Читать книгу No Escaping Love - Шэрон Кендрик, Sharon Kendrick - Страница 9
ОглавлениеSHE might just—just—make it.
Shauna flung her suitcase and holdall into the empty compartment, clambered in and slammed the door shut just as the train began to move away.
She’d made it with seconds to spare, but, glancing at her watch with a grimace, Shauna realised that, although this might be the express train from Dover to London, it would need to sprout wings and fly if it were going to get her to her interview on time.
She looked out of the window and cursed the stormy skies which had made her ferry crossing so turbulent, before pulling the now crumpled advert out of her holdall. Oh, please—if anyone up there is looking down on me—let me get this job, she thought, as she read it for the umpteenth time.
WANTED
Assistant to businessman in Central London. Hours erratic. Salary excellent. Accommodation available. Initiative and enthusiasm a plus—along with conventional office skills. Languages essential, including fluent Portuguese. Apply in writing to Box No.4204
She had applied, and had received a type-written reply, requesting that she attend for interview at Ryder Enterprises at sixteen-hundred hours today. The letter had been signed ‘Max Ryder’ in a firm and rather flamboyant signature.
Some luck, she thought ruefully. It sounded a peach of a job—and she was going to be late.
Exactly three hours later Shauna arrived at Ryder Enterprises, feeling as if she’d been run over by a steamroller. Two years of working in the relatively laid-back atmosphere of Portugal had left her ill-equipped to cope with the frantic bustle of the London Underground.
Struggling with her baggage, she pushed open the heavy glass door and sank into an opulently deep-pile cream carpet. A waft of cloying perfume hit her like a solid wall and her heart sank as she saw the other women in the room. She was in the wrong place! She must be. There was no way that she had anything in common with the other occupants of the room. She stood out like a sore thumb.
The three females sitting around a glass table the size of an ice-rink who had been laconically chatting with each other all froze in unison as they looked her up and down. Their assessment lasted less than five seconds before they gave a group demonstration of superior dismissal, then renewed their conversation, ignoring her completely.
Shauna stood stock-still, frozen with indecision, momentarily debating whether or not she should simply turn right round and leave, when she heard a polite cough, and stared across the room into a pair of smiling eyes. The smiling person wore spectacles, had a slick, dark bob and was seated behind a desk. She was speaking now, and it took a couple of seconds for Shauna to realise that she was addressing her.
‘I’m Mrs Neilson,’ she said. ‘And you must be…?’
‘Shauna,’ she said clearly. ‘Shauna Wilde. I’m so sorry,’ she walked forward and put her case down by the desk, ‘but I’m late.’
Mrs Neilson looked down at a list of names before her. ‘Yes, you are,’ she agreed. ‘And by over an hour, too.’ She looked up, her eyes apologetic. ‘I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid that Mr Ryder won’t tolerate unpunctuality.’
‘Oh, but he must!’ said Shauna hastily. ‘Please?’ She smiled at the receptionist, a pleading look in her eye. She had a lot riding on getting this job. ‘I’ve come straight from the Continent—all the way from Portugal. I was making brilliant time but then my ferry was delayed. Can’t I just wait until he’s interviewed the others? He might see me then.’
‘He might,’ said Mrs Neilson doubtfully, then gave a small smile. ‘You can try. Take a seat—but I can’t promise anything.’
‘Thanks.’ Shauna walked over to a chair, dropped her belongings defiantly on the ground beside her and sat down. The eyes all turned in her direction. Well, she decided—this is a game that more than one can play, and she began to stare back.
The more she saw, the more uneasy she became. The three women looked so much older than her, and confident. And assured. Very assured. Apart from one elegant creature with short hair—and that must have been cut by someone with a degree in technical drawing, judging by the precision and angles of the style—they had the kind of untamed lion’s mane of hair which every woman knew took at least an hour in front of the mirror to achieve. Tousled, yet perfect—while Shauna’s was scraped back like a schoolgirl’s.
Shauna’s hair was undoubtedly her best feature, but black curls which tumbled waistwards were hardly practical for everyday wear. Maybe she should have had it cut to a more manageable length, but she had long since given up going to a hairdresser’s for just that purpose. Every hairdresser she’d ever met had managed to talk her out of it.
Shauna looked at the women again. Oh, why hadn’t she bothered to put some make-up on? Because you slept on the boat and it would have smudged, spoke the voice of reason—and a tiny loo on the train was hardly the place to accurately apply your mascara!
As she waited she considered furtively scrabbling around in her holdall and going off to try and camouflage her shiny face, when a final despairing look at the group convinced her that she would stand no chance against them. They were band-box neat and perfectly co-ordinated. As sleek as well-groomed pedigree cats with their up-market clothes, and Shauna felt like a moggy who’d been left out in the rain all night.
Had things in England really changed that much? she wondered. Was this kind of high-powered dressing really de rigueur for a job as a businessman’s assistant? Nervously, Shauna tugged at the cuff of her suit.
A door behind the woman at the desk opened, and a blonde sashayed her way out of the room without a word.
Mrs Neilson looked up. ‘Would Miss Stevens like to go in next?’
The woman with the short hair headed for the inner sanctum, and Shauna dived into the bottom of her holdall, seriously worried now. Was the job all she had supposed it to be? Had she missed something? Been more naïve than usual? Did these women really look like your run-of-the-mill PAs? Suppose the advertisement was a cover for something else—what had she thought about it sounding too good to be true?
She located the letter nestling against a railway timetable and the remains of an apple-core and read it again. Twice.
No. If there was some subtle message in it then she, Shauna, was too dense to fathom it out. And let’s face it, she thought, if you go in there and some guy offers you a job in his massage parlour, then you smile politely and head for the door.
Shauna’s fingers, when they replaced the advert, were trembling. She had read about places like this in the Sunday papers. Her imagination began to run away with her. What if they wouldn’t let her out? What if a strong hand were to snap itself over her wrist with steely strength…? Don’t be so ridiculous, reprimanded an inner voice. Everyone else is getting out, aren’t they?
The last woman—a luscious-looking strawberry blonde—went in and the phone on Mrs Neilson’s desk bleeped. She picked it up and listened.
‘Yes, Mr Ryder—she is the last, but Miss Wilde has turned up.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, I know she’s late, but apparently she’s travelled a long way to get here…’
Shauna could hear an angry-sounding voice at the other end of the phone.
‘I realise that,’ interjected Mrs Neilson. Another pause, while she listened to the voice. ‘In my opinion—yes.’ She replaced the receiver and looked at Shauna. ‘He says he’ll see you after the last applicant.’ She stood up. ‘I must go—I’ve got a hungry husband at home, champing at the bit,’ she grinned. ‘Mr Ryder will escort you down to the entrance when the interview’s over.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’ Shauna watched her retreat out of the glass door and began to twist at the black corkscrew curl by her ear, a habit which she’d had since childhood, and one which invariably made her look about sixteen, instead of twenty-three.
She must be crazy! She’d be alone in this building with this man Max Ryder—someone she didn’t know from Adam! Get out now, the voice urged her. Out of this office, into the lift—press for ground floor, and you’re away. She picked up her holdall, and her heart sank to see the strawberry blonde striding out, her eyes glittering, her face a mask of fury.
‘Bastard,’ she muttered, scarcely audibly, and tottered out of the room on high heels like stilts.
Shauna, now seriously alarmed, sprang to her feet and began walking after her, when a deep voice stopped her in her tracks.
‘Going somewhere, Miss Wilde?’
Her heart in her mouth, she turned round reluctantly. ‘I don’t think I’m suited for the job,’ she blurted out, and then her mouth stayed open. She had been conjuring up an image of a small, squat man, with olive skin—possibly with a patch over one eye—and stubby, fat fingers covered with a tasteless display of ostentatious gold rings, but the deep-voiced Mr Ryder couldn’t have been more different.
Initially, because he was wearing a suit, she decided that he looked respectable, but closer inspection convinced her that respectable was not the right description at all. Respectable men weren’t that good-looking!
Every cliché in the book could have been used about this man. Intense. World-weary. Brooding. She’d often read about eyes being like chips of ice and had wondered what that meant. Now she knew. The narrow green eyes which were studying her so closely were as cold as glass. His skin was lightly tanned and his mouth was set in an uncompromising line. She tried to imagine him laughing, and failed.
He was tall. I mean—I’m tall, she thought. But this man made her feel like some tiny little thing, which was an entirely new experience for Shauna. He had dark, dark hair with just a bit of a wave in it—a wayward lock curled darkly on the collar of a shirt which even she could tell was silk. The tie was silk too—a pale grey affair which toned perfectly with the darker grey of his suit, a suit which fitted superbly, falling in folds from the broad shoulders, folds which hinted at hard muscle and sinew…
‘I beg your pardon?’ he was saying.
Shauna’s grey eyes were like terrified saucers. ‘I don’t think I’m suited for the job,’ she repeated. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.’ And proceeded to stare open-mouthed at him again, like a terrified young kitten who had just chanced upon a jungle cat.
‘Do please stop gaping at me like an idiot,’ he said impatiently. ‘And how on earth do you know you’re not suited for the job, when you don’t know what the job entails? Unless you do know what the job entails, in which case you must be clairvoyant.’
Recognising the heavy sarcasm, she shut her mouth hastily and gave him what she thought was a sweet smile. Humour him, she thought.
He began to look worried. ‘You’re not about to be ill, are you, Miss Wilde?’
She shook her head. So much for charm! ‘I feel fine,’ she lied.
‘Good,’ he said curtly. ‘Then, as you’ve been so good as to give me your time, and I—’ here he broke off to glance at a discreet pale gold watch on a tanned wrist ‘—have set aside mine—then perhaps we could conduct the interview on more formal lines?’
She gulped. ‘Sure.’ She hooked the holdall over one slim shoulder and picked up her suitcase.
He gestured with his arm. ‘After you?’ he suggested.
Knowing at once how poor Androcles must have felt as he walked into the lion’s den, Shauna stepped unwillingly into the inner sanctum and her eyes lit up.
‘Oh, but—it’s beautiful!’ she exclaimed, as she slowly took in her surroundings.
There was a huge window which took up almost a complete wall, filling the room with a bright, clear light. London lay mapped out before them like a painting. Then other details of the office began to register—the black ash table, a tiny oak bonsai tree and a sheaf of neat papers its only adornment. And the thickness of the pale coffee-coloured carpet in this room made the deep pile of the one in the outer office seem positively threadbare. She’d never seen such an obvious display of wealth, and her earlier misgivings returned to assail her.
‘The view I mean,’ she finished tamely. ‘The view is beautiful.’
The green eyes narrowed. ‘I like it,’ he said gruffly. He indicated a chair with a wave of his hand, obviously expecting her to sit down, but she remained standing.
‘Just a minute,’ she blurted out. ‘I want you to know that I would never consider doing anything—illegal.’
Dark brows shot up. ‘Illegal?’ His voice was incredulous. ‘Would you care to elucidate?’
She felt on slightly shaky ground, but it was too late to back off now. Assert yourself, some inner voice urged her. Don’t let yourself be intimidated by your surroundings. ‘I’m afraid that I’m just not interested in escort work,’ she managed. ‘Or—massage.’
‘Massage?’ he enquired faintly. ‘Massage? Pray tell me, Miss Wilde—has the front of my building changed dramatically within the last few hours? Am I the victim of a practical joke? Is there now some lurid neon flashing “Girls! Girls! Girls!” outside?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then why on earth should you think that I’d be running some kind of cheap racket like that?’ The green eyes glinted ominously.
‘Because—because of the other applicants,’ she burst out. ‘They just didn’t look like the type of women who’d be applying for secretarial jobs.’
‘Perhaps you could be a little more specific—what exactly was wrong with them?’
She squirmed a little under his scrutiny. ‘They looked far too glamorous for that kind of work.’
His mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Not glamorous, Miss Wilde. I don’t consider glamour to be the over-application of perfume, coupled with a wholly inappropriate use of make-up. Tacky is the adjective which springs to mind. Whereas you…’
She didn’t know what description he might have considered suitable for her, because he broke off in mid-sentence to study her even more closely than he had done before.
She was glad that the Mediterranean sun had tanned her skin—at least it camouflaged the slight rise in colour which his perusal brought to her cheeks. She knew that she looked clean, and fairly neat, but that was about all that could be said. The black ringlety curls which fell almost to her waist had been pulled back into a french plait, the neatest way of wearing it, but already another corkscrew-like strand had escaped and kept streaking across her face in a dizzy spiral. Her face was completely free of make-up. The legacy of her background had given her naturally long black lashes which fringed the unusual grey eyes.
She wore a navy linen suit, plain and simple. Perhaps not the best colour choice for her, but eminently the most practical. Unfortunately she had had it for several years, so the skirt was the wrong length—it brushed to just below her knee instead of this season’s style which was several inches above. Her navy leather shoes were completely flat—when you were as tall as she was you didn’t wear heels!
She met his eyes mutinously, her chin lifting fractionally, peeved at such a leisurely appraisal.
His next words, however, were completely unexpected. ‘Gostaria de se sentar, agora?’
‘Obrigada,’ she said automatically, pulling out a chair from one side of the desk and sitting down, her legs tucked neatly together.
His eyebrows shot up somewhere into the dark hair, as he walked round to the other side of the desk and sat facing her. ‘I don’t believe it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You actually speak Portuguese?’
‘Of course I do—the advert specified it.’
‘It may have specified it, Miss Wilde—but I’ve been interviewing for three days now, and you’re only the second person who has understood and responded to the simplest statement in that language.’
Shauna’s eyes widened. ‘You mean none of the others today …?’
The tone of his voice bordered on contemptuousness. ‘There’s one thing, and one thing only, that the assorted bunch I saw today had in common, and that was their avid interest in that ridiculous article—as opposed to the job I’m offering.’
‘What article?’ asked Shauna in bewilderment. ‘I’m not with you.’
The green eyes viewed her with suspicion. ‘Then you must be the only woman in the country who hasn’t read it.’
‘But I haven’t been in the country,’ she pointed out.
He mentioned the name of a well-known women’s magazine. ‘They decided to do a piece on the fifty most eligible men in Britain,’ he growled. ‘And since then, it has caused nearly every female coming into contact with me to display even more of the ripe-plum syndrome than usual.’
Shauna had had enough. True, she hadn’t exactly warmed to any of her fellow interviewees, but his words were a slur on women in general. She began to rise from her seat. ‘What a disgustingly arrogant thing to say—’
‘Oh, do sit down, Miss Wilde—you’re not in the running for an Oscar, you know. You object to the truth, do you—however unpalatable?’
‘I object to your colossal ego,’ she said primly. This rejoinder actually brought a wry half-smile to his lips, the first since the ‘interview’ had commenced, and Shauna was taken aback—his whole face had softened for a moment. The thawing of the glacial green eyes was a definite improvement, she decided.
‘My ego may be colossal,’ he stated. ‘But facts are facts. I’m rich and I’m powerful, and I’ve known enough women to recognise a blatant invitation when I see it,’ he told her arrogantly.
I’ll bet you have, she thought fiercely. This man was so big-headed that she was surprised he could walk through the door! ‘Well, you needn’t fear any “blatant invitation” from me,’ she said crossly.
He leaned right back in his chair, his head resting in the palm of his hands, with the careless grace of some jungle feline just before it pounced. ‘In that case, Miss Wilde—you could be just what I’m looking for.’
She sat upright in the soft leather chair, meeting the bright green gaze with a candid stare of her own. ‘Just what are you looking for, Mr Ryder? Your advertisement didn’t make it very clear, I must say.’
The green eyes had narrowed to alarming slits. ‘Oh, must you? And how would you have worded it?’
‘I would have thought it was fairly obvious—if you wanted only fluent Portuguese speakers, then the advert should have been written in Portuguese.’
There was a pause. The look he gave her was very measured. She half thought that she saw the merest hint of humour twitch at the corner of his mouth, but then decided that it must have been a trick of the light.
‘You are, of course, absolutely right, Miss Wilde. If only the young woman from the specialist staffing agency who came here to take “details” of what I required had been credited with your common sense.’
She ignored his sardonic tone. ‘Didn’t you tell her what you wanted?’
‘Of course I told her!’ he barked back. ‘But she wasn’t listening. She spent the whole time wittering on about “what a beautiful house you have, Mr Ryder” and “your photograph didn’t do you justice at all, Mr Ryder”,’ he mimicked.
Shauna gave an almost imperceptible click of disapproval. How could she have done? she wondered. Women like that gave women in business a bad name. Quite apart from the fact that you wouldn’t need a degree in psychology to recognise that a man like Max Ryder would be completely turned off by such an obvious approach. A man like him would have women in their hundreds, if not thousands running after him.
He was still looking at her. ‘Am I to understand that you don’t approve of women using sex appeal at work?’
Her grey eyes were cold. ‘Certainly not. I hope you complained to the agency?’
He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I just shan’t use them again. Let’s hope I don’t have to.’ He stared at her consideringly. ‘You seem very interested in this staffing agency, Miss Wilde—perhaps you have an affinity for that kind of work?’
‘But I’m being interviewed for this job, Mr Ryder,’ she answered sweetly. She knew that ploy of old. People in power wanted nothing less than one hundred per cent commitment—give them any indication that some other job might suit you more, and you’d be out on your ear. And besides, this job offered her a roof over her head. ‘Would you like to tell me a little about it?’
A spark of humour glimmered in the green eyes. ‘How about “Tyrant requires PA. Hours long, pay lousy”?’ He began to chuckle quietly.
‘And is that the truth?’ Shauna asked.
A tanned hand moved forward to tap a pencil on the surface of the black ash desk. ‘No, I lied about the pay—that’s good! The tyrant bit you’d have to make up your own mind about—but I don’t suffer fools gladly. I’ve been called some rather unflattering names in my time,’ he said softly. He leaned over to push the bonsai tree a fraction to the right, and then, as if satisfied, settled back in his chair again.
‘I buy and sell,’ he explained. ‘And I deal mainly in property. Since the market has flattened out in this country I’ve diversified a little, and I’m doing several deals in Europe. At the moment I’m in the process of buying a plot of land in the Algarve which I intend turning into a golf and holiday complex. The project is estimated to take two years minimum, hence the need for an assistant who can speak Portuguese.’
‘But you speak it yourself!’ she protested.
He shook his head. ‘Enough to get by—and I’m very good at ordering in restaurants—but the subtle nuances of the language all go over my head, and I need to understand what is being said. I certainly can’t get to grips with legal jargon. Which reminds me—just how good is your Portuguese?’
She needed no second bidding. This bit was easy. She wanted to make it clear to him that she, at least, was not here on false pretences. That unlike the others she was—as she had stated in her application—perfectly fluent in Portuguese. She spoke rapidly, deliberately making her speech both formal and colloquial—impossible for anyone but the seasoned linguist to understand. When she had finished, she saw that another wry smile had appeared. ‘How much did you understand?’ she queried.
‘Very little,’ he admitted. ‘You speak very quickly, and your pronunciation is superb.’
She inclined her head, relishing what she accurately assessed was a rare compliment. ‘Thank you.’
The eyes were curious. ‘How come?’
‘How come what?’
‘That you’re so fluent?’
She hesitated just a little. ‘Well,’ she said lightly. ‘I have just spent two years working as a PA in Portugal.’
He waved his hand in the air dismissively. ‘I know that. But you must have been pretty good before that? You wouldn’t speak it as well as that after just two years.’
He was probing, and she resented it. She didn’t want to have to give him a potted history of her life, see pity cloud those enigmatic eyes. She indicated the papers which lay on the desk before him. ‘As you’ll see from my résumé—I studied languages.’ Her grey eyes instinctively flashed a warning.
There was an answering flash in the dark emerald depths. ‘To which the same argument applies.’
He was not, she decided, the kind of man to be put off. He was the kind of man who would take a prize for getting blood from a stone. She made up her mind to give him the barest facts possible. ‘My mother—was Portuguese,’ she stated baldly.
‘And your father?’
‘Irish.’ A flat statement, which dared him to pursue the subject further.
‘Unusual combination,’ he remarked.
‘So I’ve been told.’ She cleared her throat. ‘So what you need primarily, Mr Ryder—is an interpreter?’
If he’d noticed that she’d neatly steered the subject away from her parents, he didn’t show it. ‘Mainly,’ he replied. ‘But as well as shorthand and typing, I need someone to be my right-hand man, so to speak.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Or woman, I should say. Someone who will know exactly what I know, and will therefore know how to deal with any urgent business should I not be available. I employ a great many staff not only in this country, but all over the world. Every time some trifling little problem arises, I don’t personally want to have to deal with it.’ The green eyes held her directly in their full, magnificent gaze.
‘I need cables sent,’ he continued. ‘Documents translated, airline tickets booked, business associates met at the airport. I may need you to travel abroad with me.’
‘That sounds like very long hours,’ she observed.
‘Absolutely. But in return you will be paid handsomely. You’ll have first-class accommodation in London, if you want it, and extremely generous holidays. So what do you think?’
‘And how much is the salary?’
The sum he mentioned almost made her fall out of her chair.
‘Will you be needing accommodation?’ He looked at her quizzically.
‘Yes, I will,’ she nodded. ‘Could you tell me what that consists of?’
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘There’s a large penthouse flat at the top of this building—part of that will be yours.’
It took her precisely ten seconds to mull it over. He would have to be the worst tyrant ever created to justify her turning a deal like this down. Yes, he seemed a big-head of the worst order, and he himself had admitted that he’d been called some ‘unflattering names’ in his time. She could think of a few herself! She stared into those unusual green eyes. Surely he couldn’t be that bad?
And the job—the job was everything she wanted. A secure base, with money to save until she decided what she really wanted to do with her life. But then again, he hadn’t offered it to her, had he? No doubt it would be the old, old story of ‘I’ve several other people to see’.
‘It sounds very—adequate,’ she said cautiously.
This last remark inspired a throaty laugh. ‘Adequate? What a ghastly word! Miss Wilde, if you’re going to work for me you must promise me faithfully that you will never use the word “adequate” ever again.’
She let the flippancy go. ‘You mean—you’re—you’re offering…?’
His face was quite serious again. He gestured to the sheaf of papers on his desk. ‘I’ve seen your references, which are excellent—though you, Miss Wilde, would probably have said “adequate”. You satisfy all my other criteria—your Portuguese is fluent, you seem bright enough—oh, and you don’t fall into the man-eating tigress mould.’
Meaning, thought Shauna acidly, that I’m a plain Jane.
‘And one other thing,’ his voice was lower now. ‘You need this job, don’t you?’
Yes, she needed the job, but she wasn’t desperate. She knew that nothing was a bigger turn-off than desperation. ‘There are other jobs,’ she said coolly.
He smiled. ‘The job’s yours if you want it.’
She had actually been reaching for her holdall, when she stared at him, not believing her ears. ‘Pardon?’
‘The job’s yours,’ he repeated. ‘If you want it.’
She still didn’t believe it. ‘Just like that?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Just like that.’
She pretended to hesitate, but she got the impression that he wasn’t fooled for a minute.
‘In that case,’ she said, resisting the temptation to leap up into the air, ‘I’d be happy to accept.’
‘Good.’
‘When would you like me to start?’
He frowned. ‘Is tomorrow too soon?’
She wanted to make amends for her earlier flights of fancy. ‘Tomorrow’s fine.’
A piercing look came into his eyes. ‘Today, you were late,’ he accused.
‘There was a…’ she began, but he held his hand up.
‘I’m not interested. I’m prepared to overlook it once—it won’t happen again.’
‘No,’ she said quietly—she wouldn’t dare!
He closed his eyes briefly for a moment, and yawned. She noticed how intensely weary he looked, and wondered whether that was work, or play. When he opened them again, he found Shauna staring at him intently.
He blinked. ‘What is it?’
‘Your last assistant,’ she ventured. ‘Why did she leave?’
He stiffened, and the green eyes became cold again. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, ‘For—personal reasons.’
Repressing hysterical thoughts, she forced her voice to sound casual. ‘Oh? And what were they?’
He paused for a second. ‘I’m afraid it was the old story—she fell in love with her boss. That by itself isn’t a sackable offence, but I’m afraid she let it affect her work.’
There was no mistaking the warning in his voice. Don’t make the same mistake, it seemed to say.
Resisting an urge to comment on the girl’s mental state at the time, for surely she must have been loopy to fall for such an insufferably arrogant man, Shauna gave a prim smile. ‘Well, don’t worry, Mr Ryder—I can assure you that I will not fall into the same trap.’
‘Good,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’
But Shauna thought he didn’t sound one little bit convinced.
