow. Evidently Dixie Robinson led a double life. The list of her dissatisfied creditors included a well-known interior designer and the kind of bills that indicated some serious alcoholic partying. César was tickled pink, his even white teeth flashing in a derisive grin of satisfaction.

So her resolutely innocent front was a façade, just as he had always suspected it was. For a split second he thought how appalled Jasper would be—Jasper who broke out with a modest sherry only at Christmas and who fondly believed that Dixie Robinson was a thoroughly decent, old-fashioned girl with homely tastes.

‘Obviously she’s been really stupid. But if she’s sacked, she’ll sink like a stone,’ Bruce pointed out gruffly. ‘She doesn’t handle anything confidential, César—’

‘She has access.’

‘I don’t really think she’s bright enough to use that kind of information,’ Bruce breathed tautly.

César gave him a look of grim amusement. ‘Got you fooled as well, has she?’

‘Fooled?’ Bruce’s brow furrowed.

‘Now I know why she always looks half asleep—too many late nights.’

In desperation, Bruce shot his last bolt in Dizzy’s defence. ‘I guess Mr Dysart will be upset not to find her here on his next visit.’

‘Jasper’s not well. It’s unlikely that he’ll be in London in the near future.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Bruce studied his employer’s coolly uninformative face warily. Well, that was that, he acknowledged. He couldn’t say he was surprised either. César was not a soft touch. And proof of such foolish extravagance had merely increased his contempt. ‘I’ll pass the information concerning Dixie on to Human Resources.’

‘No. I’ll deal with this personally,’ César contradicted without warning.

Bruce wasn’t quite fast enough to hide his dismay.

‘I’ll see Miss Robinson at four,’ César completed.

‘She’ll be very upset, César.’

‘I think I can handle it,’ César drawled, in the sort of tone that made the younger man flush and go into retreat.

Alone again, César studied that list of creditors, a smouldering look awakening in his narrowed gaze. Jasper was very fond of little Dixie Robinson. In fact, superficially Dixie was exactly the kind of young woman Jasper longed to have César produce as the future Mrs Valverde, the sort of girl who didn’t intimidate an innocent old bachelor totally out of step with the modern world.

So there it was, out in the open. The admission that he had disappointed his godfather, César conceded with exasperated reluctance. Jasper’s deepest and most naive hope had always been that César would marry, settle down and have a family. And live happily ever after, of course, César affixed, scornfully recalling his late parents. His volatile Italian mother and equally volatile Spanish father had between them stacked up half a dozen failed marriages before dying young and anything but happy.

Wincing at the very idea of marital togetherness with any woman, but with his conscience still causing him rare discomfiture, César brooded on the problem of Jasper’s disappointment. Experience had taught César that there was no such thing as a problem without a solution. When shorn of the inhibiting factors of emotion and morality, the impossible could almost always become the possible…

No doubt Jasper fondly imagined that his veiled hints about what a wonderful wife Dixie Robinson would make some fortunate male had been too subtle to be recognised for what they were. In point of fact, Jasper had the subtlety of a sledgehammer, and when César had first picked up on his godfather’s pointed comments on the subject of his protegée he had been anything but amused.

But now César grimly acknowledged that were he to announce that he had got engaged to Dixie Robinson, Jasper would be overjoyed. César visualised Dixie with something less than joy, but Jasper thought the sun rose and set on her. And, as pleasing Jasper was César’s only goal, there would be little point in persuading any other woman into playing his temporary fiancée. What Jasper wanted, César decided there and then, Jasper deserved to receive.

As he pictured how he might sensibly stress the need for a lengthy engagement between two such disparate personalities as himself and the office klutz, César began warming to the exercise. It would make Jasper happy. And Jasper, who could spend hours just choosing a single book, would scarcely expect his godson to leap straight from an engagement into matrimony.

And Dixie Robinson? Dixie was between a rock and a hard place. She would do as she was told. Around him, she was quiet and cowed, which was just as well because César was convinced he would strangle her if she behaved any other way. He would do whatever it took to ensure that the fake engagement appeared credible. He would be nothing less than thorough…

‘AT F-FOUR?’ DIXIE stammered, pale as milk as she stood over the photocopier, striving somewhat hopelessly to conceal the ‘inoperative’ sign flashing above a pile of discarded photocopies printed with impossibly tiny type. ‘But why would Mr Valverde want to see me?’

Already conscious that his attempt to speak up on her behalf had taxed César’s patience, Bruce did not dare utter a word of warning.

‘Is it about that Arab guy whose call I cut off?’

Bruce tensed. ‘He doesn’t know about that.’

‘That file I accidentally took out?’

Bruce paled at the reminder. ‘You got it back from the bus company.’

Dixie gulped. ‘I’ve been trying so hard to stay out of Mr Valverde’s way…it’s just he keeps on popping up in the most unexpected places.’

‘César likes to be visible. What sort of unexpected places?’ Bruce could not resist asking.

‘Like the kitchen…when I was icing the cake for Jayne’s leaving party last week. Mr Valverde went through the roof,’ Dixie recounted, half under her breath, shuddering at the recollection. ‘He asked me if I thought I was working in a bakery and I ended up spelling her name wrong. Then yesterday he walked into that little room the cleaning staff use and found me asleep…he gave me the biggest fright of my life!’

‘César expects all his employees to make a special effort to stay awake between nine and five,’ Bruce responded, deadpan.

Currently working two jobs just to keep a roof over her head, Dixie gave him an abstracted look, her eyes, so dark a blue they were violet, strained with anxiety and tiredness. Fear emanated from her in waves. Small though she was, she seemed to grow even smaller as she hunched her shoulders and bowed her head, the explosive mop of her long curly dark brown hair falling over her softly rounded face. She was terrified of César Valverde, had become acquainted with every hiding place on the executive floor within days of arriving there.

But then she had started out on the wrong foot, hadn’t she? Her big mouth, she conceded glumly. While covering for the receptionist during her afternoon break, Dixie had begun chatting to the gorgeous blonde seated in the waiting area. In an effort to make entertaining conversation, she had mentioned the world-famous model, Mr Valverde had entertained on his yacht the previous weekend. And then her employer had strolled out of the elevator…

And without the slightest warning all hell had broken loose! The blonde, who it later transpired had actually been waiting for César Valverde, had risen to her feet to throw a jealous fit of outrage and accuse him of being a ‘love-rat’.

Dixie’s co-workers had very decently acknowledged that that charge might well have some basis in fact, but it was not an allegation César had expected to face within the hallowed portals of the bank because one of his own staff had been recklessly indiscreet. Indeed what César had had to say about Dixie’s gossiping tongue had been, as one of the directors had frankly admitted while trying hard not to smile, unrepeatable. Since then she had been banned from manning Reception.

‘Is César dating any nice girls at present?’ Jasper always asked hopefully in his letters to Dixie, not seeming to appreciate that at the threat of what his godfather deemed a ‘nice girl’ César Valverde would undoubtedly run a mile. It was a well-worn joke in the bank that César’s answer to commitment was escape.

But Dixie’s troubled face softened at the thought of Jasper Dysart. He was a dear old man, but she hadn’t seen him in months because he lived in Spain most of the year, having found the hot climate eased his arthritic joints.

Dixie had met Jasper the previous summer. She had been walking down the street when a thuggish bunch of youths had carelessly pushed him aside when he didn’t get out of their way fast enough. Jasper had fallen and cut his head. Dixie had taken him to the nearest hospital. Afterwards, she had treated him to tea and buns in the cafeteria, because he had looked so poor and forlorn in his ancient tweeds and shabby old overcoat.

They had been firm friends from that moment on. She hadn’t once suspected that Jasper might be anything other than he appeared: an elderly academic living on a restricted income. So she had been quite honest about being unemployed, sharing her despair at not even being able to get as far as an interview for a clerical job. She had also told him how horribly guilty she felt about being dependent on her older sister Petra’s generosity.

They had arranged to meet up again, and Jasper had escorted Dixie to his favourite secondhand bookshop, where they had both promptly lost all track of time browsing through the shelves. The following weekend she had returned the favour by taking him to a library sale, where he had contrived to buy a very tattered copy of an out-of-print tome on butterflies that he had been trying to find for years.

And then quite casually Jasper had announced that he had fixed her up with an interview at the Valverde Mercantile Bank. ‘I put in a word for you with my godson,’ he had informed her cheerfully. ‘He was very happy to help.’

She hadn’t had a clue that Jasper’s godson was the chief executive. And she had been utterly appalled to be confronted by César Valverde that first day, and coldly interrogated about exactly how she had met his godfather. He had made little attempt to conceal his suspicions about her motives in fostering such a friendship with an elderly man, and had coolly enjoyed informing her that Jasper would be returning to his home in Spain at the end of September. Dixie had found that encounter deeply humiliating.

‘César always had a head for figures…very clever chap with that sort of stuff,’ Jasper had conceded vaguely when Dixie had later gently taxed him with his failure to tell her that his godson ran Valverde Mercantile and was, in fact, a super-rich and very powerful legend of thrusting success in the financial world. ‘It’s in his blood.’

Jasper was a genius at understatement. The Valverdes had been in banking for generations. César was the last of the dynasty, and reputedly the most brilliant. He also had very high expectations of his staff. All Dixie’s colleagues had a university degree in financial management, economics or languages, and thrived on the cracking pace of a high-powered mercantile bank with an international list of hugely important clients and companies.

Dixie knew that she was a fish out of water at Valverde Mercantile, only fit, it sometimes seemed, to run messages, ensure the coffee machines stayed filled and perform the most humble of tasks. She worked really hard at keeping busy, but the kind of lowly work she did rarely produced results that other people could appreciate.

And Bruce Gregory’s announcement had thoroughly shaken Dixie. The threat of a face-to-face meeting with César Valverde kept her stomach churning throughout the day. What had she done? What had she not done? Well, if she had made some awful mistake or oversight, she would have to grovel on her knees and promise to do better in the future; she had no choice.

Right now, the only thing keeping Dixie going through exhaustion was the knowledge that she had a steady salary coming in as well as what she earned working as a waitress several nights a week. That long talk she had had with the helpful lady at the Citizens’ Advice Bureau had suggested that as long as she could prove an honest intent to pay back those creditors in instalments, her offer to do so should be acceptable, and would hopefully protect her from the threat of legal proceedings.

And, in the meantime, there was always the hope that her sister Petra would phone to say that she was back in funds again and able to send the money to clear her debts. Petra had always had terrific earning power as a model, Dixie reminded herself bracingly. All she herself was really doing was holding the fort until her sister could pick up the financial slack. Petra had been upset when Dixie called her to tell her about the bills she had neglected to pay before she flew out to Los Angeles in the hope of starting an acting career.

In the restroom, minutes to go before the encounter, Dixie freshened up and morosely surveyed her reflection. Plain and wholesome, that was her. The loose beige top and long gray cotton skirt at least concealed the worst of her deficiencies, she told herself in consolation. But as always it seemed particularly cruel to Dixie that she should have been endowed with hatefully large breasts and generous hips but only a height of five feet two inches.

As often happened at times of particular stress, Dixie drifted off into her own thoughts. Was it any wonder that Scott saw her as a good sport and a mate, rather than a possible girlfriend? Scott Lewis, handsome, extrovert and the love of Dixie’s life. Momentarily, self-pity filled her to overflowing. And then she scolded herself for being so foolish. Hadn’t she always known she didn’t have a hope of attracting Scott?

She had met Scott at one of her sister’s parties. Having just moved into a new apartment, he’d been giving a comic description of his less than successful efforts to get organised on the domestic front. His frank admission that his mother had spoilt him rotten had impressed Dixie, and before she had even thought about what she was doing she had found herself offering to come round and give him a hand…

When Dixie presented herself for her appointment, César Valverde’s secretary, a svelte brunette in her thirties, gave her a pained look. ‘It might have been a good idea to be on time, Dixie.’

‘But I am on time.’ Dixie checked her watch and then her face fell. Once again time had run on without her.

‘You’re ten minutes late.’ The other woman didn’t wince but she might as well have done.

Sick with apprehension, Dixie knocked on the door of her lofty employer’s office and walked in, a band of tension tightening round her head, her mouth bone-dry and her palms damp.

César Valverde spun lithely round from the wall of glass which overlooked the City skyline and studied her. ‘You’re late,’ he delivered icily.

‘I’m really sorry…I just don’t know where the time went.’ Dixie studied the deep-pile carpet, wishing it would open up and swallow her and disgorge her only when the interview was safely over.

‘That is not an acceptable excuse.’

‘That’s why I apologised,’ Dixie pointed out in a very small voice without looking up.

There was really no need to look up. In her mind’s eye she could still see César Valverde standing there, as formidable and unfeeling as a hitman. And close to him she always felt murderously awkward, not to mention all hot and bothered. Yet he was physically quite beautiful, a little voice pointed out absently inside her head.

He had the lean dark face of a fallen angel, blessed with such perfect bone structure that at first glance he knocked women flat with his spectacular sleek Mediterranean looks. Hair thick and glossy as ebony. Eyes the same colour as dark bitter chocolate, which blazed into the strangest silver in strong light. Mouth mobile, wide and sensual. A sensationally attractive male animal, but at second glance he had always chilled Dixie to the marrow.

Those stunning eyes were hard and cold, that shapely mouth rarely smiled, except at someone else’s misfortune, and those sculpted cheekbones stamped his features with a quality of merciless unemotional detachment which intimidated. He might radiate raw sexuality like a forcefield, but Dixie still prided herself on being the only woman in the whole building who was repulsed by César Valverde. The guy could give a freezer pneumonia just by arching one satiric brow.

Belatedly conscious of the dragging silence, Dixie emerged from her own reflections and glanced nervously up. Her pupils dilated, her heartbeat quickening as she stared. A decided frown on his striking dark features, César Valverde was strolling in a soundless circle round her, his piercing gaze intent on her now shrinking figure.

‘What’s wrong?’ she breathed, thoroughly disconcerted by his behaviour and the intensity of his scrutiny. ‘Dio mio…what’s right?’ His frown deepened as her slight shoulders drooped. ‘Straighten up…don’t slouch like that,’ he told her.

Flushing, Dixie did as she was told. She was relieved when he positioned himself against the edge of his immaculately tidy glass desk.

‘Do you recall the terms of the employment contract you signed before you started work here?’

Dixie thought about that and then guiltily shook her head. She had had to fill in and sign an avalanche of papers at speed that first day.

‘You didn’t bother to study the contract,’ César gathered with a curled lip.

‘I was desperate for a job…I would have signed anything.’

‘But if you’d read your contract, you would have known that getting into debt is grounds for instant dismissal.’

That unexpected revelation struck Dixie like a sudden blow. She stared at him in horror, soft full lips falling apart, what colour there was in her cheeks slowly, painfully draining away. César studied her the way a shark studies wounded prey before moving in for the kill. In silence he extended a computer printout.

With an unsteady hand, Dixie grasped at the sheet. Her heart felt as if it was thumping at the foot of her throat, making it impossible for her to breathe. The same names and figures which already haunted her every waking hour swam before her eyes and her tummy flipped in shock.

‘Security turned that up this morning. Regular financial checks are made on all staff,’ César informed her smoothly.

‘You’re sacking me,’ Dixie assumed sickly, swaying slightly.

Striding forward, César reached for a chair and planted it beside her. ‘Sit down, Miss Robinson.’

Dixie fumbled blindly down into the chair before her knees gave way beneath her. She was waiting for him to ask how such a junior employee could possibly have amassed debts amounting to such a staggering total. Indeed, in that instant of overwhelming shock and embarrassment, she was actually eager to explain how, through a series of awful misunderstandings and mishaps, such a situation had developed through no real fault of her own.

‘I have not the slightest interest in hearing a sob story,’ César Valverde delivered deflatingly as he lounged back against his desk again, his impossibly tall, lean and powerful length taking up a formidably relaxed pose.

‘But I want to explain—’

‘There is no need for you to explain anything. Debts of that nature are self-explanatory. You have a taste for living above your means and you like to party—’

Cringing at the knowledge that he knew about those shameful debts in her name, and her equally shameful inability to settle them, Dixie broke back into speech. ‘No, Mr Valverde. I—’

‘If you interrupt me again, I won’t offer you my assistance,’ César Valverde interposed with icy bite.

Struggling to understand that assurance, Dixie tipped back her wildly curly head and gaped at him. ‘Assistance?’ she stressed blankly.

‘I’m prepared to offer you another form of employment.’

In complete confusion, Dixie blinked.

‘But if you take on the role, it will entail a great deal of hard work and effort on your part.’

Sinking ever deeper into bewilderment, but ready to snatch at any prospect of continuing employment like a drowning swimmer snatches at a branch, Dixie nodded eagerly. ‘I’m not afraid of hard work, Mr Valverde.’

Obviously he was talking about demoting her. Where did you go from office junior? Dixie wondered frantically. Scrubbing the floors in the cafeteria kitchen?

César sent her a gleaming glance. ‘You’re really not in a position to turn my offer down.’

‘I know,’ Dixie acknowledged with total humility, suddenly starting to squirm at the reality of how much she had always disliked him. Evidently she had completely misjudged César Valverde’s character. Even though he had a legitimate excuse to sack her, he seemed to be willing to give her another chance. And if that meant scrubbing the canteen kitchen floor, she ought to say thank you from the bottom of her heart and get on with it.

‘Jasper hasn’t been well.’

The switch in subject disconcerted Dixie. Her strained face shadowed. ‘By what he’s said in his letters he still hasn’t quite got over that chest trouble he had in the spring.’

César looked grim. ‘His heart is weak.’

Dixie’s eyes prickled. That news was too much on top of all her other worries. Her stinging eyes overflowed and she dug into the pocket of her skirt to find a tissue. But the horrible news about Jasper did make sudden sense of César Valverde’s uncharacteristic tolerance, and his apparent willingness to allow her to remain in his employment by fixing her up with another job. He might not approve of her, or of her friendship with Jasper Dysart, but clearly he respected his godfather’s fondness for her. Presumably that was why he wasn’t going to kick her when she was already down.

‘At his age, Jasper can’t hope to go on for ever,’ César gritted, his unease with her emotional breakdown blatant and icily reproving.

Fighting to compose herself, Dixie blew her nose and sucked in a deep, steadying breath. ‘Will he be coming over to London this summer?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

Then she would never see Jasper again, she registered on a powerful tide of pain and regret. The struggle to stay abreast of the debts Petra had left behind made a trip to Spain as out of reach as a trip to the moon.

‘It’s time we got down to business,’ César drawled with perceptible impatience. ‘I need a favour, and in return for that favour I’m prepared to settle your debts.’

‘Settle my debts…what favour?’ Dixie echoed, lost as to what he could possibly be talking about and stunned by the idea of him offering to pay off those appalling bills. A favour? What sort of favour? How could her staying employed in any capacity within the Valverde Mercantile Bank be any kind of a favour to César Valverde?

César moved restively away from the desk and strode over to the window, the clear light of early summer glittering over his luxuriant hair and hard, classic profile. ‘In all probability, Jasper doesn’t have long to live,’ he spelt out harshly. ‘His dearest wish has always been that I should marry. At this present time I have no intention of fulfilling that wish, but I would very much like to please him with a harmless fiction.’

A harmless fiction? Dixie’s bemusement increased as she strained to grasp his meaning.

‘And that is where you come in,’ César informed her drily. ‘Jasper likes you. He’s very shy with your sex, and as a result he only warms to a certain type of woman. Your type. Jasper would be overjoyed if I announced that we had got engaged.’

‘We…?’ Dixie whispered weakly, certain she had missed a connecting link somewhere in that speech and beginning to stand up, as if by rising from the chair she might comprehend something that she couldn’t follow while still sitting.

César wheeled round, a forbidding cast to his lean features. ‘Your job would be to pretend that you’re engaged to me. It would be a private arrangement between us. You would play the role solely for Jasper’s benefit in Spain.’

A curious whirring sound reverberated in Dixie’s eardrums. Her lungs seemed suddenly empty of oxygen. Disbelief paralysing her, she gazed wide-eyed across the room at César Valverde. ‘You can’t be serious… Me,’ she stressed helplessly, ‘pretend to be engaged to…to you?’

‘Jasper will be convinced. People are always keen to believe what they want to believe,’ César asserted with rich cynicism.

As yet uncertain that this weird conversation was actually taking place, Dixie moved her head in a negative motion. ‘But nobody would believe that…that you and I…’ A betraying tide of colour slowly washed up her throat into her cheeks. ‘I mean, it’s just so unbelievable!’

‘That’s where your upcoming hard work and effort will pay off.’ Once again César studied her with that curious considering frown he had worn earlier. ‘I intend to make this charade as credible as possible. Jasper may be naive, but he’s no fool. Only when I’ve finished transforming you into a slim, elegant Dixie Mark Two will Jasper be truly convinced.’

It crossed Dixie’s mind that César Valverde had been at the booze. A slim Dixie Mark Two? She snatched in a short, sustaining breath. ‘Mr Valverde, I—’

‘Yes, I expect you’re very grateful,’ César dismissed arrogantly, a scornful light in his brilliant dark eyes as he surveyed her. ‘In fact I imagine you can hardly credit your good luck—’

‘My good luck?’ Dixie broke in shakily, wondering how any male so famed for his perception could be so wildly off course when it came to reading her reactions.

‘An image makeover, a new wardrobe, all your debts paid and an all-expenses-paid trip to Spain?’ César enumerated with cool exactitude. ‘It’s more than good luck…from where you’re standing now, it’s the equivalent of striking oil in the desert wastes! And you don’t deserve it. Believe me, if I had an alternative choice of fiancée available you’d have been fired first thing this morning!’

‘I was the only choice, wasn’t I?’ Dixie gathered in a wobbly voice. ‘Your type,’ he had said minutes ago, the only woman liked by Jasper that César Valverde knew. A slim Dixie Mark Two? How dared he get as personal as that? Didn’t he even appreciate that she had feelings that could be hurt? But then why should he care, standing there all lean and fit and perfect, probably never having had to watch his appetite once in his entire spoilt rotten life!

‘That’s irrelevant. By the way, I want this arrangement of ours to stay under wraps.’ César scanned her with threatening dark eyes. ‘Do you understand the concept of keeping a secret, Dixie?’

Locked to those spectacular dark eyes, Dixie felt oddly dizzy and out of breath. ‘A secret?’

‘It’s quite simple. If you open your mouth to another living soul about this deal, I’ll bury you,’ César Valverde murmured with chilling bite.

Dixie blenched. ‘That’s not very funny.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be. It was a warning. And you’ve been in here long enough. As soon as you walk out of this office, you can clear your desk and go home. I’ll be in touch this evening so that we can work out the finer details.’

Dixie lifted her chin, her rarely roused temper rising at the arrogance with which he simply assumed that she would do whatever he told her to do, no matter how immoral or unpleasant it might be. ‘Whatever decision I make, I can now consider myself fired…isn’t that right?’

‘Wow, quick on the uptake,’ César derided smoothly. ‘Too dumb to safely operate anything with a plug attached, but reads Nietzsche and Plato in her spare time. According to Jasper, you have a remarkable brain. And yet you never do anything with it. You certainly never dreamt of bringing it into work with you—’

Her lashes fluttered over huge violet eyes. ‘I beg your—?’

‘But then that’s because you’re a lazy, disorganised lump, who contrives to hide behind the front of being a brick short of the full load! Only around me you won’t get away with that kind of nonsense!’

Disbelief roared through Dixie as she reeled from the full impact of that derisive attack, even though on another level she longed to question him about Jasper having said that she had a remarkable brain. However, anger abruptly overpowered that brief spark of surprised pleasure and curiosity. ‘If I can consider myself fired, then I’m free to tell you exactly what I think of you too!’

César gave her a wolfish half-smile of encouragement. ‘I’m enjoying this. The office doormat suddenly discovers backbone. Make my day… Only be warned—I will respond in kind.’

Teeth almost chattering with the force of her disturbed emotions, Dixie drew herself up to her full unimpressive height and hissed, ‘You have to be the most unscrupulous, selfish human being I have ever met! Doesn’t it even occur to you that I might have some moral objection to cruelly deceiving a sweet old man, who deserves better from a male he loves like a son?’

‘You’re right. That thought didn’t occur to me,’ César confessed, without a shade of discomfiture or remorse. ‘Considering that you’re currently on the brink of being taken to court for obtaining goods and services by fraudulent deception, I’m not remotely impressed by the sound of your moral scruples!’

Dixie shrank and turned white. ‘Taken to c-court?’ she stammered, aghast, her eyes nailed to him in the hope that she had somehow misunderstood.