Читать книгу Unchained Destinies - SARA WOOD - Страница 7

IN FRUSTRATION, Mariann began to pack up her things. While Vigadó worked doggedly at the stains on his trousers, her mind drifted to another man who’d always dominated his environment: István, her sister’s guy.

Fondly she contemplated the love-affair between istvá and Tanya—its ups and downs and eventual state of bliss. Whenever they’d looked into each other’s eyes, her heart had contracted with a wistful envy. A mutual adoration like that was very moving. But bitter experien perience reminded her that men like him were rare, very rare and the odds against falling in love with a man who met her special needs were virtually nil.

Marian smiled gently. Nevertheless, their happiness had given her hope. Things could turn out well after difficulties. The thought inspired her to persevere with her daring plan.

Maybe Lionel’s wife would return to him when she found out what a monster Vigadó really was. And Mary O’Brien—surely she wouldn’t approve of the working methods of a brute whose sole motive was profit and dam the consequences? All they needed was Mary’s secret address and they were home and dry.

‘Is the paint coming off?’ she enquired sweetly, her eyes lingering on the fine tailoring of his double-vented jacket and ferociously knife-edged trousers. Some of Lionel’s authors had probably funded that suit!

‘No. I hope the cleaners will have better luck. I hate waste,’ he frowned, dropping the cloth rag in. defeat. Foiled for once, and obviously hating the experience, he impatiently thrust back a hank of silky black hair that spoilt his impeccable appearance by daring to dip its wave on to his broad forehead.

‘Disasters will happen. I’m sure it’ll clean out,’ she said soothingly, screwing the top back on the turps. ‘Well, since you’ve arrived, I’ll get out of your way now.’

‘No, you won’t! You’ll tell me what you’re planning first,’ he said aggressively.

Mariann bit back her annoyance. ‘You’ll be dead surprised!’ she promised wryly.

‘You may be right, you may be wrong,’ he said in an ice-splintered voice, and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of the sharply tailored jacket. ‘Why don’t you show me what you have in mind?’

Later! she thought, hugging her secret to herself. ‘All right. Come and see.’ Serenely content to be deceiving the dreaded monster, she knelt on the dustsheet beside the stack of paint tins.

‘Here?’ he asked lazily. ‘How original.’

‘You’ve got a dirty mind,’ she reproved and grabbed a screwdriver, ignoring Vigadó’s mock-exclamation of lecherous surprise and levering open a tin. She’d cheerfully directed the decorators to some interesting shades, just for fun, pretending that ‘Viggy’ would ‘adore’ her choice. And she’d enjoyed picking out the colours, majestically arranging for the bill to be sent to the Dieter Ringel office. ‘Cantaloupe,’ she pronounced proudly, showing him and revving up her cheery Cockney impersonation to full throttle. ‘Bright, innit? Once it’s slapped on the walls, you’ll be real chipper! What do you think?’

‘Can’t say it’s been one of my life’s ambitions to work inside a melon,’ he grunted, crouching beside her on the dustsheet. His hand stretched out to her discarded boiler suit beside him and fingered the emblem on the pocket reflectively. ‘Kastély Huszár,’ he mused, flicking a quick glance at Mariann’s widening eyes. ‘The hotel…How did you get hold of this?’ he demanded sharply.

‘Monogrammed, is it? That’s posh for you!’ she exclaimed.

And inwardly she groaned. Oh, help! He might know the countess! She made a mental note to ring István’s mother and beg her not to reveal the family connection between them. Vigadó had to continue to believe that she was a simple, uncomplicated girl with nothing but empty space between her ears. If he got wind of the fact that she worked for a publisher—

‘Are you having trouble formulating an answer?’ he asked with sinister softness.

She blanched at the barbaric growl and sharpened her defences. Travel-weary he might be, but he was still more alert than most guys on their fifth cup of coffee.

‘I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she said, much on her dignity. ‘The hotel supplied me with it,’ she told him truthfully, rather pleased with her evasion. ‘It’s had a revamp,’ she explained. ‘Decorators everywhere.’

His head angled on one side. ‘Everyone knows that. István Huszár and that English manager of his have made the hotel world-famous. You’ve worked there?’ he probed, his glacial eyes boring into her soul.

Her heart began to thump. Lying didn’t come easy to her, not after being brought up as a vicar’s daughter! ‘Did a few jobs,’ she answered with a vigorous nod.

She smiled ruefully, thinking of when she’d helped her younger sister Sue to soothe a few hundred guests when their brother’s wedding at the castle was dramatically cancelled. Or when she’d packed up the wedding presents. What a terrible day that had been! She could have wept—would have done—if Tanya hadn’t been relying on her support. But the apparent disaster had brought Tanya and István together after years apart. Crises were often turning points.

Vigadó had stood up smoothly and was running incredulous eyes over her rather skimpily clad body. ‘You’re telling me you really are a decorator?’ he asked in mild disbelief.

Mariann nodded blithely. After doing out their Devon home and her London friends’ flats, she reckoned she could call herself that. ‘That’s right,’ she said, thinking she was almost home and dry. A little more proof and he’d be convinced. Perhaps some colourful Cockney would help! ‘Okey dokey, swivel your peepers this way—’

‘Do you think,’ he interrupted with a heavy sigh, ‘that you could speak normal, undecorated English? I don’t think my jet-lagged brain can cope with riddles.’

‘I meant’ she said, cheerfully in command of the situation, ‘for you to see what else we were doing.’ Hoping to convince him by sheer self-assurance, she opened tins enthusiastically. ‘Sultana skirting boards, flapjack ceiling and cane-sugar door panels with a cream surround. What do you think? Come on, be honest.’ Mariann leapt up eagerly and her big smile broadened with delight at his shattered expression.

‘Sounds like a greengrocer’s shop in the West Indies,’ he said caustically.

‘Too right!’ she sympathised. ‘But there’s colour charts for you,’ she added, disclaiming all responsibility for the manufacturer’s wild fantasies.

‘This building is part of Budapest’s historic Castle district,’ he said wearily. ‘You’re working in what was once an eighteenth-century salon—’

‘But the colours would look stunning!’ she cooed.

‘If this is a joke…’ he began in stiff anger.

And she couldn’t resist teasing him. ‘Too unconventional? I thought it might be.’ She sighed. ‘Colours are supposed to reveal your inner character.’ She eyed his suit with a professional air and let her gaze linger for a fraction too long on the lines of the beautiful body beneath. Wasted on a man like that…

‘Enlighten me as to my character,’ he said in clipped tones.

With pleasure! she thought. ‘A guy who believes in straight-down-the-line commitment with no sideturnings, who’s organised, ruthless to a fault, with no grey areas and no maybe,’ she replied, sounding annoyingly husky. Conventional or not, he looked devastating. But then his earthy, raw sensuality would fight its way through anything he chose to wear. Stopping herself from wool-gathering, she waved an expressive hand towards her kaleidoscopic pile of clothes. ‘What do mine say?’

He scanned the heap of reds, oranges and shocking pinks. ‘They don’t “say”, they shout,’ he grated in disapproval. ‘They scream in raucous tones that you’re as fast and as brash and as exciting as a fairground ride. A chameleon landing on those clothes would have a nervous breakdown.’

‘You’re funny!’ she said in surprise. She was grinning good-naturedly at his assessment, not in the least bit bothered by it because she was proud of brightening a grey world, one hand jammed into her tiny waist above the womanly swell of her hip, her long legs and bare feet planted assertively apart.

‘Hilarious. Stick your tongue out,’ he commanded abruptly.

She almost obeyed. ‘What?’ She gaped in astonishment.

Suddenly he was as close as a tango dancer, looming over her, his snazzy-suited body authoritative and slightly menacing. A faint quiver of nerves rippled from her head to her toes. When his hand enclosed her bare arm like an iron manacle again, she wondered seriously whether she could actually get away with deceiving him. Those eyes of his could penetrate flaws inside iron girders.

‘Stick your tongue out,’ he repeated softly, and Mariann found herself swaying towards him, helplessly mesmerised by his smoulderingly sexy eyes.

She fought the urge to lift her mouth to Vigadó’s inviting lips. He was even more wickedly sexy in the flesh than on paper, and of course that was how she had expected him to stay—a paper threat. It hadn’t been her intention to be around when he arrived. If he’d stuck to his schedule, she thought resentfully, like any normal businessman, whose life was run by his Filofax, she would have extracted all the information she needed and been on her way before he ever knew he’d been invaded by decorators!

Or tempted her with his undeniably enticing mouth.

He lifted an insistent eyebrow. ‘Your tongue,’ he murmured.

Her head cleared a little. What could he do to it? she reasoned. Cut it off? Intrigued, she obliged, her eyes challenging his while she stuck out her tongue with an energetic thrust that turned the gesture into an out-andout insult.

‘Awrr righ’?’ she enquired insolently.

A square of beautifully soft linen appeared in his hand and was gently moistened on her outstretched tongue while she covertly watched him—his long black lashes curling like a child’s on his cheeks, his come-and-kissme mouth flowering before her eyes in a shockingly sensual enjoyment. Her heart began to thud faster and hastily she retracted her tongue, aghast that she was responding with such primitive eagerness to his compelling, raw sexuality.

She liked men. She liked kissing. Perhaps a cuddle. No more. More led to expectations, to commitment, to ‘going steady’. And then obsessions, which she feared. Her sister Tanya’s happiness, her mother’s, father’s, brother’s—all had been nearly destroyed by obsession. And even the powerful István had been scarred by its denial. It was frightening, to be possessed by emotions.

To kiss this man would be an experience. But Vigadó gave out the impression that he’d never settle for less than complete surrender in return for his time and effort. Pity. She’d have liked to know what it felt like to have that amazingly carnal mouth on hers. It looked so wickedly, excitingly mobile…

She stiffened. He’d taken her face in one hand and slowly, solemnly rubbed at the paint splashes on her forehead, beneath the dip of her Marilyn waves. She jerked back and he continued on less dangerous areas of her brow. Snow from the sub-zero blizzard outside had dampened his hair and the freezing wind had given his face a healthy glow. He was so near, she mused, that she could feel the icy chill rising from his skin.

He smiled. It looked rather calculating to her and she sought to break the tension between them with a merry quip, but he got there first. ‘Now we’ve cleared up the flapjack, we can proceed,’ he murmured huskily. ‘I wonder which of us is the hungriest? Who will devour whom?’

Mariann blinked. Did he mean the paint, or her? Dark eyes burned into hers. And then she felt the tip of his tongue touching her jawline and all hell broke loose inside her. Something odd had happened to her stomach. She shook her head slowly till she had some control over her voice—confused as to why her throat had closed up in collusion with her body.

‘You can’t eat me. You’d get poisoned,’ she managed to croak out.

‘Oh?’ he murmured, his eyes mocking. ‘Venom in your blood?’

‘Lead in the paint,’ she countered shakily.

He chuckled in a sinister way. ‘Thanks for the warning,’ he said silkily. ‘I will look out for all the dangers when I’m tempted by beautiful and mysterious decorators putting in a bit of overtime.’

Mariann lowered her eyes modestly, her heart fluttering like crazy. There’d been a wealth of hidden meaning in his words. Tread carefully, she told herself. This man would be suspicious of his own mother.

‘Flatterer!’ she accused, feeling the desperation clouding her brain.

‘Don’t flirt,’ he warned in a low tone. If I want a woman, I take her—without any need for coy messages of encouragement.’

She tried to force her throat to open again, deciding to make a stand. Because she mustn’t fail! So a big smile and, ‘Who’s flirting?’ she defied.

‘You were,’ he said curtly.

‘Why would I do that?’ she shrugged.

‘Why indeed,’ he stated starkly.

Mariann licked her lips nervously. Fencing with this Don Juan was a tactical mistake. She must make her exit soon, find a way to close that incriminatingly open filing cabinet and carry on the decorating farce for another day.

‘If you don’t like the colours,’ she babbled, ‘we could do mango and cocoa-brown with fudge…’ The look in his eyes—beech-nut brown, or Havana? she wondered a little breathily—told her that it was time to stop. As usual she’d gone just a little too far. Her sense of fun had run away with her.

“Don’t push it,’ he said tightly. ‘You’re on dangerous ground.’

The beech-nut browns took another swift tour of her body. This time he made her feel so alarmingly naked that she wished she’d worn overalls. By now, the T-shirt was clinging rather indecently to her hot, damp breasts. The shorts weren’t much better. When she’d cut the hems for ease of movement, she’d been sublimely indifferent to states of the office staff—after all, she was playing a part and András and János knew better than to even glance below her neck, because she was ‘Viggy’s’. But this was Viggy himself. And he not only stared, he had a way of igniting her flesh and making it seem…more fleshy, more sexy than ever before. And that scared her.

‘Sorry. Tell me what colours you want and I’ll do them,’ she said contritely, every inch of her aware of him—and hating the magnetic pull he was exerting over her. ‘It’s a shame,’ she said, struggling for normality. ‘I reckoned my scheme would look terrific——’

‘You reckoned?’ he interrupted sharply. ‘My office manager should have made that kind of decision, not you. Sándor Millassin.’

‘Antal,’ she corrected, watching him closely.

‘Of course,’ he replied, as bland as milk. ‘I forgot.’

She knew that was an out-and-out lie. Vigadó Gabór had the reputation of having a memory like an elephant. He was checking up on her! Must do better she told herself angrily.

‘Look, Antal was in a flap,’ she said, giving him an edited version of the truth. In fact, it was because the manager had been in so much of a flap, with his office in such chaos and the dreaded Vigadó due that month, that her bluff had worked. Antal had swallowed everything she’d told him about ‘Viggy’s’ generosity towards her. ‘Apparently you’d suddenly decided to switch your headquarters to Budapest and he wanted everything to look smart for you. He was far too busy making offers for the building next door and ordering equipment to bother with minor details like colour charts.’

Vigadó wandered to the window and stared out at the broken ice patterning the Danube below. The converted mansion stood high on a dramatic rocky outcrop above the city. Now the blizzard had stopped it was possible to see the whole panorama of the snow-blanketed city across the white-flecked river.

Mariann edged a little closer to glimpse the dazzling beauty of romantic Budapest. Her face softened. There was the vast Gothic parliament building, its severe facade turned into an elaborately decorated wedding-cake by the snow icing. And on its balcony, she mused, a Hungarian Prime Minister had once made a plea for freedom from Soviet occupation. How awful, to have been oppressed—

‘What’s the name of the people you work for?’ asked Vigadó with a sudden verbal lunge.

She blinked, dragging her mind back to a present-day oppressor, and told him. He checked the phone book, wrote down the number on a pad and faced her again, the jet-black hair stark against the leaden skies, his face a dark, unreadable blur in the fading light. ‘I’ll ring them in the morning.’

‘No point. They’ll be here,’ she said, worrying that he’d find out someone had impersonated him.

‘Why aren’t the men working overtime? Why you?’

Suddenly Mariann felt trapped. His body language was telling her that she was being very astutely judged and found wanting. ‘I—I badly need the money,’ she said huskily. ‘I begged and coaxed them to let me carry on.’

‘Clever.’

She thought so. Living on her wits was becoming a way of life and life was a series of opportunities. ‘We’re doing a good job, and doing it fast. We’ll be out of your way before you know it.’ True! He scowled at her and stayed silent. ‘Well?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No, it isn’t “well”. Far from it. Get out of here,’ he said with a sudden, brutal finality. ‘Don’t bother to come back. I’ll get my own man in.’

Mariann stared at him in dismay. Her careful plans, all her work, had come to an abrupt end! She’d failed! Helplessly she watched Vigadó sling his coat over his shoulder and pick up his briefcase. His dark, steely eyes flicked back contemptuously to her as he paused in the door that led to the next office. She froze.

‘I told you to go!’

‘But you can’t mean that! What about my mates?’ she wailed, moving forward to head him off. The image of the open cabinet burned in her mind.

‘For God’s sake!’ he snapped. ‘Don’t you have any sense of self-preservation? Don’t you know what a dangerous man I am?’ His voice became a low, savage growl, his eyes petrified her with their intense black anger. ‘Stay,’ he said menacingly, ‘and you risk more than a little damage to that beautiful face of yours.’

Her eyes flipped automatically to his scar while his glance swept from her toes to her head, slowly, measuring her inch by inch. With every flicker of his thick, dark lashes, Mariann felt weaker, the caress of his eyes on her lips making them part, the contempt, when their eyes finally met, rocking her on her heels. And it was the first time that she’d ever felt so scared for her own safety that she was close to being physically sick.

‘You have ten seconds to move, two minutes to clear the mess!’ rapped Vigadó.

‘Impossible! I need to clean—’

‘Go!’

There was no sense in inviting an explosion of that simmering temper. Mariann sullenly shrugged her shoulders. ‘You’re the boss.’ What on earth was she going to do? ‘I think you’ve dropped your wallet or something,’ she said, pointing back vaguely to her heaped clothes. When he grunted and strode over to check, she slipped past him into the next office and quietly pushed the cabinet shut.

‘Nothing there,’ he said softly, returning. ‘Now what are you doing?’

‘Checking there’s nothing of mine in here,’ she said breathlessly.

Cold and hard, the sinister dark eyes lingered on hers for a few scary seconds. ‘I believe everything in there belongs to me,’ he said tightly, and strode to the desk, sifting through the mail as if she didn’t exist any more.

Thinking savagely that half the authors in that cabinet rightly belonged to their original publishers and not him at all, she stalked out, racking her brains for a way out. It seemed awful just to walk away and admit defeat. He shouldn’t always get whatever he wanted, she thought resentfully. He bullied people, using whatever means he could—power, the that of violence, sex. Angrily she pushed cleaning rags into a carrier bag and wrapped the roller.

She didn’t want him to win. She never abandoned anything she’d set out to do. It had been so easy for him, to arrive, snap out a few questions and decide he didn’t want to be bothered with a perfectly good gang of decorators.

A small voice inside her urged her to go, that arguing with him would be imprudent and staying would be risky. But she’d always been more stubborn than wise, making things work for her. Throughout her life, her policy had always been to go that extra mile, push harder, further than other people to reach her goal and never to show weakness.

That was how, she mused, she had won the reputation of never being troubled, of always being happy and sunny. Even her family believed that. But early on she’d seen that they’d had enough troubles of their own without hearing about hers—and they, like everyone else, had come to see her as the one bright and cheering ray of sunshine in their lives.

Only her younger sister, Sue, knew that there were dark days too. That the constant effort to show the expected sparkling face had become part of a role she didn’t always want to play.

Mariann grimaced and slowly dunked her brushes in the turps jar before suspending them in their clips. Her elder sister Tanya was warm, motherly and deeply committed to them all. John, well, he was a kid brother, eager, enthusiastic, romantic. Sue was sensible and downto-earth.

Smiling, Mariann thought that it was odd how easily she’d drifted into being the glamorous, carefree one. Men went out with her for those qualities—her ability to enjoy life, have fun, make them laugh—and not because she looked homely or could bake feather-light sponges.

Sometimes she wondered if anyone would ever see deeper than the external face she showed the world. But when she’d once revealed some of her real self, everyone had thought she was fooling around and had laughed at her hesitant confidences.

A smile, a quip, a witty remark…they’d never wanted any more. And increasingly everyone had come to think that she was so tough, she could work miracles. Like now. She straightened, her eyes on Vigadó’s dauntingly broad back. ‘England expects…’ she thought, and smiled wryly.

And then a thought popped suddenly into her head uninvited: how lovely it would be to have a relationship with a man who had a stronger will than she! Mariann grinned. No, it would be awful! Too many fights! Talking of which, this Vigadó was one guy she didn’t want to get the better of her!

Action stations! Re-form! Charge!

Giggling to herself, she padded over to the open door of the next office, watching his body move lithely around as he emptied his briefcase.

He hadn’t noticed her, her bare feet making no sound on the dustsheets. On the brink of speaking, she checked herself. He’d stiffened all his muscles in tension. Bending over his case, he picked up a framed photograph of a woman and stared at it. Slowly and deliberately, he pushed it back into the briefcase with a gesture that suggested he loathed the very sight of the woman.

Vigadó’s wife? she wondered. It hadn’t been Liz— Lionel’s wife—because the photo she’d seen had shown her boss with a dark woman. The one in Vigadó’s photograph was ash-blonde. He squared his shoulders as though coming to a decision and turned. Her eyes widened at the expression of dark despair that filled his face with a vulnerable, human quality she hadn’t seen before.

But instantly his face tautened into a mask, smoothing away the bitter sorrow of his mouth, the bleakness in his eyes, the heart-tugging lines of strain.

Mariann was fascinated. He did have doubts, worries, problems, like normal men! And that meant he was accessible. There was something inside him she could appeal to if necessary. It gave her hope.

‘You still here?’ he shot.

Bullies backed down if you stood up to them. She’d known enough men who’d grabbed her and crumbled when she’d assaulted them with scathing words. And this one, apparently, had a wounded core. Inspiration came to her.

‘Just wanted to say that you’ll be hearing from me.’ Stiff and proud, she turned, collected the two largest paint tins and carried them to the outer door.

‘You’re not trying to coax me to let you stay or…anything else?’ he asked in surprise, stepping forward to stare after her.

‘No. See you in court,’ she answered crisply.

‘Court?’ He gave a small, incredulous laugh.

‘Yup.’

The laugh came again. ‘Suing?’ She didn’t answer. ‘Did you have a written agreement, a contract?’

‘Yes,’s she said, unperturbed. There had been a generous price for the job and she knew there’d been a backhander arranged for Antal. Disapproving of such corruption, she’d pretended not to see the money change hands, telling herself that Vigadó cheated so many people, he shouldn’t be surprised if his staff cheated him too. She prayed her father would never find out what she was doing.

‘I hope you’ve got a work permit,’ he snapped.

‘No.’

‘Well! You personally don’t seem to be on very firm ground,’ he said scathingly. ‘How are you intending to sue me? By claiming sexual harassment?’

At the low, meaningful probe, she gave him a mysterious smile and turned her back on him. ‘Now. Where did I put my flat brush…?’

‘Try a charge like that and my lawyers will expose your background and your case will fall through,’ he said contemptuously.

‘I’m not trying it,’ she said, calmly taking one ladder at a time to the corridor outside.

Vigadó moved further into the room. ‘Then what the hell are you playing at?’ he asked with exasperation steaming from every word.

Mariann grinned to herself. She’d successfully captured his attention. Tycoons hated mysteries and they had to be in control. ‘I’m not playing. It’s not a game to me. I’m trying to make a livelihood,’ she said, weaving elements of truth into her answer. How could this be a game, when her job as editor depended on it? ‘I care passionately about my work. I’m just starting out and I need to get more experience—’

‘You will,’ he drawled. ‘With a body like that, you will, I can assure you.’

She ignored his taunt. ‘You have no reason to break the contract,’ she said with dignity. ‘We’ve worked darn hard, hour after hour without proper breaks, to get the job done fast. My arms ache, I’ve been inhaling paint fumes so I feel nauseous, I’ve spilled paint all over me and I’m fed up with your bad-tempered behaviour just because you turn up earlier than expected yet you want everything to be perfect!’ She risked an indignant glare. ‘Oh, no. Neither I nor the firm will be suing you!’

‘No?’ he prompted, his brows drawn together in puzzled lines.

‘No. you’ll be suing me,’ she said simply. And she picked up her Thermos flask and sandwiches with a purposeful air.

‘Wait a minute! I’m riveted, Tell me why and maybe we can short-circuit this proposed court appearance,’ he said drily.

‘Well, I’ll be telling my story to a newspaper, of course!’ she said, wide-eyed and artless.

‘You’ll what? Which story?’ He’d taken two quick strides and caught her beneath her armpits, lifting her in the air till she was Devel with his thunderous face. ‘Which story?’ he snarled.

‘Put me down and I’ll tell you!’ she gasped. ‘Unless you want a Thermos and a packet of cheese and pickle smashed over your head!’

‘Your hand wouldn’t get that far,’ he growled, but dumped her roughly on the floor nevertheless. ‘Speak.’

She stood her ground, whereas she would have preferred to move back from the alarmingly angry rise of his expanded chest. ‘I’d tell them the story I’ve just told you. How hard I’ve tried to please their home-grown whiz-kid’s imperious demands, slaving my fingers to the bone, going without sleep—’ She caught a malevolen flicker in his eyes and hastily scrapped the rest of her litany. ‘Basically, I’m going to appeal to the Hungarian people’s sense of fair play, and their empathy with people who work long hours, and tell them how badly you treat your employees—’

His hands stayed her. ‘Oh, no. I won’t let you do that. There are enough lies flying around about me as it is. I’m impressed,’ he said slowly. ‘No wonder you landed the job.’ Mariann kept her eyes lowered and held her breath. ‘What a clever woman you are! You do know how to get what you want,’ he murmured, tucking blonde strands behind her ear. ‘That kind of perseverance and dedication deserves some kind of reward.’

‘Oh!’ He was weakening! ‘You’re so right! I am relieved you see it my way at last!’ she cried happily, deciding to flatter him. ‘I knew there was a decent heart inside that ruthless exterior—’

‘Please,’ he protested mockingly. ‘You’ll ruin my reputation for tyranny.’

‘I won’t tell,’ she grinned. ‘And…I’ll do my best—’

“I’ll make sure you will,’ he said softly and smiled a thin, unnervingly venomous smile as though he meant to examine every inch of paintwork and pronounce judgement on it. ‘I can well imagine that you’re very good at your job. You can understand my suspicion. You’re the most unlikely-looking decorator I’ve ever seen.’

‘I know. It’s the outfit, isn’t it?’ she said innocently, catching his glance wandering hungrily over her bare legs again. The sultry expression in his dark eyes suggested he wanted to work his way up from her feet, tasting every inch of skin. She quivered and quickly suppressed the deliciously curling sensation that had come with that thought.

‘And your reason for dressing like that is…?’

‘Sweat!’ she said, hoping to kill all thoughts of sex— her own thoughts as well as his—with her bombshell directness. ‘If I don’t strip off the layers, I get overheated. Your offices are awfully hot with the central heating turned up all day and it’s too bitter outside to open the windows. I like fresh air. I’m a country girl myself, you see.’

‘Is that so?’ he stated flatly. ‘I had no idea the East End of London was considered to be the country.’

She gazed at him in consternation and then recovered herself. ‘It isn’t. My family live in Devon,’ she explained hastily. ‘Dad retired there.’

‘Is that how you got the job at Kastély Huszár?’ he queried in a tone of mild curiosity. ‘The English manager comes from Devon, I believe.’

She blinked. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, wondering what Vigadó would do if he knew ‘the English manager’ was her brother John! ‘You have to use all the contacts you can,’ she said disarmingly.

‘No doubt you’ve made some worthwhile contacts with my staff too,’ he purred.

‘Well, you see me here, so I suppose I did. So we can carry on working?’ she said, checking, just to be sure.

‘Shall we say…I would like you to turn up tomorrow?’ he replied carefully.

‘Oh! Wonderful! Th-ta!’ she cried in delight.

‘Not dressed like that, though,’ he drawled. ‘I’m sure my staff would be delighted if you clambered up and down ladders in those clothes, but I’d prefer them to keep their eyes and minds on their work.’

‘OK. I’ll wear overalls,’ she assured him earnestly. ‘I won’t even sing. Can’t say fairer than that!’

‘I was surprised to hear singing,’ he mused. ‘Most people only sing in the bath.’

Something in his tone brought a warm curling glow to her insides. She knew enough about men to realise that he’d look fabulous nude, the water gleaming on those pass and biceps…Her muscles tensed at the disturbing and tantalising image of soap-suds gliding down his narrow hips and she ruefully gathered up her hysterical hormones and confined them to barracks again.

‘I sing in the bath too. Got to keep our plastic ducks amused, haven’t we?’ She grinned, but her voice was creakier than it should be.

His slow glance sent unwanted shock-waves up and down her spine. ‘I prefer something a little more tactile,’ he replied huskily.

Several hormones went AWOL again. ‘Uh-huh. Loofahs.’ She nodded sagely and was rewarded with a flash of amusement in his dark eyes.

‘I do believe,’ he murmured softly, ‘that my jet-lag has suddenly vanished.’

‘Well, isn’t that nice?’ she cried merrily and then her brows drew together in a dark line. ‘Did you say jetlag?’ she queried in surprise. ‘Don’t whiz-kids fly Concorde?’

‘Naturally. But back-to-back meetings in Sydney, Hong Kong and New York take their toll nevertheless.’

Her hazel eyes were filled with well-simulated awe. ‘I’ve never talked to a tycoon like you before, she said in admiration, her mind working furiously. He’d relaxed a little and seemed willing to talk at last. She was more than willing to listen while she finished clearing away because she might break down the barriers between them. ‘Here. Have some coffee. A cheese and pickle sandwich,’ she offered, generously passing him the remains of her lunch before ferrying the equipment back into the room. ‘And tell me what you do at these meetings,’ she said earnestly as she did so. ‘Do you talk about sales figures and thump the table and gee people up?’

Declining the food, he hesitated before answering and, hoping to encourage him, she adopted an attitude of fascinated attention. ‘Mainly we were talking about authors,’ he replied casually.

Her body tensed with excitement. ‘Gosh! Isn’t that thrilling? It’s one heck of a glamorous world. I read historical novels,’ she told him eagerly, deliberately not choosing to mention the subject she was most interested in. ‘Do you do those?’

‘We “do” everything.’ His dark eyes flickered. ‘Travel books, reference, mystery and suspense, romance… sagas…’

To Mariann, there seemed to be an increasing tension between them, a waiting, as if each of them was assessing the other, circling, throwing a wary punch or two. And she knew she dared not pursue the avenue he’d left open to her. Every fibre of her being might be directed towards tracing saga-writer Mary O’Brien but this wasn’t the way to do it. She’d have to be patient till tomorrow.

‘Must make your eyes tired,’ she said sympathetically, ‘doin’ all that readin’. He smiled faintly. ‘Speaking of tired, my mum said I should never outstay my welcome so I’d better get my things on.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He shut the door and she was left gazing at its heavy panels, feeling a sense of anticlimax. It had all been easy after all. Too easy? Her brow furrowed in anxiety.

Trudging through the snow back to the Budapest Hilton a short distance away, she mentally reviewed her position. She thought she’d allayed his suspicions, but wasn’t sure. In the morning, she’d have to ask her two fellow decorators not to refer to the fact that she was ‘Viggy’s’ girl.

Despite her predicament, she had to smile. This was the kind of crazy, impossible situation she loved as a challenge to her ingenuity—though several times she’d felt she’d been sailing a little close to the wind!

Lionel rang her and she told him what had happened. ‘The next night, I’ll get that address if I have to set the office on fire and stay on to ransack the cabinet while the flames are leaping about my ears’ she joked.

‘Do that,’ he said hysterically. ‘I can’t hold the bank longer than a couple off days!’

‘Tell them Mary’s as good as yours again,’ she said gently, worried about Lionel’s state of mind. ‘Rely on me. I’ll do everything I can.’

They all worked hard the next day—she, her two ‘mates’ and everyone in the office. Vigadó had either worked all night or had begun at some ungodly hour because when she arrived at eight he was already into a third cup of coffee and barely looked up when she was let in by the janitor.

The reaction of the staff when they saw their boss had arrived unexpectedly was quite amusing. Horror, panic, then a frantic appearance of work—as in a speeded-up film. And Vigadó had said virtually nothing to produce this effect. This was all on the strength of his formidable reputation.

Beneath the boiler suit she boiled. But she didn’t dare strip off. Not with eagle eyes flicking her the odd glance every now and then. So she slaved on the ceiling while her colleagues did the more difficult gloss-work, her neck aching more and more as the endless hours wore on.

Tonight, she told herself. She’d get those records tonight. And prayed that he’d go to bed early after such a long day.

‘Staying on again?’

The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. He’d crept up behind her. ‘Just want to finish this bit of cantaloupe,’ she said, ‘and you can decide if you like it or not when you get the whole effect.’

‘I think I’ll call it a day,’ he murmured, jingling coins in the pocket of his dark grey business suit. She stiffened. Or were they keys? ‘Perhaps I’ll decide tomorrow.’

Terrific! ‘If you like,’ she said politely. And he’d gone. Mariann waited for her thudding heart to slow down and listened. He was slowly walking up the marble stairs to the penthouse apartment above. A few agonising moments later, she let out a long breath of relief and put the roller down on the huge tin.

Silently she slipped into the office he’d been using. It was dark and she couldn’t find the keys anywhere. It was several seconds before she realised that they were no longer in the drawer. Closing her mind to the fact that they were in his pocket, she whirled and heaved ineffectually at the drawers of the filing cabinet. Locked. So she methodically worked through everything in the office but found no keys of any kind.

Leaning against the cabinet, she forced her brain to come up with ideas. The keys were almost definitely in his possession. Either tonight or some other night she’d have to get them. They’d be still in his pocket, or on his dressing-table if he changed from the formal suit into something more casual for the evening.

Mariann bit her lip. But how to lay her hands on them? This wasn’t some backwoods lad she could fool. However…people said she was sexy. Her sex-appeal had always been a terrible burden and she’d never turned on its full voltage because of the trouble it might get her into. So far she’d always had a tongue sharp enough to cut groping men down to size. She knew exactly how to cool their ardour. Maybe this was the time to test her quick wit to the limit. If she could get into Vigadó’s apartment, perhaps find some excuse…

She gulped. It would be a case of getting close enough to pick his pocket, or search the bathroom and his bedroom. Risky. But she didn’t have any choice. Lionel was relying on her.

Could she be frightened of something? Scream, run upstairs and claim an intruder had come in…? No, the janitor would come running. And a straightforward, Can I see your etchings? approach would get her into his bed quicker than she could say Picasso. But if she were in trouble…

She remembered how paint had stained his last pair of trousers and he’d been fastidious enough to get annoyed. Her face lit up with a broad grin. If he was still wearing the charcoal-grey gear, she could ruin it and make sure he removed it. If not, she could get into his bathroom by the same plan that had formed in her mind.

‘You’re brilliant!’ She giggled to herself.

Hurrying back to where she’d been working, she impatiently tore off her boiler suit, pushed the roller off the tin and slopped cantaloupe paint down her shorts. It slid in satisfying melony rivers all down her bare legs. Perfect!

Trying not to laugh, she allowed it to stain her golden skin for a few moments, let out a loud yell, paused, and ran up the marble steps to Vigadó’s apartment.